That TV Interview

41 this morning, raining after a night of heavy rain. Warmed to 55 and dried up, then rain again as I write at 7pm.

What a wild weather day. Wind, rain, wind, rain, a burst of sun and warming up, then rain again. Whew. But I did finally get out in the gardens and threw my flower bulbs in the ground. Every year I do the same thing in the fall: buy marked-down bulbs thinking, oh sure, I'll get these planted right away. And then life gets in the way and sometime midwinter I'm out there planting. Fortunately, spring bulbs are very forgiving of fools like me, and faithfully come up, maybe a bit late, but they will come along. And I thank them with good feedings of compost and bonemeal.

The interview I did a month ago is finally on YouTube. Like everyone else, I hate hate hate seeing and hearing myself on TV but grit my teeth and get through it when I have to. 

The "well-baby" check up at the doctor yesterday went very well. All is good, and I may even be able to quit the one tiny blood pressure pill I take, as I have noticed that after I take it in the morning, my blood pressure is quite low for me--like 100/50--and I feel very tired for a bit. So we are going to see how I do without it. Fingers crossed.

Tomorrow is another doctor visit, another semi-annual checkup with the ladies doctor, and then next week an orthopedic doc to see about my knee, a second opinion and hopefully some new ideas besides take the thing out and put in another one. If that's what has to happen, okay, but I want to get someone else's opinion first. After that, lunch with two friends, which will be a real treat as one lady I have only met on Facebook, and I introduced her to the other lady. The two of them are great friends now and do a lot of hiking and kayaking together. I love that.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Poetry on My Mind

72 this morning, rain and storms all day. Humid as can be.

It is hard to believe that another week has passed that I have not posted. Where have I been? Well, pretty much right here at home, although I have been out to town more than I'd like, still playing catch-up after being away for a week. I have not yet even gotten into my flowerbeds, but as soon as the rains let up that will be first on the to-do list.

Rain. We have had rather a lot of it, beginning with a stupendous storm Saturday morning that blocked our view of the ridge, with rain blowing sideways in sheets and the most phenomenal lightning. The rest of the day was lovely, as was Sunday and Monday. But yesterday and today we're back into downpours, thunder, and high humidity. It's July, all right.

I have been working on poetry, believe it or not. I finally submitted my 6 poems for the chapbook of poems from our camp group, and I'm pretty satisfied with them. We shall see if the rest of the group agrees. It was really rather nice to do this little project, although it turned into a major one for me. Why? Because I did not organize my poems like the rest of the group apparently did. Mine were scattered all over the place, in notebooks, journals, on the computer, in piles of paper. Geez, you'd think a librarian would do better than that. So I sorted ALL the paper I had stashed here, there, and everywhere. It was a lot. An almost overwhelming lot, because many notebooks had a poem or two in them, and that was all. There were new notebooks too, and new folders, left over and never used from various workshops I've led over the years. I bet there were 50 or more spiral notebooks alone. 

So, instead of jumping right into the poems, I had to sort all that mess out. One big box has gone to the church thrift and another will go this week. It feels good to get down to what is actually my writing. It's still not organized; there are duplicates everywhere and no order to any of it, but it's a start. And I have two lovely journals, never used, that I will be using for new writing.

And since I'm discussing poems, here are two I unearthed that have never seen the light of day since being written. I wrote these at camp, when I was out wandering along the Greenbrier rail trail.

Intruder

October, 2021

Fog hangs low over the Greenbrier;

An eagle slides, noiseless, above

Brown water, green-gold trees.

The current sweeps ghost-like

Through waving grass. A blue heron

Stands, still as a sculpture, silent grace.

My footsteps echo on the gravel path, loud

As a tall oak crashing.

I try to find quieter places for my feet,

Crunch dry leaves instead.

Natural Order

Redtail hawk circles high,

Riding thermals above the rocky cliffs;

Below, rabbits and mice huddle

Under tussock and brush,

Small, earthbound,

Watching shadows glide 

Quiet and deadly.

