Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

- Robert Frost

October's Party

"October gave a party
The leaves by hundreds came -
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band."

George Cooper, October's Party

September Poem

"That old September feeling, left over from school days, of summer passing, vacation nearly done, obligations gathering, books and football in the air . . . Another fall, another turned page: there was something of jubilee in that annual autumnal beginning, as if last year's mistakes had been wiped clean by summer."


- Wallace Stegner, Angle of Repose

Bonfire Days

“Ho! For the leaves that eddy down,

Crumpled yellow and withered brown,

Hither and yonder and up the street

And trampled under the passing feet;

Swirling, billowing, drifting by,

With a whisper soft and a rustling sigh,

Starting aloft to windy ways,

Telling the coming of bonfire days.”

Grace Stickler Dawson

Bonfire Days

August

"The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that  come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn.  But the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with with too much color.

- Natalie Babbit,

Tuck Everlasting 

Midsummer Night Itch

Mosquito is out,
it's the end of the day;
she's humming and hunting
her evening away.
Who knows why such hunger
arrives on such wings
at sundown? I guess
it's the nature of things.

- N.M. Boedecker, 
Midsummer Night Itch

Poetry: June

June

Mine is the time of foliage,
When hills and valley's teem
With buds and vines sweet scented,
All clothed in glowing green.

My nights are bright and starry,
My days are long and clear
And truly I'm the fairest,
Of all months in the year.

- Mary Fordham

We lost a Phenomenal Woman

Yesterday Maya Angelou transitioned to spirit.  She was a master wordsmith - a brilliant poet that stirred our souls and we'll miss her deeply, even as we have so much of her work to treasure.

She liked to tell the story, and I heard it several times, about the time a man stopped her to tell her how much he admired her poem, "Phenomenal Woman," one of her best known works. He felt that men were strong and sensitive too, were great husbands and fathers, and deserved to be acknowledged with a poem also.  Her response was "write your own damn poem." Phenomenal.

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.

I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,   

The stride of my step,   

The curl of my lips.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,   

That’s me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,   

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.   

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.   

I say,

It’s the fire in my eyes,   

And the flash of my teeth,   

The swing in my waist,   

And the joy in my feet.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,   

They say they still can’t see.   

I say,

It’s in the arch of my back,   

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.   

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.   

When you see me passing,

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,   

The bend of my hair,   

the palm of my hand,   

The need for my care.   

’Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

- Maya Angelou

Two Tramps

Two Tramps in the Mud (an excerpt)

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.

- Robert Frost, 1936

March Wind

March Wind

March wind is a jolly fellow;
He like to joke and play.
He turns umbrellas inside out
And blows men's hats away.
He calls the pussy willows
And whispers in each ear,
"Wake up you lazy little seeds,
Dont' you know that spring is here?"

Author Unknown

Dandelion Wine

In the summer newsletters, I usually add a little poem that describes a bit of what I love about that particular season.  In the email version, they get to see it too.  But I wasn't able to squish it in to the post yesterday with the body of the letter - or at least not in the pretty way that I wanted to.

So today I wanted to share that part too.  It's a quote from the book "Dandelion Wine" by Ray Bradbury.  Dandelion wine is a sort of fermented wine, made with dandelion petals, citrus fruits and spices or herbs.  The main character's grandmother made this wine - and it served as a metaphor for packing all of the joys of summer into a single bottle.  Nice, huh?

"It was a quiet morning, the town covered over with darkness and at ease in bed. Summer gathered in the weather, the wind had the proper touch, the breathing of the world was long and warm and slow.  You had only to rise, lean from your window, and know that this indeed was the first real time of freedom and living, this was the first morning of summer."

(see credits HERE)

The February Bee

The February Bee

The bumblebee crept out on the stone steps.
No Roses. Nothing to gather.
Nothing but itself, the cold air,
and the spring light.
It rubbed its legs together
as if it wished to start a fire
and wear its warmth.
Under its smart yellow bands
the black body shone like patent leather.
It groomed itself, like a pilot
ready for takeoff and yet not ready:
when my shadow fell over him
he flicked his wings, checking them,
and took off into the bare garden.

