Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Thursday, February 20, 2025

Victoria State Library and Tales from the Outback

I think I've fallen in love with the State Library in Melbourne! The building itself was incredible. An imposing Neocassical entrance with heavy doors. The grounds were not formal at all - we walked through Green space where people were sitting and enjoying the sun, and just outside the entrance there were a pair of giant chess sets with all the pieces in play.

Inside are several reading rooms, but the most spectacular is the La Trobe Reading Room, with an octaganol rotunda and a soaring view to tiered galleries above. Circling the main floo are 38 inspiring, intriguing and challenging quotations about books, reading and libraries called the Ribbon of Words. I swore when I got home I'd capture them all... you can find them at the end of this post.

We spent a couple hours exploring several exhibits.

World of the Book showcased more than 300 rare, remarkable, historically significant items from the State Collection. It included a manusript from the Edo period (Tale of the Genjii), pages from Audobon, gorgeous botanicals, Winnie the Pooh, and some campy covers. I was swooning!

One of the other displays focused on Australian Camaleers from the 1860's. These men hailed from Afghan, Punjabi, Bangladesh, Pakistan and India; they helped explore and build camel trains that would later be replaced by rail. Discriminatory policies prevented them from settling with their families in Australia so some returned home but others stayed, with many marrying into Aboriginal families. 

It didn't even cross my mind that this would be a tale from the Outback:

Our Footprints Remain

From  Ghanzi to Karachi
from Kabul to Calcutta
from Zabol to Azad Kashmir
We came here
to this distant land
on great ships
And we set off
with our camels, whom we
knew by name
We carried railway sleepers
from Adelaide to Port Augusta
We travelled for three minths
from Marree to Tennant Creek
carrying cables for telegraphs
And we brought back gold from
the Arltunga mines
We travelled from Bourke
to Cloncurry
carrying cotton.
At sunset we opened up 
to the willie wagtail
so it would carry our messages
to our loved ones
and it listened
and sung its heavenly song.

And we became friends with the
First Nation peoples
since our outlooks were similar
They taught us the real name of 
their country.
Whenever we were lost, they
gave us directions
When we were sick, they 
gave us bush medicine
And they showed us springs
and we drank from the same spring
We sat by the fire and played robab
and cooked chapati and curry and we
were beholden to each other
A strange love arose between us
so that we bacame one
and we built a home away
from home.

In the quiet plains of this country,
you can still hear
the sounds of our voices and our
camel bells ringing
And beside each spring
still our footprints remain
And when the wiffle waggle sings
he carries our messages with him.
- poem by Elyas Alavi, translated from Dari/Persian into English by Timothy Johannessen
--------------------


No two people read the same book ∼ Edmund Wilson (1895-1972)
Attributed to a quotation by John Russell in the Sunday Times, 25 July 1971. The real quote is, “No two persons ever read the same book.”
Variation: In a sense, one can never read the book that the author originally wrote, and one can never read the same book twice.

The true University of these days is a collection of books ∼ Thomas Carlyle (1795-1871)

Wide and independent reading — self-education — is what matters ∼ Patrick White (1912-1990)
Australian novelist, 1973 Nobel Prize for Literature. “The Reading Sickness, 1980”, Patrick White Speaks, 1989. 

Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey ∼ Anna Quindlen (1953-) How Reading Changed My Life, 1998. 

Let's save old books and study them with care ∼ Phùng Khác Khoan (1528-1630) 16th century Vietnamese military strategist and poet Phùng Khắc Khoan, ‘Advice to scholars’, in An anthology of Vietnamese poems: from the eleventh through the twentieth centuries, edited and translated by Huỳnh Sanh Thông, 1996. 

Complete quote:

Through your own efforts learn, and Heaven helps./ Let’s save old books and study them with care./ To read proves quite an act in these foul times:/ even wise heads have found it hard to teach./ By knowledge freed, the mind flows like a stream;/ with few desires, the body fears not threat./ Purge man of greed, and Heaven’s truth will shine:/ must scholars think of stipends and naught else?

Read in order to live ∼ Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880) Letter, 1857. The letters of Gustave Flaubert / selected, edited, and translated by Francis Steegmuller.
Complete quote:

“Do not read, as children do, to amuse yourself, or like the ambitious, for the purpose of instruction. No, read in order to live.”


