Pam Webb

a writer's journey as a reader

Archive for the category “reflections”

NPM: #6–of Hardy’s leaves


Where They Lived

Thomas Hardy, 1840 – 1928

Dishevelled leaves creep down
       Upon that bank to-day,
Some green, some yellow, and some pale brown;
       The wet bents bob and sway;
The once warm slippery turf is sodden
        Where we laughingly sat or lay.

The summerhouse is gone,
        Leaving a weedy space;
The bushes that veiled it once have grown.
        Gaunt trees that interlace,
Through whose lank limbs I see too clearly
         The nakedness of the place.

And where were hills of blue,
Blind drifts of vapour blow,
And the names of former dwellers few,
If any, people know,
And instead of a voice that called, “Come in, Dears,”
Time calls, “Pass below!”

As I get older, I realize autumn is replacing my favorite season of summer. The warmth is still there, the greens fading into muted colors–there is a peace, a tranquility to fall versus the frantic heat and activity summer requires. I think Hardy realized this as well.

image: RevWarheart/Morguefile

NPM: #5: a winter sonnet


Sonnet to Winter

Emily Chubbuck Judson (1817-1854)

Thy brow is girt, thy robe with gems inwove;
    And palaces of frost-work, on the eye,
    Flash out, and gleam in every gorgeous dye,
The pencil, dipped in glorious things above,

Can bring to earth. Oh, thou art passing fair!
But cold and cheerless as the heart of death,
Without one warm, free pulse, one softening breath,
    One soothing whisper for the ear of Care.
Fortune too has her Winter. In the Spring,
    We watch the bud of promise; and the flower
    Looks out upon us at the Summer hour;

And Autumn days the blessed harvest bring;
    Then comes the reign of jewels rare, and gold,
    When brows flash light, but hearts grow strangely cold.

 

Although I am ever so glad winter is passing into spring, this sonnet reminds me that beauty can be found in the harshness of our coldest season.

image: EricBerthe/MorgueFile

NPM: #4–Ezra and Francesca


Francesca

Ezra Pound, 18851972

You came in out of the night
And there were flowers in your hands,
Now you will come out of a confusion of people,
Out of a turmoil of speech about you.

I who have seen you amid the primal things
Was angry when they spoke your name
In ordinary places.
I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind,
And that the world should dry as a dead leaf,
Or as a dandelion seed-pod and be swept away,
So that I might find you again,
Alone.

Ezra Pound imagery is always so mesmerizing. I want to research Francesca to see what it was about her that a poem would speak so eloquently about the need to be alone with her…again. Sounds like the makings of a lovely Italian mystery set in the thirties or forties.

NPM: #3–Serenity found in brooks…


Serenity

Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887)

Brook,
Be still,—be still!
Midnight’s arch is broken
In thy ceaseless ripples.
Dark and cold below them                 
Runs the troubled water,—
Only on its bosom,
Shimmering and trembling,
Doth the glinted star-shine
                  Sparkle and cease.

                  Life,
Be still,—be still!
Boundless truth is shattered
On thy hurrying current.
Rest, with face uplifted,
Calm, serenely quiet;
Drink the deathless beauty—
Thrills of love and wonder
Sinking, shining, star-like;
Till the mirrored heaven
Hollow down within thee
Holy deeps unfathomed,
Where far thoughts go floating,
And low voices wander
              Whispering peace.

 

Although I am drawn to the ocean, I think I favor the quiet charm of a brook ensconced in the cradle of the woods. What is it about archaic language that makes reflections so much more profound?

 

image: Natureworks/Morguefile

NPM: #2–Wonder and Joy


image: flickr.com

Wonder and Joy

Robinson Jeffers, 18871962

The things that one grows tired of—O, be sure
They are only foolish artificial things!
Can a bird ever tire of having wings?
And I, so long as life and sense endure,
(Or brief be they!) shall nevermore inure
My heart to the recurrence of the springs,
Of gray dawns, the gracious evenings,
The infinite wheeling stars. A wonder pure
Must ever well within me to behold
Venus decline; or great Orion, whose belt
Is studded with three nails of burning gold,
Ascend the winter heaven. Who never felt
This wondering joy may yet be good or great:
But envy him not: he is not fortunate.

 

This particular poet focused his poetry around the Big Sur area. It would be easy to be inspired living in that region!

My fave stand out lines: “Of gray dawns, the gracious evenings…”

I do so appreciate the balance of these two images and the art of alliteration.

And let the muse sing out…


Aah, April begineth. Spring will dance away the last regrets of winter’s sorrows and soon a cascade of sunny skies, with the intermittent showers of replenishing, will replace snow and cold. Again….aah…

Another aah of April is National Poetry Month. This year my focus shall be a mix of poets known, but not so much the dusty “mustwe” reads required from school days. Tosh. I wouldn’t doit toyou. I shall endeavor to bring forth new-to-you poems, or at least freshen your memory with some choice versey morsels of rhyme and rhythm.

