Finally, after nine years
of snouting through darkness
he inches up scarred bark
and cuts loose the yammer of desire:
the piercing one note of a jackhammer,
vibrating like a slow bolt of lightning
splitting the air
and leaving a smell like burnt tar paper.
Now it says Now it says Now
clinging with six clawed legs
and close by, a she like a withered ear,
a shed leaf brown and veined,
shivers in sync and moves closer.
This is it, time is short, death is near, but first,
first, first, first
in the hot sun, searing all day long
in a month that has no name:
this annoying noise of love. This maddening racket.
This – admit it – song.
Poem: Margaret Atwood
Photo: Wil Hershberger, Annual Cicada Emergent
Swamp Cicada, Tibicen chloromea, sheeding
the last juvenile exoskeleton and emerging as an adult. Princeton, New Jersy, USA.
Warm summer sun,
Shine kindly here,
Warm southern wind,
Blow softly here.
Green sod above,
Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.
Eulogy for a Veteran
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the mornings hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
Photo: from History.com, Burial at Sea – 1944
Damien Hirst Umbrella (black) – Limited Issue to holders of The Currency – HENI.
There are a few versions and variations of this rhyming couplet. The most common modern version is:
Rain, rain, go away,
Come again another day.
Similar rhymes can be found in many societies, including ancient Greece and ancient Rome. The modern English language rhyme can be dated to at least the 17th century when James Howell in his collection of proverbs noted:
Rain rain go to Spain: fair weather come again.
A version very similar to the modern version was noted by John Aubrey in 1687 as used by “little children” to “charm away the Rain…”:
Rain Rain go away,
Come again on Saturday.
A wide variety of alternatives have been recorded including: “Midsummer day”, “washing day”, “Christmas Day” and “Martha’s wedding day”.
In the mid-19th century James Orchard Halliwell collected and published the version:
Rain, rain, go away
Come again another day
Little Arthur wants to play.
In a book from the late 19th century, the lyrics are as follows:
Little Johnny wants to play.
“We roamed the fields and river sides,
When we are young and gay;
We chased the bees and plucked the flowers,
In the merry, merry month of May.”
Photo: dievca - Crabapple Blossoms NYC 05/2019
Four Years Old
She grabbed my hand
Common Colds can be caused by over 200 different viruses. These viruses can enter your body when you come in contact with a person who is already sick with a virus. Since most cold viruses are spread through respiratory droplets, covering coughs and sneezes and proper hand washing are extremely important to prevent spreading your cold to others around you.
When your immune system recognizes that there is a cold virus present, it begins to attack it. Your body experiences “side effects” of this attack, like congestion and cough. When your immune system successfully fights off the virus, symptoms resolve. Most colds will last 5 to 7 days.
Allergies, unlike colds, are not contagious. They are caused by exposure to allergens; such as dust, dander, mold, or pollen. When your immune system senses a specific allergen it is sensitive to, chemicals called histamines are released. These histamines trigger symptoms like runny nose, coughing, and sneezing. Since your immune system has no way of fighting off the allergens, symptoms caused by allergies tend to last much longer than symptoms from a common, viral cold.
Differences between a cold and allergies:
Days to months, as long as there is continued exposure to the allergen
Time of Year
Commonly during the winter, but possible at any time.
Any time of year, but some allergens appear seasonally.
Onset of Symptoms
A few days after infection with a virus
Immediately after exposure to the allergen.
Itchy. watery eyes
Runny or stuffy nose
Often (usually thicker discharge)
Often (usually thinner discharge)
Thank you to PhysicianOne Urgent Care Website
The crocuses, blue lily of the valley, hyacinth, daffidils, and tulips have blossomed in NYC — their timelines have blurred and it is creating a lovely burst of color along the Hudson River Pathway.
i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
From “i thank You God for most this amazing” (1950) ee cummings
head down south
sand in strange places
Photo: Simon Bolz
Jennifer Grace Lilac Sequin Gown $238
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly…
Shit Weather in NYC – Rain, sleet , snow, wet pavements with potential to freeze.
Print: George Hunt, printmaker. c. 1825, London. Lewis Walpole Library, Yale University.
Poem/Song: William Shakespeare
Master Speaks His Command
We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time.
