Charlotte Mew, remembered--

I've been reading some Charlotte Mew. And you should too. Hardy and Woolf, Sassoon and Pound and others praised her highly. She had a sad life, but it had its sparky and luminous moments--that is, she wrote some lovely poems.

• An introduction to Charlotte Mew here.
• 20 poems by her here.

In The Fields

Lord when I look at lovely things which pass,
Under old trees the shadow of young leaves
Dancing to please the wind along the grass,
Or the gold stillness of the August sun on the August sheaves;
Can I believe there is a heavenlier world than this?
And if there is
Will the heart of any everlasting thing
Bring me these dreams that take my breath away?
They come at evening with the home-flying rooks and the scent of hay,
Over the fields. They come in spring.

Sea Love

Tide be runnin’ the great world over;
’Twas only last June month I mind that we
Was thinkin’ the toss and the call in the breast of the lover
So everlastin’ as the sea.

Here’s the same little fishes that splutter and swim,
Wi’ the moon’s old glim on the grey, wet sand;
An’ him no more to me nor me to him
Than the wind goin’ over my hand.

Wyeth women on art

Fenimore Art Museum

"I think all great stuff comes out of being alone. At the time you may feel lonely, but it's doing something wonderful to you."
    --Carolyn Wyeth

"A kind of tribute to my delight in life, in all kinds of important aspects of my life, and also the very superficial, the delightful, the charming, the nonessential, except that I never know what is nonessential. Nothing is unimportant... It is all paintable It's all part of an artist's life."
    --Henriette Wyeth Hurd

Golden frolics

I'm taking a blog break because Ruth Sanderson is coming for a visit, and I need to do a bit of spit and polish on the rickety old abode before this afternoon. If you don't know this wonderful illustrator and painter, take a look at her Golden Studio site. I'll be back on Monday. If you want to find me elsewhere, root around in old posts or check out the book tabs at the top of the page--the first four books are still in print, 2011-12 poetry and a novel.

Dawg poems

Addendum: I hereby clarify (nod to Gary) that I am not particularly serious in this post--in fact, that I am silly with a dash of seriousness. I would be a great fool (and perhaps I am, but for other reasons!) if I did not realize how much of the world (literary and otherwise) runs and what it values. And I would be an unhappy person if I could not deal with such things! Good cheer to you, whether you read Yeats or McKuen or nothing at all in the way of poetry.

Quiz: There is a follow-up to the your-adjective-here New York Times Bestseller, I Could Pee on This. It is unusual to have poetry sell so well, so very well. Which is the correct response to this curious situation?

• a. Little Old Proverb Woman's This too shall pass. 
• b. Gandalf in angelic defender mode: You shall not pass! 
• c. Keats, writing on water, saying, "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: /  Its loveliness increases; it will never / Pass into nothingness; but still will keep / A bower quiet for us, and a sleep / Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."
• d. Doggone. 
• e. "Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them" (Voltaire.) 
• f. "What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music." --Soren Kierkegaard 
• g.  Emerson's "A man is a god in ruins." 
• h.  Henry Ward Beecher's "The dog is the god of frolic." 
• i.  Compare and contrast Yeats and the dog as poets if you want to pass freshman English!
• j.  Some mysterious combination of letters, as, f., i., and g. This spells fig, a fact that is not very interesting in light of the book. However, I like figs.
• k.  Some not-mysterious combination of letters.
• l.  "I could pee on this." Twice.
• m. none of the above, not ever, no time!
• n.  Face it, poetry has gone to the dogs.. :) Whee--
• o.  all of the above
• p.  "A dog eats no beets." --from Diogenes, who learned a lot on his famous quest to find an honest man, lighting his lantern in the day and sleeping like a happy Greek pickle in a big Athenian pottery jar at night. (Later on he was captured by pirates.)

Body, not books--

I've always said the blog would be reserved for talk about words, poetry, and stories--the realm of books and literature. This post is not about books, except perhaps on the ability to carry a stack of them or pick up your O. E. D. as you grow older. Instead, it's what I wish somebody had said to me years ago. If someone you love is a woman or smallish man--particularly one who is slight, of European extraction, and pursues a sedentary occupation (like writing books)--find out if she/he knows anything about getting her vitamins and minerals (sufficient calcium and vitamin D and others) through foods, about hewing close to an alkaline diet, and about getting enough weight-bearing exercise. If you are that person, do a little research. Sixteen percent of women over fifty in the U.S. have osteoporosis, and four percent of men. I call that common. It's not easy to increase bone mass after fifty, and the current osteoporosis drugs are, to me, rather fearsome.

Happy birthday, Clive Hicks-Jenkins--

Cover image by Clive
P. S. Publishing, 2009 (out-of-print)

Cover, interior art by Clive.
Stanza Press, 2012

Jacket/interior art by Clive.
Phoenicia Publishing, 2012

Jacket image by Clive
Mercer University Press, 2011

Sendakian

I rose at 5:30 with Maurice Sendak on my mind. Now I realize it is his birthday. I am very glad Sendak was born and wielded his gift with such gaiety and care, and that he spoke so forcefully (and often grumpily) about his life and times.

So I rooted around, trying to find a quote I remembered about there being only good and bad books--none of this genre and "kinds" nonsense! (Probably it's somewhere in the depths of the blog, too.) And I didn't find it, but did reread some lines that I love.

Here are a few celebratory quotes about his friends in the realm of dead artists and living arts, the place where he belongs:

When Mozart is playing in my room, I am in conjunction with something I can't explain... I don't need to. I know that if there's a purpose for life, it was for me to hear Mozart.

I have a little tiny Emily Dickinson so big that I carry in my pocket everywhere. And you just read three poems of Emily. She is so brave. She is so strong. She is such a sexy, passionate, little woman. I feel better.

[On Melville.] There's a mystery there, a clue, a nut, a bolt, and if I put it together, I find me.

Something I can't explain. 

Bravery. 

Strength and passion.

Mystery.