No place can be chosen more likely to arouse and exalt such feelings than this apartment, reared in honor of literature ∼ Redmond Barry (1813-1880) Preface to The catalogue of the Public Library of Victoria, 1880, p. x111

Libraries are reservoirs of strength, grace and wit, reminders of order, calm and continuity, lakes of mental energy ∼ Germaine Greer (1939-) “Still in Melbourne January 1987”, Daddy, we hardly knew you, 1989.

Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations ∼ Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) Walden, 1854 (Chapter 3: "Reading")

The chief glory of every people arises from its authors ∼ Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) “Preface” to A dictionary of the English language, 1755.

A public library is the most democratic thing in the world ∼ Doris Lessing (1919-2013)
complete quote
“Libraries are treasures houses of stories, poems, essays, from every country in the world and from all times, and literature shades off into history and magic and mystery and religion, into sociology and anthropology – into nearly every subject you can think of, and it is there for everyone. There for the trouble of finding someone who loves books ready to make suggestions. A public library is the most democratic thing in the world. What can be found there has undone dictators and tyrants: demagogues can persecute writers and tell them what to write as much as they like, but they cannot vanish what has been written in the past, though they try often enough...People who love literature have at least part of their minds immune from indoctrination. If you read, you can learn to think for yourself.”

Until I feared to lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing ∼ Harper Lee (1926-2016) To Kill a Mockingbird, 1960.

Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies ∼ John Milton (1608-1674) The Reason of Church Government, Introduction


Words on the page are never prisoners of the page ∼ Sonya Hartnett (1968-) Sonya Hartnett said ‘Words on the page are never prisoners of the page’ when accepting an audio book award, in 1999.

Writers speak for those who are kept in silence ∼ Isabel Allende (1942-)
complete quote
“For whom do I write, finally? Certainly for myself. But mainly for others, even if there are only a few. For those who have no voice and for those who are kept in silence.” Isabel Allende, “Writing as an act of hope”, in Paths of Resistance: The Art and Draft of the Political Novel, edited by William Zinsser, 1989, pp.39-63.
“…a writer is a foreteller of the future, has a prophetic gift, has the ability to speak for others who have been kept in silence.” John Rodden, Conversations with Isabel Allende, 1999, p.257
“I wanted to speak up for those that are kept in silence”, Angel Flores, Spanish American Authors: The Twentieth Century, 1992, p.28.

A real book is not one that's read, but one that reads us ∼ W H Auden (1903-1973)
Poet. Attributed that is was once said and recalled at his death in 1973, Leo Thayer, Mental Hygiene: Communication and the Health of the Mind, 2014, p. 103.
Reported by Lionel Trilling in "On the Modern Element in Modern Literature", Partisan Review, January-February 1961, p. 15 (reprinted in Trilling's Beyond Culture, 1965): Trilling wrote: "taking the cue of W. H. Auden's remark that a real book reads us, I have been read by Eliot's poems...".
complete quote
More commonly reported as "a real book is not one that we read but one that reads us". This paraphrase of Trilling's reported quotation first appeared in a review by Robie Macauley of Trilling's Beyond Culture in the New York Times Book Review, 14 November 1965, p. 38: "I must borrow a phrase from Mr. Trilling (who borrows it from W. H. Auden): a real book is not one that we read but one that reads us." The same version, attributed to Auden, appears in Evan Esar, 20,000 Quips & Quotes (1968), p. 87 (with a comma after "we read"). There is no evidence that Auden ever wrote or said this version of the phrase.

Blessed are those who are privileged to read what they like ∼ Dorothy Green (1915-1991) “The Reader”, Writer: Reader: Critic (1991), p.112.

Books can warm the heart with friendly words and counsel, entering into a close relationship with us which is articulate and alive ∼ Francesco Petrarch (1304-1374) Letter to a friend
Complete quote: 
“There is moreover something special about books; gold and silver, jewels and purple raiment, marble halls and re-tended fields, pictures and horses in all their trappings, and everything else of that kind can only accord only passing pleasure with nothing to say, whereas books can warm the heart with friendly words and counsel, entering into a close relationship with us which is articulate and alive.”
Quoted from Nicholas A. Basbanes, A gentle madness : bibliophiles, bibliomanes, and the eternal passion for books, 1995, p. 73.

