"One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture
and, if possible, speak a few reasonable words." ~Goethe

~ also, if possible, to dwell in "a house where all's accustomed, ceremonious." ~Yeats

Monday, May 14, 2018

Mr. and Mrs. Blue Sky

BLUE DANCERS, ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS
Floraison
by Ferdinand Hodler (1853 - 1918)

These beautiful blue dancers seem appropriate to two events
that we celebrated over the weekend:

Happy Mother's Day
to all manner of moms out there

&

Happy Graduation Day
to my son William Benedict McCartney, Ph.D.
who completed his graduate degree from Duke University
Go Blue Devils!

In keeping with the theme, a couple of old favorites,
both by ELO turned up on the playlist yesterday:


Mister Blue Sky

Sun is shinin' in the sky
There ain't a cloud in sight
It's stopped rainin' everybody's in a play
And don't you know
It's a beautiful new day, hey hey

Runnin' down the avenue
See how the sun shines brightly in the city
On the streets where once was pity
Mister blue sky is living here today, hey hey

Mister blue sky please tell us why
You had to hide away for so long (so long)
Where did we go wrong?

Mister blue sky please tell us why
You had to hide away for so long (so long)
Where did we go wrong?

Hey you with the pretty face
Welcome to the human race
A celebration, mister blue sky's up there waitin'
And today is the day we've waited for

Oh mister blue sky please tell us why
You had to hide away for so long (so long)
Where did we go wrong?

Hey there mister blue
We're so pleased to be with you
Look around see what you do
Everybody smiles at you

Hey there mister blue
We're so pleased to be with you
Look around see what you do
Everybody smiles at you

Mister blue sky, mister blue sky
Mister blue sky

Mister blue, you did it right
But soon comes mister night creepin' over
Now his hand is on your shoulder
Never mind I'll remember you this
I'll remember you this way

Mister blue sky please tell us why
You had to hide away for so long (so long)
Where did we go wrong?

Hey there mister blue
We're so pleased to be with you
Look around see what you do
Everybody smiles at you
Mister blue sky


and

Turn to Stone (My Blue World)

. . . A sound that flows into my mind
(The echoes of the daylight)
Of everything that is alive
(In my blue world)

. . . Through all I sit here and I wait
(I turn to stone, I turn to stone)
You will return again some day
To my blue world . . .


Lyrics by Jeff Lynne

***********************

In addition to being treated, unexpectedly, to the various blue tunes from ELO, I've been recently puzzling over a comment from Muriel Spark's novel A Far Cry From Kensington. When Mrs. Hawkins notices a resemblance between one of her neighbors and the Mona Lisa she "decided that the intellectual practice of associating ideas overlays and obliterates our spontaneous gifts of recognition" (159).

I adore Sparks witticisms and insights; yet I would have concluded quite the reverse. For example, when Jeff Lynne's blue lyrics bring to mind Ferdinand Hodler's blue women, it seems that the association is spontaneous, and that once again, connection and coincidence have pulled the universe into sharper focus.

Here are a couple more examples of
Hodler's Blue World

View Into Infinity

Emotion

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS ON MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Monday, May 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Saturday, April 28, 2018

Geese Girls

ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS
May is National Bike Month
Motocycles Comiot, 1899
Theophile Steinlen, 1859 - 1923

Many years ago, a friend gave me a
small copy of the above poster because:
"Last Spring, I saw you one day riding your bike and you reminded me of an image that I could not place at that time. I found out the other night that I had this poster in mind when I came upon it going through my things. I hope you like it."
A year or so later, another friend wrote:

"I bought this card for you because
the ducks reminded me of that print you've got."