The eagle follows the river,

His eyes on shadows too;

In the water trout and minnows dart

Under rocks and low overhanging branches,

Lie still. They cannot see

The eagle but know

He is there, sharp beak and claws,

Ready to take what he will.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here's a picture of the camp I stay at, taken by a friend. 

This is an old railroad sections boss's house, built around 1900. Can you see the board leaning against the side? It's marked with numbers indicating the water level of various floods. The camp has not flooded in the 15 years I've been going there, but 2016 was a little worrisome. It's all alone, situated just off the rail trail, and there are 2 swings on the porch. It's rough, but perfect in its way.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Covid Journal, Day 277: Winter Solstice

Smoke curls and swirls

heavenward, through reaching

branches naked white against

a dying day.

The darkest night holds in its cusp

the birth of light, slow and quiet–

an owl drifts tree to tree

and somewhere Coyote sings

a song ancient as the mistletoe,

the holly and the ivy,

weaving through wisps

of flames and stars.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Covid Journal; Day 191: Still in the Kitchen

Rain at last. It showered all night, and off and on all day today. So thankful. 59 again this morning, and didn't warm up much all day.

I was in the kitchen almost all day again today. The garden is winding down, but there are still some things to put up. The problem is, I keep running out of jars, and I am sure now I have used every single quart anywhere around this place. I really had to scrounge today to get 7 for the vegetable soup.

I still have some pints, though, and that's good because I still have tomatoes coming in. Today I made more of the chili sauce I mentioned the other day, Jenn's recipe. It's so good; still in the canner so no photo. Tomorrow, I hope to make some sumac jelly. We shall see if that happens since I have some running to do first. At least I still have a box of half-pint jars for the jelly. I've never made it before, but I have made lemonade from sumac and it's delicious.

The other thing we did today was to take out the small sofa in the living room. Larry hauled it off the the Goodwill. We just don't need it any more, and we now have a little more space. It's funny how just moving one thing out meant a whole lot of re-arranging and cleaning. Where does all that dust come from? I still have one chair full of things that I need to figure out what to do with. This stuff is actually from the bedroom, and was in or on the dresser we painted and took to our booth last week.  So here's a look at the new arrangement, junk and all.

The other news today is that a short poem I wrote last month was featured today on the Central Coast Poetry Show. Kind of exciting, since I so rarely submit my poems anywhere. If you'd like to read it, just click the link above.

First fire in the fireplace tonight, as it's a perfect night for it, cool and drizzly.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Covid Journal, Day 129: Content

Content

The rain came at last
after days, weeks of drought,
steady, cool bursts that soaked
stressed trees and gardens to new green.
We, the gardeners, know
that we did what needed to be done,
fed our gardens so that they will feed us.
Now we clink our glasses, celebrate
survival. It is enough for this day.

Tomorrow we begin anew,
pull weeds, check for damage.
Tonight, we light our fire,
watch the embers
glow in each other's eyes,
feel worry slide away,
claim the rest we earned.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Covid Journal, Day 122: The Drone of July

76, humid and cloudy this morning. It looked like rain, but the sun soon came out. Watering continues.

 I am not a fan of summer, and most especially, not a fan of July. The only things I like in this hot, humid month are the birthdays of family and friends, and fresh veggies from the garden. I know that sounds whiny, but it's the truth--this is my least favorite month of the year.

But I persevere, and try to find what good there is to be found in this mid-year month. Of course, the best thing is my youngest son, born on the 30th of the month. And usually, tomatoes, although this year it looks like it will be August before we have our first ripe one. Thank you, cold wet spring, for this disappointment and delay!

Still, there are good things. The days are a little shorter and cool off in the evenings earlier. There are fireflies, and at dusk the hoot-owl in the woods. There is the fragrance of herbs--lavender, lemon balm, rosemary, dill all scent the air if brushed by my hand. There is bee balm too with its spicy fragrance, marigolds and the headiness of lilies.