The first poem is one that celebrates finding a new poet. Due to copyright permission details I will ask that you click on the approved link, enjoy, and return for chatty thoughts.

 

Finding a new poet. That is as special as discovering a new gelato flavor. Mmmm, I discovered lemon biscotti not too long ago. Tart and sweet and creamy. Never mind the calories. It’s worth the extra mile I’ll walk to burn them off.

poetry and gelato do seem to go together… image: pintrest.com

Hoping you’ll discover some new poets and renew your acquaintance with a few favorites.

Happy Poetry Month!

Blog Spotlight: Paperback Princess


The Paperback Princess

I read a lot of books

 

I appreciate unabashed Book Boosters. This is one reason I took to following Paperback Princess. She sometimes laments her inability to resist buying books. A recent post of hers highlights that this is indeed a concern she will have to attend to due to bookshelf space. Too many books is not the same thing as having too many shoes. Books never go out of style. Well, maybe Valley of the Dolls, but everyone has their own preferences for reading material.

Dear Princess–adding books to your bulging shelves is an admirable dilemma. It’s enviable. Making room in your life for knowledge, adventure, new friends and old friends is delightful in my perspective. You will never be lonely!

PP also provides wondrous book suggestions and reviews. Plus, she is a conversant commenter, which a blogger always appreciates. I’m taking liberties and borrowing a part of her fabulous TBR <a title="list" href="https:// Read more…

Handily Written: A Lost Art?


Another TBR item has floated up to my attention. This one is dated December 2012 from the Wall Street Journal. Actually, I did read it, but kept it because it so resonated with me. “The Lost Art of the Handwritten Note.”

a handwritten letter is indeed becoming a rare commodity image: jppi/morguefile

 

I remember my elementary day struggle of learning to write cursive, and to this day my cursive is problematic. My students are continually asking me, “What does this word say?” when I hand back their work. I wish I could tell them.

Cursive is getting kicked to the curb these days. I wish it wouldn’t. I wish I had lovely handwriting. My mother has beautiful handwriting and it hasn’t changed in its precise simplicity in all the years I’ve known her. She laments, though, how she approaches her late eighties that she can’t write like she used to, blaming it on various ailments like arthritis and eyesight. I encourage her to keep up on her keyboarding. Emails and texts are great for instant communication, and yet I still appreciate receiving her snail mail as there is something truly lovely about receiving a handwritten letter.

The article’s author, Philip Hensher, starts out asking a rather private question: how many Christmas letters did I send out and how many did I receive. The MEPA keeps track of those statistics, and lets me know each year we receive less, so he sends out less. We usually get into a bit of a discussion of “Well, maybe we should keep sending them out in good faith” versus “Cross ’em off.” There are no easy answers or solutions on the Christmas card questions, which is not the point of Hensher’s opening lines. He simply is nudging the reader to remember the last time receiving an actual letter that contained a handwritten missive in a personally addressed envelope. Hmm, I’ll have to ponder on that. Beyond Mom, the only actual mail I receive at the PO box are bills or ad flyers. None are handwritten..

Hensher briefly covers the practice of handwriting and its implications for career placement and personality detection, along with its ability to bridge direct and intimate communications between people. A pause. Here I reflect on those moments in books and film where a letter plays an important part of the plot. Cyrano’s letters to Roxane are practically one of the leading characters of Rostand’s play. What about William’s group letter to his lovely “mark” in Knight’s Tale? Perhaps this is why tomes of correspondence remain popular reading items. Although I think it’s only polite to read someone’s letters if deemed permissible. I did turn away from reading Willa Cather’s letters, once I found out she never wanted them published. It seemed voyeuristic.

I have inherited a hefty box of letters from my great aunt, affectionately known as Auntie. These represent her time spent in New York when she attended the Julliard Institute on scholarship back in the heydays of the twenties. She wrote once, sometimes twice, a day to her mother back in Seattle. No handy telephone calls and definitely no Twitter communique in the twenties. She later traveled all around Europe on tour and penned her insights and reflections upon the changes the Fuhrer created upon the landscape. I began the arduous process of typing out her letters with the idea of creating a memoir of New York in the days of yesteryear since she gave such amazing detail. This might become a retirement project. Her handwriting is so fine and spidery it wears on my eyes and fingers to decipher them. There is also the fact that something is lost when transforming them from the loops and scrawls to the neat precision of typing. Now and then I will peruse them. Mostly I derive pleasure they are sitting in the box on my closet shelf. They are a bit of history and a bit of treasure.

 

Readers: Do you have a few treasured handwritten letters? What makes them so special?