No Ugly Duckling, 1894
Alfred Augustus Glendening, 1861 - 1907

And a third installment:
The Goosegirl, 1900
Arthur Rackham, 1867 - 1939
Illustration for
The Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm
[Read more about ~ the fairy tale]

`````````````````````````````

Related Poetry

1.
What the Goose-Girl Said About the Dean

Turn again, turn again,
Goose Clothilda, Goosie Jane.

Bright wooden waves of people creak
From houses built with coloured straws
Of heat; Dean Pasppus’ long nose snores
Harsh as a hautbois, marshy-weak.

The wooden waves of people creak
Through the fields all water-sleek.

And in among the straws of light
Those bumpkin hautbois-sounds take flight.

Whence he lies snoring like the moon
Clownish-white all afternoon.

Beneath the trees’ arsenical
Sharp woodwind tunes; heretical—

Blown like the wind’s mane
(Creaking woodenly again).

His wandering thoughts escape like geese
Till he, their gooseherd, sets up chase,
And clouds of wool join the bright race
For scattered old simplicities.


by Edith Sitwell, 1887 - 1964

2.
The Goose-Girl

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!


by Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892 - 1950

3.
The Goose-Girl

I wandered lonely by the sea,
As is my daily use,
I saw her drive across the lea
The gander and the goose.
The gander and the gray, gray goose,
She drove them all together;
Her cheeks were rose, her gold hair loose,
All in the wild gray weather.

'O dainty maid who drive the geese
Across the common wide,
Turn, turn your pretty back on these
And come and be my bride.

I am a poet from the town,
And, 'mid the ladies there,
There is not one would wear a crown
With half your charming air!'

She laughed, she shook her pretty head.
'I want no poet's hand;
Go read your fairy-books,' she said,
'For this is fairy-land.
My Prince comes riding o'er the leas;
He fitly comes to woo,
For I'm a Princess, and my geese
Were poets, once, like you!'


by Edith Nesbit, 1858 - 1924

4.
"Curdken and the Goosegirl"
by Helene Mullins
New Yorker, September 1, 1928

5.
"Heroine's Journey: The Goose Girl"

6.
"So Many More Geese Girls"

`````````````````````````````

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS ON MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Monday, May 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Saturday, April 14, 2018

Trees, Trains, and Idiots

BONES, TREES, HOUSES ~ ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS
"Bones...trees.....houses"
Cartoon by Michael Lipsey
Prequel: A few weeks ago, when writing about the Guayacan Tree (and shortly thereafter on the Vernal Equinox) there was one quotation that kept eluding me, something I read somewhere about trees and houses made of bones. After an hour of fruitless searching for the lost thought, I gave up locating the passage and posted the essay without it, even though it would have made such a perfect connection. I lamented the failed memory recall, filing away the almost but not quite remembered line under "maybe one day I'll relocate it."
Yesterday was the day!
Early in the morning I came across this comment:

" . . . [at] no time in American history have so many idiots
been exposed to other idiots Thanks Facebook . . ."

reminding me of the old / new, negative / positive [take your pick] adage that "the internet has given everyone a megaphone."

Only the day before, I had encountered these wise words from George Washington, describing the 18th Century version of "megaphone syndrome." I.e, you're going to have to listen to a lot of idiots:

"In a free and republican government,
you cannot restrain the voice of the multitude.
Every man will speak as he thinks, or, more properly,
without thinking, and consequently will judge at effects
without attending to their causes."

Stepping back in time, American historian Sarah Vowell explains: "Washington was reminding Lafayette that even though the establishment of a free and republican government comes with half - baked tomfoolery and half - cocked bile, every now and then someone who has something to say gets to say it" (203, Lafayette in the Somewhat United States). I.e, you're going to have to listen to a lot of idiots, but eventually you might hear something worthwhile.

But, getting back to yesterday, later in the afternoon, while re-reading high - lighted passages from my new favorite novel, I came across these lines:
"Gustave [Flaubert, 1821 – 1880] belonged to the first railway generation in France; and he hated the invention. . . . he hated the way it flattered people with the illusion of progress. What was the point of scientific advance without moral advance? The railway would merely permit more people to move about, meet and be stupid together" (108, emphasis added).
Flaubert's Parrot by Julian Barnes

Wow! Flaubert's 19th Century concern matches right up with the 21st Century image of the megaphone and the internet: "so many idiots . . . exposed to other idiots." Synchronicity! Except for one slight problem: where did I read that about the idiots? Somewhere on facebook. Only a few hours ago. Was it on my nephew's page? He had recently been expressing annoyance with facebook users who refuse to accept accountability for their own participation in the great communicative enterprise. I skimmed his page and reread his important, imperative advice: "STOP blaming people and be accountable for your own self"! But I didn't see anything specifically about "idiots."

On to my next lead, the page of facebook friend, artist and writer Michael Lipsey, who had also expressed misgivings about various issues of privacy and profit. I clicked on his page just in case but saw nothing about "idiots." However, you may have already guessed what was there, patiently awaiting my rediscovery: one of Lispsey's classic cartoons: "Bones...trees.....houses" -- as seen above! After congratulating myself on this fortuitous, serendipitous (No, I'm not going to choose! Yes, I'm going to use both words!) rediscovery, I was also able to retrace my steps to the subject of my original search -- the observation about exposure to idiots -- in a conversation between my brother and one of his facebook friends.