The grass grows slower so we are not cutting as much, and even though there are no tomatoes yet, there is a bounty of cucumbers, squashes, kale, and beans. We can eat outside in the cool mornings, and the porch stays comfortable all day with the ceiling fan on.

Some poets have also noted the blessings of July in their writings: the English poet John Clare had this to say:

July
Loud is the summer's busy song
The smallest breeze can find a tongue,
While insects of each tiny size
Grow teasing with their melodies,
Till noon burns with its blistering breath
Around, and day lies still as death.


And Stephen Patrick, another English poet, had his own view of the month:

Sleepy July in Skipwith Common

Across the open common land
shines glowing purple floral blooms
The bumble bee can hardly stand,
as flowers' scent is rising fumes

And lies there in the summer shade
a resting deer quite joyfuly
for in this beauteous sunlit glade
all's observed by sent'nel tree

This tall oak stands by sparkling stream,
whose water splashes grass and rock,
reflecting in its azure gleam,
the woodland plant and dandy clock

While goes beneath the cloudless sky,
amidst a warm and dreamy breeze,
a squirrel idling, passing by,
past numerous, careless, floating seeds.

And yet one more Brit, Ruth Pitter, says this about July in her poem, "The Diehards":

We go in withering July
To ply the hard incessant hoe;
Panting beneath the brazen sky
We sweat and grumble, but we go.

Yes, Pitter has it right. "We sweat and grumble, but we go".


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Covid Journal, Day 61: Bird List

52, cloudy and light showers after some rain during the night. That caught us by surprise, because we thought the forecast called for clear weather the rest of the week. The garden will never dry up at this rate.

We spent half an hour on the porch this morning, and this is the list of birds we saw in our front gardens:

Cardinal
Titmouse
Chickadee
Goldfinch
Purple Finch
Nuthatch
Blue Jay
Robin
Chipping Sparrow
Ruby-throat Hummingbird
Catbird
Phoebe
Cowbird
Baltimore Oriole
Summer Oriole, male and female
Rose-breasted Grosbeak, males and females
Downy Woodpecker
Red-bellied Woodpecker
Red-headed Woodpecker
Mourning Dove
Carolina Wren
Wood Thrush
Towhee

I might have missed one or two, but that's about all, I think. It's a veritable wingfest out here!

A few recent bird photos, some not as good as I'd like. They are hard to capture in a picture sometimes, either staying too far away or on the move too much.

At first, the cardinals fled in fear from the grosbeaks, but now they seem to have found a way to co-exist. In fact, this one male cardinal hangs out with a female grosbeak and even feeds her seeds from time to time. I'm not sure the male grosbeak approves.

Well, who can blame him? She is rather cute.

This, I believe is a young male summer tanager who has not got his summer colors yet, sitting on the seedcake feeder. the downy woodpecker doesn't like it, as he things that feeder belongs to him.

I may be wrong in my ID of this bird, but his orange color is brighter than the photo shows. His whole belly is actually a bright yellow.

 

A purple finch shares the feeder with a few others.

Or maybe not share...



This is the best shot I've been able to get so far of the red-headed woodpecker now visiting us. I'll keep trying.

Finishing up with my latest poem:

How the Birds Sing Comfort

It begins before dawn,

high on the ridge, melody

slips sweetly down the hillside,

slides across the creek and up,

up the ravine that divides our land,

to my waiting, grateful ear.

 

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Winter Solstice

The light returns!

I quit dreading November and December when I learned about winter solstice with its history, folklore, and stories. Instead I looked forward with anticipation to days getting longer, minute by minute. I began to appreciate those darker days for the opportunity to snuggle into the evenings with books and lamps and a fire.

So today is Solstice, and each day the light will linger a little longer from now until my birthday in June. I thought I'd share some photos I took at Stonehenge this past August. These were not taken at the stones themselves, but inside the incredible multimedia room in the museum. If I stood in one spot and turned slowly, I felt as if I was in the midst of the stones. People came and went, but occasionally I was alone in the room, and it was magical.