One must be an inventor to read well ∼ Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)
Essay “The American Scholar”, An Oration delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, August 31, 1837.

The Public Library is at once the product of democracy and a sign of faith in universal education as a life-long process ∼ Irving Benson (1914-2016) Is attributed to Benson in the Australian Dictionary of Biography – http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/benson-sir-clarence-irving-9493:
‘In the public sphere, he was trustee (1942-46) of the Public Library, museums and National Gallery of Victoria (vice-chairman 1945), chairman (1946-66) of trustees of the Public Library of Victoria and deputy-chairman (from 1966) of its successor, the Library Council of Victoria. He was also president (1938-49) of the Library Association of Victoria and chairman (1947-56) of the Free Library Service Board. Having himself substituted the reading of books for his lack of formal education, he regarded libraries as 'a practical demonstration of democracy's faith in universal education as a life-long process'.’

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, are a substantial world, both pure and good ∼ William Wordsworth (1770-1850) Complete Poetical Works, Personal Talk, 1888.

Books are the threads from which the fabric of our culture and civilization are woven ∼ Richard W Clement (1951-) “Introduction”, The Book in America with images from the Library of Congress, Richard W. Clement, 1996, p.3.
Complete quote: 
(In reference to Thomas Jefferson’s assertion: “I cannot live without books.) “With this statement, addressed to John Adams, Thomas Jefferson voiced a national cultural truth. Jefferson understood that books are the threads from which the fabric of our culture and civilization are woven and that it is this fabric that gives our nation coherence and continuity”.

One reads in order to ask questions ∼ Franz Kafka (1883-1924)From an interview with Kafka. Conversations with Kafka, Gustav Janouch, 1953.

Books, the children of the brain ∼ Jonathon Swift (1667-1745) A Tale of a Tub, 1704.
Full quote: “I confess to have been somewhat liberal in the business of titles, having observed the humour of multiplying them, to bear great vogue among certain writers, whom I exceedingly reverence. And indeed in seems not unreasonable, that books, the children of the brain, should have the honour to be christened with variety of names, as well as other infants of quality.”


The Dome and its ascending galleries seemed like a giant brain vaulting towards the heavens ∼ Arnold Zable (1947-)

Stories are the way to feel you belong ∼ Boori Monty Pryor (1950-) Boori Monty Pryor, an Aboriginal writer, said ‘Stories are the way to feel you belong’ in a session at the 1999 Melbourne Writers’ Festival.

Nobody has the last word ∼ Brenda Walker (1957-) Brenda Walker said ‘Nobody has the last word’ when speaking about Edgar Allan Poe at the 1999 Melbourne Writers’ Festival.

The studious silence of the library … Tranquil brightness ∼ James Joyce (1882-1941) “Was first sighted in Diane Asséo Griliches’ book Library: the drama within (1996). The cited source was Ulysses (1922) - the words used by Asséo Griliches had been extracted in two grabs several hundred words apart. We finally decided to use the same form as Asséo Griliches.”

To slide into the Domed Reading Room at ten each morning, specially in summer, off the hot street outside, was a sensation as delicious as dropping into the water off the concrete edge of the Fitzroy baths ∼ Helen Garner (1942-) Helen Garner, '"A smell of old reading...": Helen Garner remembers the Domed Reading Room', State Library of Victoria News, Jul-Oct 2003 p. 5.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think ∼ Lord Byron (1788-1824) Don Juan, Canto III, LXXXVIII, 1824.

Come, and take choice of all my library, and so beguile thy sorrow ∼ William Shakespeare (1564-1616) Titus Andronicus, Act 4, scene 1, lines 34 and 35, a speech of Titus’ to Lavinia after her mutilation.

There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away, nor any coursers like a page of prancing poetry ∼ Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) Poem. “There is no Frigate like a Book”. From a letter written in 1873, and was published in Volume I of her Letters (1894).

I, who had always thought of Paradise in form and image as a library ∼ Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) Poem. “Goodbyes”, in Dreamtigers first published as El Hacedor ("The Maker"), 1960.
“The Borges quotation was more problematic, as it is a translation, and in context it is actually a lament about Borges's blindness, which had the effect of removing libraries from his world...The first sighted form was: ‘I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library’. The final form selected is: ‘I, who had always thought of Paradise in form and image as a library’, the variation being caused by different translations.” From From Harboe Ree, Cathrine, Spring 2003, La Trobe Journal, no 72, pp 72-79.