Just as a bonus, facebook decided to show me another glimpse of brilliance from Michael Lipsey before I turned off my laptop for the evening. Thanks Michael for your initial share (one of the good things about facebook!) and for allowing me to reshare here on my blog! Thanks Flaubert for predicting the 21st Century internet in your description of the 19th Century trains. And thanks facebook for the synchronicity!

Further thanks to Jean - Paul Sartre for referring to Flaubert himself as The Family Idiot (reviewed by Frederick Jameson; and to Hazel Barnes for her study of Sartre and Flaubert (reviewed by Julian Barnes).

As the song says, is it coincidence or connection? Or both.

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS ON MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Saturday, April 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ Coffee With Flaubert ~ Imposter Syndrome
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

Who's Afraid? Fear Not!

A WRITER, ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONOUS
"Let us not take it for granted that life exists more fully
in what is commonly thought big than
in what is commonly thought small. . . .
Down, down into the midst of ordinary things."


1902 & 1927
George Charles Beresford - Virginia Woolf in 1902 - RestorationVirginia Woolf 1927

Rest in Peace Virginia Woolf:
25 January 1882 ~ 28 March 1941
"I am now galloping over Mrs. Dalloway. . . . The reviewers will say that it is disjointed because of the mad scenes not connecting with the Dalloway scenes. And I suppose there is some superficial glittery writing. But is it 'unreal'? Is it mere accomplishment? I think not. . . . it seems to leave me plunged deep in the richest strata of my mind. I can write and write and write now: the happiest feeling in the world." ~ Virginia Woolf, December 13, 1924

**********************

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o’ the great;
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The scepter, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownèd be thy grave!


Shakespeare
from Cymbeline (Act IV, Scene 2, 2656 - 2689)

The opening lines of this Shakespearean song are quoted
several times by Clarissa Dalloway in Woolf's novel:

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages.
(13)

"Fear no more," said Clarissa.
Fear no more the heat o' the sun.
(44)
. . . the world seems to be saying "that is all" more and more ponderously, until even the heart in the body which lies in the sun on the beach says too, That is all. Fear no more, says the heart. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall. And the body alone listens to the passing bee; the wave breaking; the dog barking, far away barking and barking.” (59)
. . . she repeated and the words came to her,
Fear no more the heat of the sun.
She must go back to them. But what an extraordinary night.
(283)

Google Doodle on Woolf's 136th Birthday

**********************

Sometimes the connections are all about connections.

Armin van Buuren:
"Everyone’s connected but no one is connecting."
from the song: "Alone"

Joan Didion:
"In this light, all narrative was sentimental. In this light
all connections were equally meaningful and equally senseless."

from the essay: The White Album

Donna Tartt:
"What held me fast . . . was the element of chance:
random disasters . . . converging on the same unseen point . . .
You could study the connections for years and never work it out
-- it was all about things coming together, things falling apart,
time warp . . . a way of seeing things twice, or more than twice.
. . . a field awareness of unseen patterns. . . "
(305)
from the novel The Goldfinch

Annie Barrows
In books . . . things were connected; people did something
and then something else happened because of that.
I could understand them. But outside, here in the real world,
things seemed to happen for no reason that I could see.
Maybe there was no reason.
(374)

"Did most girls my age feel the way I did, as if the people
I thought I knew had turned out to have a thousand little tunnels*
leading away from the face they showed the world? . . .
The buried parts, now, they were fascinating but ominous, too."
(128)
from the novel The Truth According to Us

Virginia Woolf:
"I should say a good deal about The Hours [later entitled Mrs. Dalloway]
and my discovery: how I dig out beautiful caves* behind my characters:
I think that gives exactly what I want; humanity, humor, depth.
The idea is that the caves shall connect
and each come to daylight at the present moment."

from A Writer's Diary
~ Thursday, August 30, 1923 ~

*I'm also seeing a connection here between Woolf's "beautiful caves"
and Barrows' "thousand little tunnels . . . fascinating but ominous"!

**********************

The previous year, Woolf had written:

"Mrs. Dalloway has branched into a book;
and I adumbrate here a study of insanity and suicide;
the world seen by the sane and the insane side by side
-- something like that. Septimus Smith? is that a good name?"