 

Clowning Around as a Kid


I feel fortunate to have grown up in the golden age of television. Walter Cronkite fathered us through the news. Dick Van Dyke and Mary Tyler Moore broke ground for weekly family shows, Carol Burnett entertained us, and Captain Kangaroo and other grown ups clowning around got me giggling.

Here are some of the TV babysitters I remembered. For that’s what they did while Mom did what she had to do around the house.

Captain Kangaroo

It was like having a trusted grandfather telling me delightful stories… image: Wikipedia

The show ran for nearly thirty years, from 1955 to 1984. I don’t remember much except Mr. Greenjeans and something about ping pong balls and a moose.

Soupy Sales

I have since learned Soupy Sales was a bit of a bad boy, always pushing those censor buttons. But, hey, as a kid, did I know this? I remember lots of pies and Fang.

Those were the national shows I remember. I was fortunate enough to have had  several local talented hosts to kept me amused. If you grew up in the Greater Northwest area you might remember:

Wunda Wunda

She was calm and reassuring and she did indeed add a bit of learning to every show.

Stan Boreson

Memories of a guy playing the accordion, a catchy theme song, and a basset hound.

Brakeman Bill

Trains. I mainly remember trains and his sidekick donkey. Oh, here’s a fun fact. Brakeman Bill was invited to my wedding reception. I’m still not sure how and why I would have known him. My mom invited a lot of people. My brother was ecstatic having been a Brakeman Bill Booster when a youngster.

My personal favorite…

JP Patches

I was not just a fan. I was a Patches Pal. image: jppatches.com

 

Did I say this was my favorite show? I still get girlish gigglish when I think how I stood in line with all the other kiddos to meet my favorite clown. I even have a photo of me with my morning/afternoon icon (yes, I got doses in the morning and afternoon–two hours of fun everyday!) As you can see JP collected buttons. I remember my last visitation as a preteen and standing in line to shyly hand him a button for his coat collection. I felt a little embarrassed since I was a bit older than the other kids there. But a dedicated fan is a dedicated fan.

The show’s format featured Gertrude, a loud obnoxious “woman,” as in the Shakespearean sense, who was JP’s girlfriend (the Gertrude actor actually played a total of about 18 roles). Even though JP lived at the dump he had class. He had great rapport with the TV audience and owned an ICU television set. He would tune in and personally wish that viewer a happy birthday. I remember wishing my birthday would be called out. Never happened *sniff* He also had a villainous counterhero on the show named Boris S. Wart, whose sole goal was to takeover the show. I believe he did once. Boris tried appearing with JP once; however, some overzealous Patches Pals beat him up. Honestly, I was not part of that particular Patches Pack. Other memorable non-human characters: Tikey Turkey, Griswald, Grandpa Tik Tok, Esmerelda. Even if you did not grow up in the Puget Sound (I’ll try not to feel sorry for you) I’ll let you partake in Patches fun by clicking to the best ever website I spent most of my Saturday morning watching bits and clips of my childhood.

So–what great children’s programming did you grow up with?

 

Why We Say: #15


Watercooler chatter: “That new CEO doesn’t do much, does he?”
“Yeah, bit of figurehead, I figure.”

Today’s lesson involves some sailing knowledge. First, it’s important to know the front, the bow, from the back, the stern. The bow would be decorated with some sort of figure which actually is fairly interesting (go on–have a peek). They didn’t serve any real purpose, but they sure made the ships look imposing, important, regal, at times intimidating. There is also the thought that a figurehead, as in politics and business, can be controlled by other forces, much like the figurehead on the ship is controlled by the sails or other power. Hmm, is there a connection between these two figures in terms of being figureheads?

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA  Elizabeth II greets NASA GSFC employees, May 8, 2007 edit.jpg (I think highly of the Queen, BtW)

Any Laurel and Hardy fans out there? You might recognize this saying, “This is a fine kettle of fish you’ve gotten us into.” If you recall, this was flustered out by Oliver Hardy to Stan Laurel after some frustrating incident. But why a kettle of fish? Maybe Ollie had some Scottishishness about him and was recalling how fishermen thought they could coax the best flavor out of the fish by cooking them right on the spot in a large kettle. They must have known the secret of cooking up a fine kettle of fish, since no one else could replicate it. Hence, from then on “a fine kettle of fish” is actually referring to a mess instead of success.

 

Singing in the Rain is a personal favorite, especially all those great song and dance numbers by Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor. How about this one:

Why “fit as a fiddle?” Kelly and O’Connor might not have realized they were referring to boxers, the fighters (not the dogs) in their ditty. Apparently the original expression was “fit as a fiddler” because boxers had to be in top condition in order to go a few rounds in the ring. Wait, a minute, Gene and Donald must have known that to be “fit as a fiddle and ready for love” they would have to be ready to fight for their love. Makes sense…

 

(images from Morguefiles and Wikipedia)

 

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