The word is the making of the world ∼ Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) Description without place, Canto VII, Collected Poems, 1945.

A study lamp, a desk make two old friends … Rejoice — the ancient spirit thrives again. For those who read a word or two there's hope ∼ Nguyễn Trãi (1380-1442) Vietnamese poet, Confucian scholar and military strategist.

The reading of all good books is like a conversation with the finest men of past centuries ∼ René Descartes (1596-1650) Discourse on the Method, Part 1, paragraph 5, 1637.
Variant: “The reading of all good books is indeed like a conversation with the noblest men of past centuries who were the authors of them, nay a carefully studied conversation, in which they reveal to us none but the best of their thoughts.’

You can make initial contact with someone who does not speak your language with signs or smiles, but to communicate you need words. So it is with a nation; to understand it you have to read its books ∼ Geoffrey Dutton (1922-1998) Dedication in The Australian collection: Australia's greatest books, [selected by] Geoffrey Dutton, 1985.

A person cannot contribute to humanity without knowledge … Only a person with a free soul, a person who has no use for fear, can contribute to this world's betterment ∼ Pramoeda Ananta Toer (1925-2006) “Science, Religion and Health Care”, Part 111: Lessons for my Children, The Mute's Soliloquy: A Memoir, 1995, p. 248. An autobiography based on the letters that he wrote for his daughter from imprisonment in Buru but was not allowed to send.

Tuesday, September 17, 2024

Harvest Moon - September 2024


We watched a full red moon rise from the back of the boat. An eclipse was promised for around 10:40, but it was slight and barely noticeable. What a relief to cast our eyes to the sky above instead of bending down toward our iPhone screens. Hours pass.


---

THE LAMPS

Eight o'clock, no later,
You light the lamps,

The big one by the large window,
The small one on your desk.

They are not to see by -
It is still twilight out over the sand,

The scrub oaks and cranberries,
Even the small birds have settled

For sleep yet, out of reach
Of prowling foxes. No,

You light the lamps because
You are alone in your small house

And the wicks sputtering gold
Are like two visitors with good stories

They will tell slowly, in soft voices,
While the air outside turns quietyly

A grainy and luminous blue.
You wish it would never change - 

But of course the darkness keeps
Its appointment. Each evening,

An inscrutable presence, it has the final word
Outside every door.

Mary Oliver, 12 Moons


Sunday, July 21, 2024

Full Buck Moon - July 2024

A White Party on the deck at BPYC set the tone for a beautiful evening of great food and dancing in the moonlight. It seemed everyone was relaxed and happy under the stars. Magical!

My granddaughter Nora was on her way! She arrived around 3 a.m. July 21, and the moon was full 6:17 a.m. A full moon baby!



Buck Moon - From the Field Guide to Insects

Mary Oliver, 12 Moons

Eighty-eight thousand six-hundred
different species in North America. In the trees, the grasses
around us. Maybe more, maybe
several million on each acre of earth. This one 
as well as any other. Where you ares standing
at dusk. Where the moon
appears to be climbing the eastern sky. Where the wind
seems to be traveling through the trees, and the frogs
are content in their black ponds or else
why do they sing? Where you feel
a power that is not you but flows
into you like a river. Where you lie down and breathe
the sweet honey of grass and count
the stars; where you fall asleep listening
to the simple chords repeated, repeated.
Where, resting, you feel
the perfection, the rising, the happiness
of their dark wings.



Friday, June 21, 2024

Solstice Strawberry Moon: June 2024


Solstice Strawberry Moon was June 21, 9:08 pm & around this time I was eating strawberries with my  book club and we were watching and discussing 'Women Talking' (book by Miriam Towes/ film directed by Sarah Polley).

I had not yet discovered Mary Oliver's book of poetry, Twelve Moons, that I've just ordered, as my library has only one reference copy and I want this on the shelf for future moons.

The last stanza of Mary Oliver's poem, Strawberry Moon, is a perfect fit for the discussion on 'Women Talking.'

6. 

Now the women are gathering

in smoke-filled rooms,

rough as politicians,

scrappy as club fighters.

And should anyone be surprised

if sometimes, when the white moon rises,

women want to lash out

with a cutting edge?