A poem I wrote several years ago seems fitting today:

Solstice

Smoke curls and swirls heavenward

through reaching branches,

naked white against a dying day.

Holly and ivy twine

through wisps of flame and stars.

An owl drifts tree to tree;

Coyote sings,

a song ancient as the mistletoe.

Spirits stir and listen.

This night, the mighty oak seizes the crown;

roots awaken.

The last line refers to the old story of the battle between the oak and the holly as to which would rule; holly wins the battle in June, oak wins in December.

For a real treat, listen to or read this interview with Susan Cooper, author of the best solstice poem I have ever read and which is coming out now as a picture book. Fascinating. I want this book, which I think adults will enjoy as much as children. Perhaps even more so.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Almost Ready: Poetry Workshop This Saturday

In between of working on our booths, painting furniture and sorting auction buys, I have been putting together my poetry workshop for Saturday at the Ripley (WV) library at noon.

I don't know how other people work on their presentations, but mine always involve books--stacks and stacks of books. Which means lots of reading. I plan, re-plan, toss out, write, re-write, and eventually I come up with what it is I want to do.

The good part is all that reading. It's like visiting friends when I re-read favorite poems, or delve into a book written by someone I know.

We rearranged our log room a bit, taking out the big dining table and putting it in storage, then putting in this desk that I had originally planned to sell. I liked it so much I decided to keep it. I love the big old table--it was the family table when I was a child--but it took up so much room and didn't allow for much seating for visitors in the log room, which is where everyone gravitates if they're not in the kitchen. So we decided it wastime for a change. We only use the big table at Thanksgiving these days, and honestly a few folding tables would serve us as well, and free up the room the rest of the year. I am hoping my oldest son will take the table to his home, but if not, I will look for another family member to take it.

I must say, I love working at the new desk, right in front of the window that looks out over our hilly land. It felt as if the desk had always been there.

Saturday I will enjoy the poetry reading by my friend and fine poet Kirk Judd before giving my workshop. In the evening, I hope to go to Charleston to hear Kirk and two other poets read. I am really looking forward to the day.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Snowy Day Poetry

Three poems for this snowy, blowy, freezing-cold day, to read by the fire. Cozy up and enjoy!

From Snow-Bound, by John Greenleaf Whittier

Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north-wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed;
The house-dog on his paws outspread
Laid to the fire his drowsy head,
The cat’s dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger’s seemed to fall;

And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andirons’ straddling feet,
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row,
And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October’s wood.

Vincent van Gogh, 1881. "Farmer Reading by Fire"

A Patch of Old Snow by Robert Frost

By J. F. Millet, 1814-1875, French artist

There's a patch of old snow in a corner

That I should have guessed

Was a blow-away paper the rain

Had brought to rest.

It is speckled with grime as if

Small print overspread it,

The news of a day I've forgotten --

If I ever read it. 

First Sight by Philip Larkin (this makes me think of Quinn, my blogging friend)

Lambs in Snow by Robert Farquharson

Lambs that learn to walk in snow

When their bleating clouds the air

Meet a vast unwelcome, know

Nothing but a sunless glare.

Newly stumbling to and fro

All they find, outside the fold,

Is a wretched width of cold.

As they wait beside the ewe,

Her fleeces wetly caked, there lies

Hidden round them, waiting too,

Earth's immeasureable surprise.

They could not grasp it if they knew,

What so soon will wake and grow

Utterly unlike the snow.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

The Dark of December

Good morning! Every morning we are greeted with song from a Carolina wren whose home must be very near our bedroom window. As the light has retreated in these winter days, his wake-up call gets later and later--now it is 7:15. You could almost set a watch by him. After solstice, his song will come earlier and earlier, assuring that we sleepyheads will be awake at daybreak whenever it comes.

You can hear a lot of birds in the video above, most notably the woodpecker--sounds like the red-bellied to me. The video is not mine, but from Youtube--I am never camera-ready when our bird sings.

This morning he sang only one time, and he sounded cold, not his usual happy, chipper self. I hope he's all right. We have enjoyed his company for this past year.