The mighty pyramids of stone
That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
The distant mountains, that uprear
Their solid bastions of the skies,
Are crossed by pathways that appear
As we to higher levels rise.
The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.
(from The Ladder of St. Augustine)
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882), American poet and educator.
Etching: Jane Dickson
(American b. 1952)
dievca won an auction and became the lucky owner of Jane Dickson’s Stairwell.
What she sees in it is perseverance.
Art speaks in different ways – another person recommended the song “Following” by ChungKing to be played while viewing the etching for a different perspective.
—IN the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
The cottage windows through the twilight blazed,
I heeded not the summons: happy time
It was indeed for all of us; for me
It was a time of rapture. Clear and loud
The village clock tolled six. I wheel’d about,
Proud and exulting, like an untired horse
That cares not for its home. All shod with steel,
We hiss’d along the polish’d ice in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn,
The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle: with the din
Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tingled like iron; while the distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars,
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
To cut across the image of a star
That gleam’d upon the ice; and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopp’d short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheel’d by me, even as if the earth had roll’d
With visible motion her diurnal round.
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watch’d
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.
By William Wordsworth (1770–1850)
Chill weather cuts the City
Red Biting Lips
Intrepid Trudging Prevails
Conserving warmth becomes a priority.
“Let us not speak, for the love we bear one another—
Let us hold hands and look.”
She such a very ordinary little woman;
He such a thumping crook;
But both, for a moment, little lower than the angels
In the teashop’s ingle-nook.
In a Bath Teashop by Sir John Betjeman
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
Sara Teasdale — Originally published in Poetry, March 1914.
The Cricket in Times Square by George Selden (1960)
They think we’re gonna grab it if it gets within our reach
And they won’t let us show it at the beach
But you can show it in your parlor to most anyone you choose
You can show it at a party with your second shot of booze
You can show it on the corner wearin’ overcoat and shoes
But they won’t let us show it at the beach
No they won’t let us show it at the beach friends
Ah they won’t us show it at the beach
Oh they’re sure we’re gonna grab it if it gets within our reach
So they won’t let us show it at the beach
But you can show it in the movies on the cineramic screen
You can show it in the most sophisticated magazine
You can show it while you’re bouncing on the high school trampoline
But they won’t let us show it at the beach
But if you’ve got a gun it’s legal to display it on your hip
You can show your butcher knives to any interested kid
But if it’s made for lovin’ then you’d better keep it hid
And they won’t let us show it at the beach
Photo: dievca Fire Island 2018
From the train
it’s a city of roses
and rose keepers,
bald men in spectacles
and torn shirts.
There are miles of roses
in Elizabeth, New Jersey,
shadowed by refineries
and the turnpike,
jungles of scrap,
still brown water, and poisoned marsh.
None of this matters
to the rose keepers of Elizabeth.
From the backyards of row houses
they bring forth pink roses, yellow roses
and around a house on its own
green plot, a hedge of roses, in red and white.
Surely faith and charity
are fine, but the greatest of these
— "Hope in Elizabeth" by Kathleen Norris, for more see Little Girls in Church Photos: dievca, Hudson River Park 05/2021
Sing a song of May-time.
Sing a song of Spring.
Flowers are in their beauty.
Birds are on the wing.
May time, play time.
God has given us May time.
Thank Him for His gifts of love.
Sing a song of Spring.
Photo: Paul Nadar 1874-1939
Rue d’Anjou, Paris, France
The son of the Famous French photographer Felix Tournachon (Nadar). Paul began working at his father’s studio in 1874. He investigated the many possibilities of photography such as capturing views from hot air balloons. In 1890 he made a trip to Central Asia using George Eastman’s new flexible bromide film. The collaboration worked so well that Nadar became the representative for Kodak products in France. Both Paul and his father photographed many famous people of their time but Paul’s emphasis on those at the cutting edge of society strained their relationship. Paul not only produced portraits of celebrities of the stage, he hosted the first exhibition of Impressionist painters.
In the 1920’s a good number of real photo postcards were produced under the Nadar name, most of them of full nudes with some of them having hand coloring. But there is serious doubt to whether the cards of nudes were actually made from Nadar’s photographs. Another unknown publisher may have borrowed Nadar’s logo to enhance the prestige of these cards and make them more sellable.
A “Thank You” to metropostcard.com
Growing Old – Matthew Arnold
What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre of the eye?