- Nancy Willard, from The Sea at Truro

Iced Fog

Iced fog - sounds like a decorator color.  We have been living in a world of icy fog for a whole week.  It feels surreal and weird.  Waking up and not being able to see more than the hazy outline of the house across the street.  All day long in a world of grey quiet, nothing much moving.  A blanket covers everything, everyone, and slows things down to a sort of limbo.  And by evening, the fog lowers down even further so that street lights are just glowing orbs in a world of frigid heaviness.

I saw the movie "Chasing Ice" the other night, and if you haven't seen it, you really should go.  It's gorgeous and miraculous and terrifying all at once.  Climate change is the single most scariest thing ever.  It's so big, so overwhelming.  I don't know how we fix it.  We've waited too long.  And we're not doing hardly anything about it.  Terrifying.

And in the midst of this unsettling week, there's the presidential inauguration, which was beautiful.  The very best moment (besides seeing the Prez stop at the top of the steps as he was leaving to look out again and take in all the crowds and drink in the moment) was the inaugural poem by Richard Blanco.  I thought it was incredibly beautiful and moving.    I had not heard of him before, but am going to spend more time reading his work.  What a perfect choice all around.

If you missed it, here's the transcript.  Mostly it's here for me though.  So I can keep it in a safe place and come back again and again to re-read it.

"One Today"

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,

peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces

of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth

across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.

One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story

told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors,

each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:

pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,

fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows

begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—

bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,

on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—

to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did

for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,

the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:

equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,

the "I have a dream" we keep dreaming,

or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain

the empty desks of twenty children marked absent

today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light

breathing color into stained glass windows,

life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth

onto the steps of our museums and park benches 

as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk

of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat

and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills

in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands

digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands

as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane

so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains

mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it

through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs,

buses launching down avenues, the symphony

of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,

the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,

or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open

for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,

buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días

in the language my mother taught me—in every language

spoken into one wind carrying our lives

without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed

their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked

their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:

weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report

for the boss on time, stitching another wound

or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,

or the last floor on the Freedom Tower

jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes

tired from work: some days guessing at the weather

of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love

that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother

who knew how to give, or forgiving a father

who couldn't give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight

of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,

always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon

like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop

and every window, of one country—all of us—

facing the stars

hope—a new constellation

waiting for us to map it,

waiting for us to name it—together.

- Richard Blanco

New Year Prayer

Among other wonders of our lives, we are alive
with one another, we walk here
in the light of this unlikely world
that isn't ours for long.
May we spend generously
the time we are given.
May we enact our responsibilities
as thoroughly as we enjoy
our pleasures. May we see with clarity,
may we seek a vision
that serves all beings, may we honor
the mystery surpassing our sight,
and may we hold in our hands
the gift of good work
and bear it forth whole, as we
were borne forth by a power we praise
to this one Earth, this homeland of all we love.

                                                 - John Daniels

Late August

Late August - Margaret Atwood

Happy Halloween!

Haunted Houses

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses.Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,--

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

Source:
Longfellow's Poetical Works
Copyright 1893
Henry Frowde, London

Another poem about peonies

My peonies are in full bloom. The huge blossoms are always a bit too heavy for their elegant stems, but right now, weighted down by raindrops, they lay flounced all over place. It's one of my very favorite flowers - white ones, double pinks, I love them all. So today is another poem which captures the very essence of their gorgeousness.

Peonies by Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open ---
pools of lace,
white and pink ---
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities ---
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again ---
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?

Peonies

This is from the Writer's Almanac the other day, and so beautiful:

Peonies by Jeanne Lohmann

Grandma called them pineys, and I didn't know why.
They smelled so good, the full lush petals
crowded thick, the whole flower heavy on its stem,
the leaves dark and rich and green as shade in Chatauqua Woods
where each spring I hunted for violets. What could there be
to pine for on this earth? Now I think maybe it was Missouri
she missed, and maybe that was what somebody she knew
called peonies there, before she traveled to Ohio,
a sixteen-year-old bride whose children came on as fast
as field crops and housework. Her flowers saved her,
the way they came up year after year and with only a bit of care
lived tender and pretty, each kind surprising,
keeping its own sweet secret: lily-of-the-valley, iris,
the feathery-leaved cosmos, lilacs in their white and purple curls,
flamboyant sweet peas and zinnias, the bright four o'clocks
and delphinium, blue as her eyes, and the soft peony flowers
edged deep pink. In her next life I want my grandmother
to walk slowly through the gardens in England and Kyoto.
I want to be there when she recognizes the flowers
and smiles, when she kneels and takes the pineys in her hands.