One of my favorite poems is about a bird singing in December, and our wren reminds me of it.

I Heard a Bird Sing

by

Oliver Herford (1863–1935)

I heard a bird sing

In the dark of December.

A magical thing

And sweet to remember.

"We are nearer to Spring

Than we were in September,”

I heard a bird sing

In the dark of December.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Homage to the Donkey

I happened on this poem in my reading today. Seemed apt given our encounter with the four-footed fellow the other day.

The Donkey

By G. K. Chesterton

When fishes flew and forests walked

   And figs grew upon thorn,

Some moment when the moon was blood

   Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry

   And ears like errant wings,

The devil’s walking parody

   On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,

   Of ancient crooked will;

Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,

   I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;

   One far fierce hour and sweet:

There was a shout about my ears,

   And palms before my feet.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

That Time of Year: Poetry Month

It's time for NaPoWriMo once again! National Poetry Writing Month, when poets are challenged to write a poem every day of the month.

I'm off to a good start but it's only day 2 so that's not saying much.

If you want to follow along and see if I make it through the challenge, check out my poetry blog at Mountain Poet.









Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Remembrance

In this house grief dwells,

An unwanted boarder that follows me

As I turn on lamps to chase away the lingering night

I feel its breath upon my neck, its long fingers clutching

While I wash the breakfast dishes and clear the kitchen, memories

Stick like yesterday’s words, like a song I heard in 1970, Like the moment you were born,

Like your little fingers circling mine.

It watches as I sweep the floors,

Put away books and papers and pictures

And start the day’s laundry. Grief is in no hurry;

It can bide its time and wait to strike when some little thing,

A button, a photo, the cutting board you made when you were seventeen

Tears an opening in my defenses.

In darkness I draw the covers over my mind

And flip the pages of the photo album of your too-short life,

The recording of your voice, the unending video of your death in snow and ice

I replay over and over and over.

Grief does not sleep, it is never tired

Or weary of its singular pursuit. It will be here as long

As I draw breath, as long as my heart knows you and remembers,

As long as time.

Here is where grief lives;

There is nothing that can be done about it.

It is, and that is all.

 

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Snyder's Hound on a Snowy Day

It's another snowy day, with snow just peppering down.

Even my dogs hesitate to go out these days; I think they've gone soft, but then I haven't been out much myself lately so I can't fault them.

I sorted my bookshelves over the past two days, a daunting task let me tell you. I planned to do it this winter, and then I bought this other shelf that would work in a corner of my bedroom if we cut it in half--it was 8 feet tall and kinda flimsy, but cut it made two study shelves. So we cut it, I painted it, then had to paint that corner of the room because painting that room was on my to-do list too, and I didn't want to put the shelves in, then have to move them again to paint. I'm not sure about the color, kind of a pale lime green, but I guess I'm going to use it anyway. I think it will lighten up the room.

Anyway, in the course of all that uproar I found a thin book of poems but a lady I just loved. Her name was Elaine Rowley, and she was the great-grandmother of one of my granddaughters. Elaine had seen plenty of hardship in her life, especially after her husband was killed in a logging accident not far from my house, leaving her with seven children to raise. (You can read his obituary here--he's buried in the church graveyard near my home.) She managed it somehow and was one of the sweetest natured people I've ever known. at the time I knew her, my sons were just little boys, and she was always welcoming when we came to the library, where she was working at the time. She passed away before my son married her granddaughter, but I know that would have pleased her, even though the marriage did not last more than three years.

I didn't know she was a poet back then, and only learned that a few years ago. And then I found a book of her poems at a thrift shop, a thin volume it was, lost among the heftier volumes. The first poem in the book is this one, Snyder's Hound.

Snyder's Hound

The folk in the valley hear this mournful sound,
and they say it's Snyder and Snyder's hound.
Out in the hills on the forest trail
You kin hear him holler and the hound wail.

Snyder was a man with a friendly grin,
but he was a loner--he always had been.
And you never saw such a dog around
as that blue tick brute known as Snyder's hound.