Tuesday, March 7, 2023

Lenten Moon - March 2023


What Should We Do About That Moon?
A wine bottle fell from a wagon and broke open in a field.
That night one hundred beetles and all their cousins gathered.
And did some serious binge drinking.
They even found some seed husks nearby and began to play them like drums and whirl.
This made God very happy.
Then the “night candle” rose into the sky and one drunk creature, laying down his instrument, said to his friend – for no apparent reason,
“What should we do about that moon?
credited to ~Hafiz~ sufi poet

Holi is this month, the last full moon of winter. I went searching for some Holi poetry about the triumph of good over evil. 

Then learned that this year, since March's full Moon (March 7, 2023) occurs before the spring equinox (March 20, 2023), it is a Lenten Moon. Came across this collection of poems for Lent and Holy Week, Ecce Homo. So many poems of suffering followed by jubilation. Triumph.

Then, this wonderful poem that is attributed to Hafiz. Really, what can one drunk beetle do about the moon? What should one drunk beetle do?

Eternal hopes and questions.



Friday, January 6, 2023

January Full Wolf Moon 2023

 






First full moon of 2023 was January 6

Wolf Moon

The January moon is ripe. It spills its light
into the dark night, an extrovert needing to be
the center of attention. There is a reason
wolves howl when the moon reveals the fullness

of itself, and although I haven't done so,
I've felt the urge—a longing so ancient and wild
as if in a time past we came from an enchanted place,
a place so beautiful we want only to return.

Now the moon casts its cold white light
onto everything—the fields glitter and the lake
gives itself up to receive the radiance
of that dominating presence.

We may lose ourselves in brilliance,
an attraction that smolders, just waiting to be lit.
No secrets, no dark and quiet corners.
The moon demands clarity.

Come into the light.

- Lois Parker Edstrom

Wednesday, December 7, 2022

Cold Moon: December 2022

Well, I have vines clinging to the brick walls of my little house that's perched on a ravine; and my garden is dormant to overwinter. I'm already nostalgic for those warm summer nights. Now it is a cold plunge to open my front door and look up at the Cold moon in the night sky. 


 

A Nameless Woman

by No Cj'onmyhong

I wish to be a nameless woman
way out on a small hillside.
With gourd-vines on the roof of my cottage,
pumpkins and cucumbers in a hemp-garden,
the moon invited into my yard
over a fence made of roses,
and my arms full of stars;
the owl-hooting dark will not make me lonely.

In a village where the train never stops,
eating millet-cake soaked in a rass basin,
talking with a close friend until late at night
about the secrets of the fox-haunted mountains,
while a shaggy dog barks at the moon,
I shall be happier than a queen.


Translated by Ko Won.
This poem is presumed to be in public domain.


No Ch'onmyhong (1912 - 1957), also known as Noh Cheonmyeong, was a South Korean poet, journalist, and lecturer who published several collections of poems. During the Korean War, No was convicted of being involved in anti-government activities and was sentenced to twenty years in jail, but served only six months.

Tuesday, November 8, 2022

Woman in the Moon



Woman in the Moon
Darlings, I write to you from the moon
where I hide behind famous light.
How could you think it was ever a man up here?
A cow jumped over. The dish ran away with the spoon.

What reached me here were your prayers, griefs,
here's the craic, losses and longings, your lives
so brief, mine long, long, a talented loneliness.
I must have a thousand names for the earth, my blue vocation.

Round I go, the moon a diet of light, sliver of pear,
wedge of lemon, slice of melon, half an orange, onion;
your human music falling like petals through space,
the childbirth song, the lover’s song, the song of death.

Devoted as words to things, I stare and stare;
deserts where forests were, vanishing seas. When your night comes,
I see you staring back as though you can hear my Darlings,
what have you done, what you have done to the earth?

illustration by Ponder Goembel

moon is full November 8, 2022

by Carol Ann Duffy (1955 - 

Saturday, September 10, 2022

Full Harvest Moon September 2022



Moon - Lover



My favourite section of this poem by Robert Service is part  III, that opens with the stanza:

To know the Moon as few men may,

One must be just a little fey;

And for our friendship's sake I'm glad

That I am just a trifle mad.



I

The Moon is like a ping-pong ball;
I lean against the orchard wall,
And see it soar into the void,
A silky sphere of celluloid.

