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
I see it as it looked one afternoon
In August,—by a fresh soft breeze o’erblown.
The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon,
A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon.
The shining waters with pale currents strewn,
The quiet fishing-smacks, the Eastern cove,
The semi-circle of its dark, green grove.
The luminous grasses, and the merry sun
In the grave sky; the sparkle far and wide,
Laughter of unseen children, cheerful chirp
Of crickets, and low lisp of rippling tide,
Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep
Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon.
All these fair sounds and sights I made my own.
Long Island Sound
Emma Lazarus – 1849-1887
Long Island Sound is an estuary. A very, very big estuary. It’s a place where salt water from the ocean mixes with freshwater from rivers and the land. Long Island Sound is unique in that it has two connections to the sea …. the Race to the east and the East River to the west. Note: the East River is not a river it is a saltwater tidal estuary in New York City. The waterway connects Upper New York Bay on its south end to Long Island Sound on its north end.
- Long Island Sound is a tidal estuary, which is a body of water consisting of both fresh and saltwater
- 90% of the freshwater comes from three main rivers in Connecticut: the Housatonic, the Thames, and the Connecticut rivers
- The saltwater flows in from the Atlantic Ocean
- The total area of the Sound is ~1,300 square miles
- LIS stretches from New York City to southern Westchester County, CT, and the northern shores of Long Island
- The coastline is 600 miles long
- The Sound is roughly 21 miles wide at the widest point, and 113 miles long
- Waters reach between 60- to a whopping 350-feet deep at a channel known as “the Race”
- The average depth is 63-feet in the center of the Sound
- There are an estimated 18 trillion gallons of water in the Sound (enough to supply NYC with water for 33 years!)
- The Sound has two high tides and two low tides every day
- At least 50 different species utilize this special estuary for their annual spawning grounds
Photos: dievca, viewing Manhattan from LIC (Long Island City) 08/2020
the river slides by
much like the sweat
enveloping my body
leaving a sheen
Photo: dievca, Delaware River 07/2020
The sun is peeking up to reveal a world cocooned by humidity.
Moist air smells of the ocean, a river glistens like glass.
broken by the cry of a seagull, the honk of a car horn
William Blake – 1757-1827
O Thou who passest thro’ our vallies in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched’st here thy golden tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o’er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy vallies, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our vallies love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are fam’d who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
drift out softly
bare feet silent
sink to your knees
grasp Master gently
close your eyes
worship to the music
Only Hearts ‘shine on’ lingerie
Pink, small, and punctual,
Covert in April,
Candid in May,
Dear to the moss,
Known by the knoll,
Next to the robin
In every human soul.
Bold little beauty,
Bedecked with thee,
POEM of the ROAD – Walt Whitman (excerpt)
To take to your use out of the compact cities as
you pass through!
To carry buildings and streets with you afterward
wherever you go!
To gather the minds of men out of their brains as
you encounter them! to gather the love out
of their hearts!
To take your own lovers on the road with
you, for all that you leave them behind
To know the universe itself as a road—as many
roads—as roads for traveling souls!
The soul travels,
The body does not travel as much as the soul,
The body has just as great a work as the soul,
and parts away at last for the journeys of the
All parts away for the progress of souls,
All religion, all solid things, arts, governments —
all that was or is apparent upon this globe or
any globe, falls into niches and corners before
the processions of souls along the grand roads
of the universe,
Of the progress of the souls of men and women
along the grand roads of the universe, all
other progress is the needed emblem and
Full poem HERE
dievca found a rental car and is making her way to her Mom. If there’s no hotel – sleeping in the car will do. Food is packed for along the way. Always an interesting first 30 miles when she hasn’t driven in a while – but it will be dievca and the trucks most of the way. Wish her “good luck”! XO
All the long day the vapours played
At blindfold in the city streets,
Their elfin fingers caught and stayed
The sunbeams, as they wound their sheets
Into a filmy barricade
‘Twixt earth and where the sunlight beats.
A vagrant band of mischiefs these,
With wings of grey and cobweb gown;
They live along the edge of seas,
And creeping out on foot of down,
They chase and frolic, frisk and tease
At blind-man’s buff with all the town.
And when at eventide the sun
Breaks with a glory through their grey,
The vapour-fairies, one by one,
Outspread their wings and float away
In clouds of colouring, that run
Wine-like along the rim of day.
Athwart the beauty and the breast
Of purpling airs they twirl and twist,
Then float away to some far rest,
Leaving the skies all colour-kiss’t–
A glorious and a golden West
That greets the Lifting of the Mist.