When the skies were starry and the nights were still,
'cept for the callin' of the whip-poor-will,
you could spot the fire of this mountain man,
and smell the bacon in his frying pan.

You could hear that hound with his lusty bawl,
and the swift fox answer a defiant squall.
'Twas a desperate chase and a frenzied fight,
'Till Sunday crowded out Saturday night.

Then one September several years ago,
The heat closed in and the storm did blow.
And when Sunday came all the people feared
That the hound and Snyder had disappeared.

They searched the mountain and the trails around,
but they never found Snyder or Snyder's hound.
They mourned their loss for many days,
and explained the matter in different ways.

Some folks think 'twas the hound's intention
to chase that fox to a new dimension.
And there in a land by time set free,
the could run non-stop through eternity.

And when they swing near the earth's own flight,
You kin hear that chase on a Saturday night.
High in the hills on the forest trail,
You kin hear him holler and the bog hound wail.


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

The Pearl in His Hand

I have often mentioned the poet Ted Kooser in posts; from Iowa but currently I believe living in Nebraska, Mr. Kooser was our country's Poet Laureate from 2004-2006. His poems, especially those in Winter Morning Walks, are my favorite reads, and I love to read them aloud to my husband because Kooser's work is meant to be read aloud, to savor the images he creates. Often I find that the poems lead to some interesting conversations.

Here is one of my favorites. Try reading it aloud, even if you are sitting alone in your room. You will see what I mean.

January 9

Clear and still.

Ten below zero at dawn, and the sky
like the skin of a pearl,
nobody warming the pearl in his hand
but leaving it spin on the black glass table
with all of us inside,
right down to me here at my window,
warming my hands on a cup,
right down to a goldfinch, green and gray,
no bigger than a breath,
picking a single thistle seed from the feeder,
right down to a thistle seed.



Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Christmas Bells

Re-posting this from 2012. It still has relevance today:


Christmas comes quietly in the mountains. There are no bells to hear, no rushing traffic or blaring music. Just the birds singing, the wind soft in the evergreens and the gray clouds making dawn come slowly and gently over the land. And yet still the joy and enchantment of the day is in the air--in the crackling of the fire, the twinkle of lights on distant houses, and the sure knowledge the He will come again in the dark of night to bring hope to our troubled world.


In 1863 our country was also troubled, by a war that threatened to tear it apart. The poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was pulled into the chaos when his son Charles joined the Union Army, against his father's wishes. You can imagine the anxiety of the poet when he heard his son had been shot in the back at the battle of New Hope Church near Orange, Virginia. Longfellow journeyed to his son's bedside in the hospital. He had little hope that his son would survive such a terrible wound, and as he sat there on Christmas, he wrote the following poem.

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;hn
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  (1807-1882)

Charlie did survive his wounds and went on to become a famous world traveler, bringing back such treasures from the East that he sparked an Oriental decorating craze.

We most often hear Longfellow's poem sung as a Christms carol. The words were put to music by the English organist John Baptiste Calkin in 1872. In the 1950's the American composer Johnny Marks (brother-in-law to Robert May who wrote Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and who set the story to music) created a new version of the carol that has become the one most often heard. The two verses that link this poem to the Civil War are not included in carol version. And yet to me those verses speak so powerfully of Longfellow's conflicted feelings during a Christmas season in the midst of such a terrible war. The poem as a read piece is a powerful piece, and my favorite poem for this season with its reminder that hope lives on despite the troubles that beset the individual, the country or the world.

Today as we hear reports of violence and horrific acts, Longfellow's poem is a reminder that good will triumph, that Right is strong and that we should continue to believe that there can indeed be peace on earth, goodwill to men.

And so I send you my wishes for a peaceful, joyful holiday and for a new year year where peace will prevail, good will triumph over evil, and all mankind will hear the message of Longfellow's bells.

Merry Christmas, my friends!


Copyright 2012 Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Frosty Morning Poems

The frosty mornings of this week called to mind two of my favorite poems This first is by Robert Frost, perhaps not one of his most well-known but what images he creates here.