Then fairy fire enkindles it,
Like gossamer by taper lit,
Until it glows above the trees
As mellow as a Cheddar cheese.

And up and up I watch it press
Into appalling loneliness;
Like realms of ice without a stain,
A corpse Moon come to life again.

Ruthless it drowns a sturdy star
That seeks its regal way to bar;
Seeming with conscious power to grow,
And sweeter, purer, gladder glow.

Dreaming serenely up the sky
Until exultantly on high,
It shimmers with superb delight,
The silver navel of the night.

II

I have a compact to commune
A monthly midnight with the Moon;
Into its face I stare and stare,
And find sweet understanding there.

As quiet as a toad I sit
And tell my tale of days to it;
The tessellated yarn I've spun
In thirty spells of star and sun.

And the Moon listens pensively,
As placid as a lamb to me;
Until I think there's just us two
In silver world of mist and dew.

In all of spangled space, but I
To stare moon-struck into the sky;
Of billion beings I alone
To praise the Moon as still as stone.

And seal a bond between us two,
Closer than mortal ever knew;
For as mute masses I intone
The Moon is mine and mine alone.

III

To know the Moon as few men may,
One must be just a little fey;
And for our friendship's sake I'm glad
That I am just a trifle mad.

And one with all the wild, wise things,
The furtive folk of fur and wings,
That hold the Moon within their eyes,
And make it nightly sacrifice.

O I will watch the maiden Moon
Dance on the sea with silver shoon;
But with the Queen Moon I will keep
My tryst when all the world's asleep.

As I have kept by land and sea
That tryst for half a century;
Entranced in sibylline suspense
Beyond a world of common-sense.

Until one night the Moon alone
Will look upon a graven stone. . . .
I wonder will it miss me then,
Its lover more than other men?

Or will my wistful ghost be there,
Down ages dim to stare and stare,
On silver nights without a stir--
The Moon's Eternal Worshipper?

 Monday, January 13, 2003

Friday, August 12, 2022

August Full Moon 2022

Moon was full August 11, and it surprised me on the horizon as a huge orange orb, rising behind a tree. Rob and I were sitting on our boat, enjoying the vibes down at the club.

The next night we invited Alex and Penny for dinner and watched it rise, appearing huge and full on a summer night.

Have this collection of poetry on my bedside table, keeping me company. Some classics and also several poets new to me, including the one below.










The Worshipful Company of Moonwatchers

Among moongazers there may be one
Who has disappeared from among us under years of sense and sanity,
Joined those who sleep behind curtains, drawn so thick
No light will wake him until the hour he appointed.
His evenings are spent on what he planned to do;
His early mornings are preparation for the day.

And then, after an illness perhaps, he is back
As surprised as we are each time, when, after an absence -
An interval when we are wrapped in our lives -
We are surprised by the moon. He is back
Moon-watching again; gets up in night, goes to the window
And sees the effects of a great moon roaring
Rushing like a tide through the belt of trees,
Tossing the ship of cloud bearing the effulgence
Which shows the violent busyness of this high world,
The life his sleeping household, dreaming children
And the street and whole town of safe, shut little houses
Are oblivious to.

Now once again he is out under the moon.
After the ghostly galleons of all our childhoods
The betrayed lover's moon we have crooned and sighed to
The hunter's, the bomber's moon enabling death
The harvest moon that made night day for farmers
And ended entangled in a hawthorn hedge
Like a huge football we could run to and touch.
He has gone down into the strange night garden
To watch her travel, her woe-begone face
Shifting behind the contrary wisps of clouds;
And it is as though all these moons are there:
The moon becalmed among flocked clouds,
Then suddenly reigning alone in an empty deep sky.
The moon glittering on the sea, lands away,
The little moon as frail as arrowed plane tracks
Dissolving in a summer dawn.
The blue cold wash off sterile mountains, the malign overseer
Something is there
Behind his shoulder, outside the window, at the back of the door.
He knows he has been pulled into the moon's orbit, into her circle,
That he is in air other than
The air of day.

The realm of faery, it was one time called
Where fantasy is bred, and desire shaked through the body
And the moon draws her net, pulling the tides
Of the land as she does of the sea.
[Jenny Joseph]

Wednesday, July 13, 2022

Super Moon Full Moon July 2022

The July Supermoon got some great publicity around the globe, including beautiful photographs published by the Washington Post: Scenes of the Full Moon/Supermoon around the World. Extraordinary.