Is it for beauty to forgo her wreath?
—Yes, but not this alone.
Is it to feel our strength—
Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay?
Is it to feel each limb
Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
Each nerve more loosely strung?
Yes, this, and more; but not
Ah, ’tis not what in youth we dreamed ’twould be!
’Tis not to have our life
Mellowed and softened as with sunset glow,
A golden day’s decline.
’Tis not to see the world
As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,
And heart profoundly stirred;
And weep, and feel the fullness of the past,
The years that are no more.
It is to spend long days
And not once feel that we were ever young;
It is to add, immured
In the hot prison of the present, month
To month with weary pain.
It is to suffer this,
And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel.
Deep in our hidden heart
Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
But no emotion—none.
It is—last stage of all—
When we are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of ourselves,
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.
Unlike the poem states – dievca still feels flashes of being young. she has hints and memories of free movement, but she wonders if this poem applies to her Mother’s age when memories dim and movement is slim. Note: that dievca is saying this as she is elevating and heating a knee which was painful upon awaking -trying to remember her name.
Photo above from an article on aging and beauty at the Ground Truth Project.
Dear March – Come in –
How glad I am –
I hoped for you before –
Put down your Hat –
You must have walked –
How out of Breath you are –
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest –
Did you leave Nature well –
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me –
I have so much to tell –
I got your Letter, and the Birds –
The Maples never knew that you were coming –
I declare – how Red their Faces grew –
But March, forgive me –
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue –
There was no Purple suitable –
You took it all with you –
Who knocks? That April –
Lock the Door –
I will not be pursued –
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied –
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come
That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame –
Smell the sweet air of Spring
Sliding into the City
Surrounding the sounds of Morning
Softly blunting the edge of Reason
Photo: dievca, NYC 03/2021
My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring
And carried aloft on the winds of the breeze;
For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.
The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.
I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,
And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day!
Anne Brontë – 1820-1849
Being walkers with the dawn and morning,
Walkers with the sun and morning,
We are not afraid of night,
Nor days of gloom,
Being walkers with the sun and morning.
~ Langston Hughes
“November Rain” by Jaroslav Seifert (winner of the Nobel Prize)
Tranlated from Czech to English by Ewald Osers, with editing and prose translations by George Gibian 1998
Photos: dievca NYC 10/2020
Autumn, New York, 1999
And I am full of worry I wrote to a friend
Worry, she replied about what—love, money, health?
All of them, I wrote back. It’s autumn, the air is clear
and you hear death music—the rattle of leaves swirling
the midnight cat howling, a newborn baby’s 3 am
call for food or help or heart’s love
At the market, the green, red and yellow apples are piled high,
sweet perfume—once, I went apple picking in Massachusetts
a day of thralling beauty, my companions and I
had no desire to leave the valley—the plump trees,
the fierce pride of small town New England where a gift shop
exploded gingham, calico, silly stuffed toys
we stood within this shrine to cloying femininity of entwined hearts
and ribbons and bows like invading aliens, fascinated and appalled
and here too, people throng around the dahlias—
the last of the bright fat flowers. Open. Scentless.
It is going to be a very hard winter and we all know it in our bones
an almost atavistic memory with instruction—wear heavy clothes
horde food, drink water, stand against the wind
Copyright © 2010 by Patricia Spears Jones. From Painkiller (Tia Cucha Press, 2010).
THE CAT AND THE MOON
by: W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)
- HE cat went here and there
- And the moon spun round like a top,
- And the nearest kin of the moon,
- The creeping cat, looked up.
- Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
- For, wander and wail as he would,
- The pure cold light in the sky
- Troubled his animal blood.
- Minnaloushe runs in the grass
- Lifting his delicate feet.
- Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
- When two close kindred meet,
- What better than call a dance?
- Maybe the moon may learn,
- Tired of that courtly fashion,
- A new dance turn.
- Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
- From moonlit place to place,
- The sacred moon overhead
- Has taken a new phase.
- Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
- Will pass from change to change,
- And that from round to crescent,
- From crescent to round they range?
- Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
- Alone, important and wise,
- And lifts to the changing moon
- His changing eyes.
‘TIS the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone ;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone ;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem ;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither’d,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh ! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
Thomas Moore (1779-1852)
‘TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER