Wind on the Hill (or the 25th floor)

buildings_airNo one can tell me,
Nobody knows,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.

It’s flying from somewhere
As fast as it can,
I couldn’t keep up with it,
Not if I ran.

But if I stopped holding
The string of my kite,
It would blow with the wind
For a day and a night.

And then when I found it,
Wherever it blew,
I should know that the wind
Had been going there too.

So then I could tell them
Where the wind goes…
But where the wind comes from
Nobody knows.

Alan Alexander Milne


After a long day – a moment for a beer

vintage photo enjoying a beer

Beers, a spoof of Joyce Kilmer’s Trees (1886-1918)

I THINK that I shall never hear
A poem lovely as a beer.
A brew that’s best straight from a tap
With golden hue and snowy cap;
The liquid bread I drink all day,
Until my memory melts away;
A beer that’s made with summer malt
Too little hops its only fault;
Upon whose brow the yeast has lain;
In water clear as falling rain.
Poems are made by fools I fear,
But only wort can make a beer.


Winter Dawn – poem

20230102_071422

WINTER DAWN

The men and beasts of the zodiac
Have marched over us once more.
Green wine bottle and red lobster shells,
Both emptied, litter the table.
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot?” Each
Sits listening to his own thoughts,
And the sound of cars starting outside.
The birds in the eaves are restless,
Because of the noise and light. Soon now
In the winter dawn I will face
My fortieth year. Borne headlong
Towards the long shadows of sunset
By the headstrong, stubborn moments,
Life whirls past like drunken wildfire.

Translated from the Chinese by Kenneth Rexroth

Tu Fu (713-771) was the leading poet in the T’ung Dynasty of 8th century China. In this remarkable piece called “Winter Dawn,” he captures a moment of flashing epiphany with language, so simple, that speaks from another plain and another time, decades earlier, about the swift flood of life rushing by — as John Prine wrote, “like a broken-down dam.”

dievca believes that Mr. Rexford took liberties in the translation to draw the poem into the future – its still lovely.

Photo: dievca NYC dawn 01/2023


Ready to Push Onward with coffee and a poem

Christmas Coffee

May the Xmas joy percolate into your mind
May the Xmas love blend into your heart
May his grace filter down to your soul
And like a well made coffee let it revitalise your life
Merry Christmas to everyone

Jibrael Jos


Fog

fog-rotator

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Carl Sandburg

Photo by Carl Glassman/Tribeca Tribune


“Cicadas.”

insect_musicians_WilHershberger_AnnualCicadaEmergent_SmallWorldSpectaculars

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.


The Start of Summer

Hilda Beach Tube

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.

MARK TWAIN


Memorial Day – Decoration Day – USA

Burial at Sea 1944 - photo from History
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.
–Author Unknown

Photo: from History.com, Burial at Sea – 1944


Come again another day~

Damien Hirst Umbrella (black) - Limited Issue to holders of The Currency - HENI.

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.

Origins
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:

Rain, Rain,
Go away;
Come again,
April day;
Little Johnny wants to play.


The Month of May

20190505_144953“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.”
Stephen Foster

Photo: dievca - Crabapple Blossoms NYC 05/2019

Spring Colds (elfje)

asian-little-child-hands-pulling-sharing-white-tissue-paper-box-128262333Sneezing
Leaky Nose
Four Years Old
She grabbed my hand
Love

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:

Characteristics

Cold

Allergy

Duration

3-14   days

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.

Symptoms

Cold

Allergy

Cough

Often

Sometimes

Aches

Sometimes

Never

Fatigue

Sometimes

Sometimes

Fever

Sometimes

Never

Itchy.  watery eyes

Rarely

Often

Sore Throat

Often

Sometimes

Runny or  stuffy nose

Often (usually thicker discharge)

Often (usually thinner discharge)

Thank you to PhysicianOne Urgent Care Website


Happy Garden

Happy Garden

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

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


travel (elfje)

Simon Bolz Ibiza

Bright

sizzling heat

head down south

sand in strange places

Beach

Photo: Simon Bolz

Insomnia

Dark Dawn First Light

Thin are the night-skirts left behind
By daybreak hours that onward creep,
And thin, alas! the shred of sleep
That wavers with the spirit’s wind:
But in half-dreams that shift and roll
And still remember and forget,
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.
Our lives, most dear, are never near,
Our thoughts are never far apart,
Though all that draws us heart to heart
Seems fainter now and now more clear.
To-night Love claims his full control,
And with desire and with regret
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.
Is there a home where heavy earth
Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,
Where water leaves no thirst again
And springing fire is Love’s new birth?
If faith long bound to one true goal
May there at length its hope beget,
My soul that hour shall draw your soul
For ever nearer yet.

Bohemian Splendor

Sequin Caftan

Jennifer Grace Lilac Sequin Gown $238

look-to-this-day-kalidasa-sanskrit-poem-typewriter-minimalist-inspiring-motivational-quote-studio-grafiikka


Blow, blow, thou winter wind…

Winter Misery I, 1825

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


D/s (elfje)

Ball Gag and Mask

Restrained
Spread Wide
Master Speaks His Command
Orgasm


Perseverance

Jane Dickson Stairwell 1984 Etching

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.

Success
(from The Ladder of St. Augustine)
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882), American poet and educator.

Etching: Jane Dickson
(American b. 1952)
Stairwell, 1984

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. 
http://youtu.be/aX-6mzf79js


Skating (reprise)

Skating Sweep—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)


And the weather took a chilling turn~

Wind whipping
Whitecaps frothing
Chill weather cuts the City

Noses drip
Red Biting Lips
Intrepid Trudging Prevails

Conserving warmth becomes a priority.


Autumn Tea – Master and His dievča

Sexy Tea
“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


September Midnight

Cricket
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,
Ceaseless, insistent.

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.

Cricket in Times Square

The Cricket in Times Square by George Selden (1960)


(show it) at the beach

Feet at the Beach

Oh they won’t let us show it at the beach no they won’t let us show it at the beach
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
 
Shel Silverstein
 
Photo: dievca Fire Island 2018


Hope in the City

20210518_081422
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,

backyard arbors
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
is roses.

— "Hope in Elizabeth" by Kathleen Norris, for more see Little Girls in Church20210518_081443
Photos: dievca, Hudson River Park 05/2021

May Day – Sing a Song of Spring!

p-nadarpaul.jpgSing 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


The Spirit is willing, the Body – not so much.

Marie-Berthe Paquette, 102 years old, Montreal, 2016 Arianne Clément - GroundTruth

Marie-Berthe Paquette, 102 years old, Montreal, 2016. (Arianne Clément/GroundTruth)

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

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 –

Emily Dickinson


Morning Light

Morning LightSmell 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

Flags are flying vertical and

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