This Toronto shot is from Curiociti


Googling for poems about the full moon in Toronto, I came across this gem of a site, The Toronto Poetry Map, which originated in a collaboration between the library and the city's fourth Poet Laureate, George Elliott Clarke. What a great idea! But unfortunately, it doesn't seem to have been functioning since June 2022 and now. Hope it gets fixed.

Here is a poem from UofT, Canadian Poetry Online


LIVE WITH ME ON EARTH UNDER THE INVISIBLE DAYLIGHT MOON

Milton Acorn
From:   Dig Up My Heart: Selected Poems 1952-83. Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1983. p.98.

Live with me on Earth among red berries and the bluebirds
And leafy young twigs whispering
Within such little spaces, between such floors of green, such
     figures in the clouds
That two of us could fill our lives with delicate wanting:

Where stars past the spruce copse mingle with fireflies
Or the dayscape flings a thousand tones of light back at the
     sun—
Be any one of the colours of an Earth lover;
Walk with me and sometimes cover your shadow with mine.


***
Salmon Moon, Raspberry Moon, Buck Moon, Thunder Moon
was full in Toronto Jul 13, 2022 at 2:37 pm

Wednesday, February 16, 2022

Full Snow Moon February 2022

Someone on Goodreads introduced me to this beautiful children's book, Taan's Moons. Alison Gear wrote the poems. To create illustrations, the artist Kiki van der Heiden collaborated with the children of Haida Gwaii who assisted with the felt creations, which were then photographed for the book.  (Kindergarten and grades 1-2 )

13 moon cycles, 13 poems. A written record of this particular cycle can be found in Tluuwwaay 'Waadluxan Mathematical Adventures, edited by Cynthhia Nicol and Joanne Yovanovich.

 


In the Haida language, 'Taan' means bear.


Snow Moon
The forest sleeps in silence.
In darkness, white stars glow.
The moon's rhythm continues,
echoed softly on the snow.



Bear Moon
Although Taan is sleeping,
she shares with the land
that circular rhythm 
all creatures understand.


Taan's Moon
There's a moon in the sky.
It looks like a drum,
which guides the earth
where Taan comes from.

The moon is full on February 16, 2022, at 11:56 a.m. EST.

Monday, January 17, 2022

Full Wolf Moon

 

Full Moon

Good God! What did I dream last night?
I dreamt I was the moon.
I woke and found myself still asleep.

It was like this: my face misted up from inside
And I came and went at will through a little peephole.
I had no voice, no mouth, nothing to express my trouble,
except my shadows leaning downhill, not quite parallel.

Something needs to be said to describe my moonlight.
Almost frost but softer, almost ash but wholer.
Made almost of water, which has strictly speaking
No feature, but a kind of counter-light, call it insight.

Like in woods, when they jostle their hooded shapes,
Their heads congealed together, having murdered each other,
There are moon-beings, sound-beings, such as deer and half-deer
Passing through there, whose eyes can pierce through things.

I was like that: visible invisible visible invisible.
There's no material as variable as moonlight.
I was climbing, clinging to the underneath of my bones, thinking:

Good God! Who have I been last night?

January's Wolf Moon will rise Monday at 6:48 p.m. ET

illustration:  Kate Fensom Artwork

Tuesday, March 30, 2021

Falling Awake

More than a year of working at home means not rushing out of bed in the morning. What luxury! I open my eyes in the early light and often stay long enough to watch the blue hour turn to day.

I Wake to Sleep has long been a favourite poem because it captures that in-between world so well.

In listening to Jon Kabat Zin today, he was encouraging the practice of a slow and conscious awakening to carry us into the day. No longer a guilty pleasure to linger....

Searching for a graphic on the blue hour, I see one of my favourite sites, Brain Pickings, has posted The Blue Hour,  a book with truly glorious illustrations on this illusive colour.

And then the site offered me this poem, perfectly random. A day of serendipity.

ANTIDOTES TO FEAR OF DEATH
by Rebecca Elson

Sometimes as an antidote
To fear of death,
I eat the stars.

Those nights, lying on my back,
I suck them from the quenching dark
Til they are all, all inside me,
Pepper hot and sharp.