"Peonies" by Jeanne Lohmann, from Calls from a Lighted House. © Fithian Press, 2007.

Simple pleasures

Last week I posted the quotes that I chose to signify the philosophy behind my business. Today I wanted to share the ones that didn't make the cut, but that I still keep nearby, and refer to from time to time, just for inspiration. They are all in the same theme, and all still pretty good too.

"One of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats." Iris Murdoch, The Sea The Sea, 1978

"It is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all." Laura Ingalls Wilder, 1917

"It isn't the great big pleasure that count most; it's making a great deal out of the little ones." Jean Webster, Daddy Long Legs, 1912

"Taking joy in life is a woman's best cosmetic." Rosalind Russell

"Simple pleasures are the last refuge of the complex." Oscar Wilde

"Smell is a potent wizard that transports us across thousands of miles and all the years we have lived." Helen Keller

"In the end, what affects your life most deeply are things too simple to talk about." Nell Blaine

"Beauty is an ecstasy, it is as simple as hunger." Somerset Maugham

And if you're not into all the quotes -- I promise I'm done for a while :)

The power of words

When I first began dreaming about my business, and trying to come up with an entire new concept and name and logo and whatnot, I decided I needed a little inspiration. I wanted to convey simplicity and necessary daily luxury, but I wasn't quite sure how to put it all together.

So I headed to the library, and hit up a couple of bookstores, searching for books of poems and quotations, looking up those phrases and related ideas. It has always seemed to me that just the perfect little phrase conveys so much more meaning than endless sentences and paragraphs of lengthy description.

I wanted a meaningful tag line for my new brochures. And I ended up with pages of them. Then it was a matter of editing it all down to the single one that worked the best. I couldn't do it. I ended up with two, and they've been there since the very first day, on every printed flier I've done for the past 14 years.

For those of you who might not have seen one of my simple little brochures, on the very back of the 3-fold brochure are two quotes. The top one I found in a pile of ancient magazines at an antique show, and it absolutely stopped me cold. It's from Woman's Home Companion, December 1935. And it could have been written ten years ago, or yesterday. It's absolutely the theme of the day, in this culture that we live in right this very minute. I can't imagine how different the world was then, and yet the sentiment was so much the same:

"Year by year, the complexities of this spinning world grow more bewildering and so each year we need all the more to seek peace and comfort in the joyful simplicities." Woman's Home Companion, December 1935

Each time I read it, it seems more true than before. So it stays in place.

The second one is a poem from Edna St Vincent Millay (1982-1950), a fascinating woman poet, who won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923, for The Harp-Weaver, and Other Poems. Her best-known poem might be "First Fig" from A Few Figs from Thistles (first published in 1920):

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!

As much as we all love that one, the one I chose for my brochure came from the Pulitzer prize winning book, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems, 1923. It's just two lines from the poem called The Goose Girl:

"And all the loveliest things there be
Come simply, so, it seems to me."

The full poem encompasses so much more and sort of takes the sentiment off track, for my own purposes, but it's here:

"Spring rides no horses down the hill,
But comes on foot, a goose-girl still.
And all the loveliest things there be
Come simply, so, it seems to me.
If ever I said, in grief or pride,
I tired of honest things, I lied:
And should be cursed forevermore
With Love in laces, like a whore,
And neighbours cold, and friends unsteady,
And Spring on horseback, like a lady!"

I'm not sure I have ever shared the story of why these quotes are on the back of my brochures. But it probably seems obvious anyway. I treasure my little simple daily luxuries, and a beautiful bar of heavenly soap in the shower each morning is one of them. I was hoping that sharing my own hand made soap bars would give that special lift to other people who used them too. And after all these years, and all the different evolutions of the scents and products, I still hope my customers feel that way.