Remember, remember the... sixth of November?

Well, I'm falling behind again. Usually this time of year, I feel so motivated. I want to take on the world. Then, the holidays come, and I spend a month and a half crying at every family event. I am the world's worst scrooge at the holidays! Birthdays, too. Well, mine anyway, I have no problem with other people's birthdays. Unfortunately, my birthday and the holidays walk hand-in-hand. This year, my birthday even falls on Thanksgiving. Double whammy! I shall learn to be grateful and thank God for all the foods that I have yet refuse to eat like turkey and ham (blech!). Wow, I think I have just gone through the how-to guide for making enemies and alienating people! On to something more uplifting than my poor attitude!

Edna St. Vincent Millay was raised by a progressive mother who asked the father to leave the family in 1899. She had two sisters. She and her sisters were raised with an appreciation of the arts, and it was at her mother's urging that she enter her poem Renascence into a contest that led to her first publication. Also, as a result of this, Millay gained instant acclaim and a scholarship to Vassar. There, she continued to write poetry, and, at the request of the Vassar drama department, she wrote her first verse play The Lamp and the Bell. She led a Bohemian lifestyle. She won the Pulitzer Prize for her fourth volume of poetry The Harp Weaver. While she did marry later in life, she and her husband maintained a sexually open relationship throughout their twenty-six year marriage. He died in 1949, and she followed in 1950. My favorite sonnet of hers is as follows:



What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts to-night, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain,
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

The Biggest Loser: Cat Edition

So, the last post that I mentioned having cats involved one of them dying. Well, I went to visit the other one today (he lives with my folks) and was pleased to discover that he lost 3.5 lbs. He used to be 19.5 lbs, so clearly he could afford to lose some. I finally found a way to get my pictures off of my phone, so I am going to try to run with technology here a bit and upload a picture of the new and improved Puck (though, even to my eye, he still looks fat...).

It's possible he could still afford to lose a few... Though, I did find out that Ragdoll cats, of which he is 1/4, tend to be larger than your garden variety house cat (and here was me thinking he had a mountain lion for a grandfather...). Okay, okay, I'll try to stop being a crazy cat lady for a while. On to poetry!

Well, thinking about cats and poetry of course brings to mind T.S. Eliot and The Naming of Cats. It also brings to mind the musical Cats!, but since I am not trying to frighten anyone away, I will leave off talking about that!

T.S. Eliot was a very fascinating individual. I believe I will have to post something else of his later to truly show what he was about, since The Naming of Cats is a much more trite subject matter than that with which he usually dealt. Although, for such an  influential and well-known poet, he really didn't publish that many works of poetry. He was born in the U.S., but later, he became a British citizen and renounced his U.S. citizenship saying, "My mind may be American, but my heart is British." He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1948 for "his outstanding, pioneer contribution to present-day poetry." He also had 13 honorary doctorates from various universities including Oxford, Harvard, the Sorbonne, and Cambridge. It is interesting to note that when his poetry first began emerging into the printed world, it was criticized as not poetry at all. His style and use of language was so different from the works of the day that the critics did not consider his work poetry!


The Naming of Cats

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

The wind may howl, but I am cozy and content

The wind is doing its best to pull this house down around my ears, but I'm not too worried. I got to sleep in today; I drank a delicious mug of tea; and I have a phone date tonight with a certain someone who makes me smile a lot. All is well in the world. I'm also being extraordinarily lazy, so I think I'm just going to post something of my own again.

I thought I'd do a little throwback to senior year Shakespeare class. We were all assigned the project of writing a Shakespearean sonnet. Well, I grumbled and moaned and procrastinated and complained and finally wrote something that I thought was semi-passable. I'm having difficulties with the third stanza (i.e. it's awful), but in the 5 years since I've written it, I still can't think of anything else. I think this pretty much sums up why I am not a published poet!

When I alone in winsome winter sit
My thoughts awry within my captured brain
Myself versus myself again is pit
And triumph over me I'll never gain

Against the cages of my head I fight
A butterfly who struggles to the death
When will I ever let my soul ignite
What sorrow lies there clinging to each breath

Oh would that life were of a different tune
Without the pain that causes me to fall
Without facing my ever ill fortune
But in my mind there stirs the slightest call

     A voice that whispers sweetly in my ear
     "You'll never be  alone while I am here"

 

♪It's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood...♫

I don't really know why Mr. Rogers is on my mind today. Maybe because we are finally getting to sweater weather (though, I went out today in a short-sleeved shirt), and sweaters inevitably make me think of Mr. Rogers. We didn't have television at my house growing up (that's not to say we didn't have a TV, we just didn't watch television. We watched movies, though.), so when I went to Camp Grandma, I would watch Mr. Rogers and Lamb Chops. My favorite part was always when Mr. Rogers would pick out a sweater. I loved looking at all the colors in his closet! *Realizes that this is the world's most boring story and slowly peters off*

Poetry! I am in quite the mood today, in case you hadn't noticed already. However, I'm not really sure whose poetry to feature today. I have this piece by Pasternak that I want to use, but I am waiting for snow. Anyway, I haven't really posted many poems by female poets other than Dickinson (I don't really count myself!), so I thought something along that line would be appropriate. I don't honestly know that many different poems and their authors, but I enjoy finding out about them. I have always loved the poem "How Do I Love Thee?", and, consequently, it was written by a woman Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning was a brave, resourceful, and strong woman. She was the oldest of twelve children and the daughter of a Jamaican plantation owner. However, her father decided to raise his children in England, so that is where they lived. She was born in Coxhoe Hall, Durham, England, in 1806. She suffered greatly with a lung condition that came on in her youth and plagued her the rest of her life. Also, at age 15, she incurred a spinal injury. Despite all of this, she flourished in her studies. She taught herself Hebrew, so she could read the Old Testament, and later turned to Greek studies. She abhorred slavery and, naturally, had difficulties with her father's slave-run plantation and the fact that he sent her younger siblings off to Jamaica to help run things. In 1844, she came out with a collection of work simply titled Poems. This brought her to the attention of another poet Robert Browning. He wrote her a letter, which in turn became a series of correspondences numbering 574 in 20 months. Her father, who did not want any of his children to marry, bitterly opposed the romance. So, Elizabeth and Robert eloped and moved to Florence, Italy, in 1846. Her father never spoke to her again. Her later work focused greatly on political and social themes. She died in Florence on June 29, 1861.