AN OLD MAN'S WINTER NIGHT 

by Robert Frost

All out of doors looked darkly in at him
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.
What kept him from remembering what it was
That brought him to that creaking room was age.
He stood with barrels round him -- at a loss.
And having scared the cellar under him
In clomping there, he scared it once again
In clomping off; -- and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like beating on a box.
A light he was to no one but himself
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light, and then not even that.
He consigned to the moon, such as she was,
So late-arising, to the broken moon
As better than the sun in any case
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep;
And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
One aged man -- one man -- can't keep a house,
A farm, a countryside, or if he can,
It's thus he does it of a winter night.

The second is by Ted Kooser, who is probably my favorite poet, if I had to choose just one. His words paint pictures, but there is as much under the surface of the images as a person cares to seek out. Kooser was the 13th US Poet Laureate. His book Winter Morning Walks is my winter morning companion during the cold season.

ABANDONED FARMHOUSE

by Ted Kooser

He was a big man, says the size of his shoes

on a pile of broken dishes by the house; 

a tall man too, says the length of the bed

in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man,

says the Bible with a broken back

on the floor below the window, dusty with sun;

but not a man for farming, say the fields

cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn.

A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall

papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves

covered with oilcloth, and they had a child,

says the sandbox made from a tractor tire.

Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves

and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole.

And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames.

It was lonely here, says the narrow country road.

Something went wrong, says the empty house

in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields

say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars

in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste.

And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard

like branches after a storm—a rubber cow,

a rusty tractor with a broken plow,

a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Valentine's Day Love Poems: The Song of Wandering Aengus

Ah, the month of love!

I asked friends to send me their favorite love poems, and the first to arrive was this one, an Irish classic.

Aengus was, they say adescendant of the Tuatha De Dannan, the mythical people of Ireland's past. He was a god of love, youth and beauty. In the old stories he falls in love with a girl from one of his dreams, and it is on this bit of from the myth that Yeats based his famous poem.

 The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

~William Butler Yeats

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

In The Cranberry Glades

Last month at Allegheny Echoes, our creative writing class took a field trip to the Cranberry Glades, a unique ecological area atop one of the states highest mountains. The Glades support plant life not found anywhere else at this latitude, and their unusual beauty make them a perfect place for quiet reflection on our beginnings, and on our endings.

The ferns in the glades reminded me of pictures of the dinosaur era, when the giant ferns covered much of the land. Ferns here grow to immense size in the boggy, soggy ground. An orchid found shelter beneath these.

Can you imagine the first man to see this place? Or the first settlers in these high mountains, trying to traverse such tricky terrain?

We were expected to not only wander, observe and reflect, but also to write. I took many photos, and then found a quiet spot to stop and jot down the story poem that came to mind:

What is this place of tropic ferns, unknown flowers and pines

shaped and acquiescent to the wind,

this place where no man has left his trace, or made his mark? 

My feet sink, my legs up to my knees in muck and moss--

no easy travel here; careful steps on uneasy ground while above

the birds sing unconcerned, unfamiliar melodies that rise from hidden perches.

 Beneath my feet tiny white blossoms, above clouds bloom and shift in a moody sky.

Here, in this thicket of tangled laurel, yew and fern, 

a deer bedded last night. Her shape lingers

in broken skunk cabbage, and I sense that she is close by, 

watching, waiting

for this cursed bog to suck me under.

Through, under and around, a tiny creek 

that surely springs from the roots and death 

of these twisted yew pines gurgles over its blackened bed; 

the scent of death and life is everywhere assaulting, 

beckoning with pungent sweetness

beneath sun-gilded leaves,

beneath verdant ferns,

beneath my sodden feet.

I am the stranger here, the one thing that does not belong.

Long have I traveled to feel and smell and be of this mountain,

and in my own time

the smell of my death will mingle with the rotting leaves,

the decayed trees until at last

I am no more than the soil and the root

from which new life will spring.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.