The Lifting Of The Mist – Poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
Photo: NYC East River View
The Census-Taker ~ Robert Frost
I came an errand one cloud-blowing evening
To a slab-built, black-paper-covered house
Of one room and one window and one door,
The only dwelling in a waste cutover
A hundred square miles round it in the mountains:
And that not dwelt in now by men or women.
(It never had been dwelt in, though, by women,
So what is this I make a sorrow of?)
I came as census-taker to the waste
To count the people in it and found none,
None in the hundred miles, none in the house,
Where I came last with some hope, but not much,
After hours’ overlooking from the cliffs
An emptiness flayed to the very stone.
I found no people that dared show themselves,
None not in hiding from the outward eye.
The time was autumn, but how anyone
Could tell the time of year when every tree
That could have dropped a leaf was down itself
And nothing but the stump of it was left
Now bringing out its rings in sugar of pitch;
And every tree up stood a rotting trunk
Without a single leaf to spend on autumn,
Or branch to whistle after what was spent.
Perhaps the wind the more without the help
Of breathing trees said something of the time
Of year or day the way it swung a door
Forever off the latch, as if rude men
Passed in and slammed it shut each one behind him
For the next one to open for himself.
I counted nine I had no right to count
(But this was dreamy unofficial counting)
Before I made the tenth across the threshold.
Where was my supper? Where was anyone’s?
No lamp was lit. Nothing was on the table.
The stove was cold—the stove was off the chimney—
And down by one side where it lacked a leg.
The people that had loudly passed the door
Were people to the ear but not the eye.
They were not on the table with their elbows.
They were not sleeping in the shelves of bunks.
I saw no men there and no bones of men there.
I armed myself against such bones as might be
With the pitch-blackened stub of an ax-handle
I picked up off the straw-dust covered floor.
Not bones, but the ill-fitted window rattled.
The door was still because I held it shut
While I thought what to do that could be done—
About the house—about the people not there.
This house in one year fallen to decay
Filled me with no less sorrow than the houses
Fallen to ruin in ten thousand years
Where Asia wedges Africa from Europe.
Nothing was left to do that I could see
Unless to find that there was no one there
And declare to the cliffs too far for echo,
“The place is desert, and let whoso lurks
In silence, if in this he is aggrieved,
Break silence now or be forever silent.
Let him say why it should not be declared so.”
The melancholy of having to count souls
Where they grow fewer and fewer every year
Is extreme where they shrink to none at all.
It must be I want life to go on living.
The eyes are open
Aware but barely knowing
To slide thru the day
Open hearts and open minds allow one to look beyond a surface appearance to gain insight into a deeper level of existence.
May we be so lucky.
Healing to occur
Surroundings shift and change
Climb a Hill
Slide into the Valley
dievca returned a $1000 item, only to spend $500…
but, that is the danger of visiting SoHo~
the final push
off the bottom
and leaves a trail
blurs into the beginning
with a gasp
dievca’s final push through an insane week concludes at 4 pm EDT
What’s in the sack? What’s in the sack?
Is it some mushrooms or is it the moon?
Is it love letters or downy goosefeathers?
Or maybe the world’s most enormous balloon?
What’s in the sack? That’s all they ask me.
Could it be popcorn or marbles or books?
Is it two years’ worth of your dirty laundry,
Or the biggest ol’ meatball that’s ever been cooked?
Does anyone ask me, “Hey, when is your birthday?”
“Can you play Monopoly?” “Do you like beans?”
“What is the capital of Yugoslavia?”
Or “Who embroidered that rose on your jeans?”
No, what’s in the sack? That’s all they care about.
Is it a rock or a rolled-up giraffe?
Is it pickles or nickels or busted bicycles?
And if we guess it, will you give us half?
Do they ask where I’ve been, or how long I’ll be stayin’,
Where I’ll be goin’, or when I’ll be back,
Or “How do?” or “What’s new?” or “Hey, why are you blue?”
No, all they keep asking is, “What’s in the sack?”
“What’s in the sack?” I’m blowin’ my stack
At the next one who asks me, “What’s in the sack?”
Oh no. Not you, too!
What’s in the sack?
dievca’s wallet, phone, schedule book, lip balm, Master’s Cuffs and Straps – would you like to see?
dievca’s happy there aren’t bag checks
for the NYC subway system. 🙂
There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.
William Cullen Bryant
Redolence is the way something smells.
dievca always pauses on her way to work to enjoy the redolence of the flowering crabapple trees. The trees are in blossom earlier this year than last.
The word redolence almost always refers to the very best odors and scents.