Sometimes, instead, I stir myself
Into a universe still young,
Still warm as blood:

No outer space, just space,
The light of all the not yet stars
Drifting like a bright mist,
And all of us, and everything
Already there
But unconstrained by form.

And sometime it’s enough
To lie down here on earth
Beside our long ancestral bones:

To walk across the cobble fields
Of our discarded skulls,
Each like a treasure, like a chrysalis,
Thinking: whatever left these husks
Flew off on bright wings.




Tuesday, December 22, 2020

Winter Solstice 2020

Like so many events and festivities, this year I celebrated the Solstice virtually with friends. Instead of circling around a fire, we sat around our glowing screens.

Joining me to mark the shortest day were Irene, Wendy, Laura, Nicki, Grace, and Chris.

We enjoyed our food and then toasted the season, lifting our spirits. There was ouzo, Roku gin, Matcha gin fizz, sherry, Irish cream liqueur...

And poetry!! Illuminating, sad, brooding, humorous. 

I came across the poem the Shortest Day by Susan Cooper and was delighted by the illustrations of Carson Ellis for the children's book of the same name. It so magically catches the essence of darkening days and the importance of carolling and feasting and giving thanks. This year, so important.

All the illustrations in this post are from that book. Laura shared the illustrator Carson Ellis is married to Colin Meloy, the lead singer of one of her favourite bands, The Decemberists. Enjoying their songs as I put together this post.

Poems follow.........

The Shortest Day by Susan Cooper

And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, reveling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us—listen!
All the long echoes, sing the same delight,
This Shortest Day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And now so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome, Yule!

_____________
from Laura....

To Know the Dark, by Wendell Berry


To go in the dark with a light is to know the light
To know the dark, go dark
Go without sight, and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
And is travelled by dark feet and dark wings

____________
from Nicki

Good Bones, by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

... more on the poem and its 

___________
from Irene...

Vapour Trails by Richard Searsbrook 

1
Follow the scent
of cherry-blossom-incense
over terraced fields
with ankles caked in muck

eat rice, drink pungent tea
from cupped hands, outstretched arms

follow a trail of bone-white dust
where the blossoms scent grows stronger
than memory
than imagination
through the arched gateway

believe that you hear
every voice of China
singing through the silent haze

inhale the sweet summoning mist
inhale and hold
within arms' reach
a girl in golden robes
you know that you love her
even before she turns around
with an incense-burning lantern
held in her small hands

_____________
from Wendy.....

Lovely Hand, by Anonymous

Last night I held a lovely hand,
It was so small and neat,
I thought my heart with joy would burst
So wild was every beat.

No other hand unto my heart
Could greater pleasure bring
Than the one so dear I held last night.
Four Aces and a King

________________
from Grace

Ode to a Cat, by Pablo Neruda

El gato, sólo el gato apareció completo y orgulloso: nació completamente terminado, camina solo y sabe lo que quiere.
no hai unidad como él, no tienen la luna ni la flor tal contextura: es una sola cosa como el sol o el topacio ,
y la elástica línea en su contorno firme y sutil es como la línea de la proa de una nave.
Sus ojos amarillos dejaron una sola ranura para echar las monedas de la noche.

The cat, only the cat turned out finished, and proud:
Born in a state of total completion, it sticks to itself and knows exactly what it wants.
Nothing hangs together quite like a cat: neither flowers nor the moon have such consistency.
It's a thing by itself, like the sun or a topaz, and the elastic curve of its back, which is both subtle and confident, is like the curve of a sailing ship's prow.
The cat's yellow eyes are the only slot for depositing the coins of night.

... Pablo Neruda : Ode To The Cat

_______________________
from Chris, some lines from 

Tam O'Shanter by Robert Burns

But pleasures are like poppies spread:
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow fall on the river,
A moment white - then melts forever,
Or like the Aurora Borealis rays,
That move before you can point to their place;
Or like the rainbow’s lovely form,
Vanishing amid the storm.
No man can tether time or tide,
The hour approaches Tom must ride:
That hour, of night’s black arch - the key-stone,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in
And such a night he takes to the road in
As never a poor sinner had been out in.

Sunday, February 9, 2020

Full Snow Moon - Feb 2020



Blizzard

Snow:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down —
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes —
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there —
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.

Lines for Winter

for Ros Krauss
Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.


The moon is full February 9, 2:33 a.m.