How Do I Love Thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

♪Hey soul sister, ain't that mister mister on the radio, stereo...♫

I love that song, but I have to admit that I have no idea what it means! Hmmm... well, let's string some random words together and make a really cheery, chipper song. Okay! I fell for it anyway ☺

I found this really cool aspect of blogger that I have been using rather incessantly. It's a tool that let's me see where the people are from who are looking at my blog. Mainly, I've got US followers, but I have also had several people pop by from Germany and other places (like Slovenia, the UK, Denmark, Canada, Japan, etc.). So I thought I would do a little shout-out and try to feature more poetry from other countries. I like to think that I have been fairly good at diversifying my selections, but I am the first to admit that I have a LOT to learn. Anyway, while doing a search for famous German poets and poetry, I came across a piece that I was actually already familiar with and quite enjoyed. It is Der Erlkönig (or, in English, The Erl-King) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. The first time I came across it was in one of my college music classes because it was set to music by Franz Shubert. It really is the most lovely piece!

I will attempt to brief in my mini-bio of von Goethe. An interesting fact I found was that von Goethe did not much appreciate Franz Schubert's achievements. I guess I am insulting the poet's sensibilities by forever linking the poet to that composer! Von Goethe's main work, which he spent most of his lifetime writing, was the two-part piece Faust. This piece apparently was what influenced many works ranging from The Picture of Dorian Grey (Oscar Wilde), The Devil to Pay (Dorothy L. Sayers), to Don Juan/Don Giovanni (the best known operatic version of this being by Lorenzo Ponte and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart). Von Goethe himself seems to have been highly eclectic in his interests. He appeared to be involved in everything from law to alchemy to philosophy and plant life. Clearly, I need to spend more time researching since I know so very little. In an effort to maintain brevity in the lengths of my posts, I will stop flaunting my ignorance on von Goethe and simply publish the poem of his that first caught my interest: The Erl-King. P.S. I hope this translation is accurate, but not speaking any German, I have to rely on the power of search engines. That's a scary thought!

The Erl-King

WHO rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.

"My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?"
"Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?"
"My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."

"Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
Full many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?"
"Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives;
'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves."

"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?"
"My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
'Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight."

"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ."
"My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last."

The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,--
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.

Absolutely no song lyrics today

Well, what started out as a peaceful, cheerful day today turned rather awful after work. I called my Papa, and he informs me that one of my cats had bovine (pretty sure he meant feline, but he does work a lot with cows) leukemia and had to be put down yesterday.  So, I decided to do what I always do when I am upset: write. I try not to bog down my few faithful followers with personal drama, but I figure you can always skip this if you don't care or want to know about details of my life.

We got our two cats when I was in high school. Pretty much immediately following, my dog died. I hate losing pets! I am still traumatized over the death of that dog. I will probably always feel that way, and now I have another death to deal with. You would think that being a farm girl I would be more accustomed to death. I think I am going soft in my old age. Well, I will admit to crying a bit when a couple of our calves died, but it is not that easy getting attached to cattle, so, all in all, I survived. I hurt when I think of Puck trying to go on without Rocky. They had only been apart three days in their entire lives.

Well, to continue on this perfectly morbid chain, I found a poem about losing someone. Originally, it was made for losing a human companion, but the site I found it on used it to describe pets. (It's amazing what you can find on Google.) The author is unknown, but hopefully it can help you if you are grieving someone or some animal.

I Only Wanted You

They say memories are golden

well maybe that is true.

I never wanted memories,

I only wanted you.


A million times I needed you,

a million times I cried.

If love alone could have saved you

you never would have died.


In life I loved you dearly,

In death I love you still.

In my heart you hold a place

no one could ever fill.


If tears could build a stairway

and heartache make a lane,

I'd walk the path to heaven

and bring you back again.


Our family chain is broken,

and nothing seems the same.

But as God calls us one by one,

                                                             the chain will link again.

♪One day more! Another day, another destiny♫

Well, I've been lazy again, gentle reader. I haven't researched any poet or poem again, so you are stuck with more of my ramblings. Every now and again I try a little free verse. I'm really not as comfortable with it, since, to me, it seems so unstructured. I like things in my life to be orderly, but, so often, they aren't.

I'm worried a lot about my grandfather. He has a bad heart and has had several surgeries, heart attacks, and hospitalizations. Now he says he does not want another surgery that could extend his life because he is ready to go. Well, I am not ready for him to go, but I realize that God takes people according to His timing and not mine.

I haven't been able to write any poetry lately, but I would like to share a poem I wrote about my aunt. I didn't really stop to think about her death much when she went, but some time after, I wrote this while thinking about her. It isn't great--it isn't even good, but it helps me to cope to think I will never fully lose her.

In the recesses of my mind
     I hear you
Softly and sweetly echoing there
"I am here! I am here!" over and over
But when I look, you are nowhere near

I have lost you now foerever
     I miss you
And I know I always will
You are there! You are there! I can find you
Indelibly etched in my memory