~ Saturday, October 14, 1922 ~

And in 1998, film critic Jack Kroll wrote:
Mrs.Dalloway's day is climaxed by her party, Smith's by his suicide. But these contrasting events are two parts of a symbolic whole, Virginia Woolf herself. Mrs. Dalloway is a Woolf without the genius, while Smith's fate prefulres the troubled Woolf's own suicide in 1941 [on March 28th]. In her notebook Woolf wrote, 'Mrs. D seeing the truth. SS seeing the insane truth.'"

from "Down in the Upper Crust:
Virginia Woolf's Landmark Novel Dazzles on Screen"
in Newsweek, March 2, 1998

**********************
In conclusion, only last month I was dismayed to find this trivializing assessment (an opinion I suppose shared by many) of Clarissa Dalloway's immersion into the details of one perhaps ordinary yet fateful day. In a book about teaching that I otherwise liked very much, Heather Kirn Lanier writes:
"In college, I'd spent my years studying the narrative stances of Virginia Woolf, appreciating the relative plotlessness of Mrs. Dalloway a book in which, let's face it, not much happens."
Au contraire! For Woolf's characters, it is a day filled with grief, intropsection, tension; and enlarged understanding. Oh dear. One does not throw a party -- nor encounter death in the midst of that party -- everyday. Still, though, I was touched to read that Kirn Lanier's students mistook her black and white postcard of Virginia Woolf to be "some great - grandmother of mine" (47, 77).

Virginia ~ Woolfpack

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS ON MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Saturday, April 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading ~ "Makin' a list, checking' it twice . . ."
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Not to be Devoured

A WORLD WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS
"An Indian artist gives final touches
to a painting on street walls
on International Women's Day in Hyderabad, India,
Friday, March 8, 2013."


Read More About
International Women's Day & Women's History Month

This fortnightly post is a belated tribute to last week's International Women’s Day, observed around the world every year on March 8th ("Beyond #MeToo, With Pride, Protests and Pressure").

A few months ago, my brother Bruce sent out the following query:
I am presently working on a Congressional campaign, doing some writing for news releases, social media, etc. I've been tasked with drafting a statement on the MeToo sexual harassment / assault phenomenon.

As a sixty-year old, white man, I have never been sexually accosted in any manner. I am the father of two 20-something daughters, and I'm sure they've both dealt with this. But I have no firsthand experience.

I am reaching out to women who I know, and whose opinions I respect, to ask this question: What would you want your member of Congress to know, and what would you want them to say, about this issue.
My answer:
Since you are looking for general concepts rather than personal narrative, and for a direct response to the MeToo sexual harassment/assault phenomenon, I think what I want my member of Congress to know / take seriously is that to some extent all women live in fear.

Although I don't recall the source, I've never forgotten something I read a few years ago on the topic of racism -- that, no matter how irrational it was, in the United States the face of fear is Black. I remember thinking at the time, "No, not true." For women, the face of fear is Male. Men can so easily hurt women physically and so often do. This knowledge modifies a woman's existence at all times. It governs her emotional outlook, her comfort level, her behavior -- when home alone, getting in a car, going for a walk, entering a parking garage or a stairwell in a public building.

Yes, a certain amount of caution for all humans is always a good idea, but too many times for women it becomes a self - limiting factor, closing off options ranging from simple enjoyments to serious employment choices.

You know me, I have to include a literary example, this time from the Brazilian author Clarice Lispector's short story "The Smallest Woman in the World," about the pygmy Little Flower. Lispector describes Little Flower's primal fear of being devoured, and her relief at so far being spared this fate: " . . . the ineffable sensation of not having been eaten yet . . . Not to be devoured is the secret goal of a whole life." The towering explorer who comes to take notes and write an article about Little Flower and her people does not exactly understand this; but, as a reader, I got it right away.

For a woman "the secret goal of a whole life" is to not be assaulted, attacked, or violated. If you can make it through without that happening, then lucky for you. Maybe someone stalks you but never actually touches you. Whew! Maybe someone touches your privates against your will but never actually rapes you. Whew! See what I mean? The fear is always there. And to merely set the bar at the level of women being able to congratulate themselves and say, "Well I guess that wasn't so bad" or "it could have been worse" is too low.

What would I want members of Congress to say, about this issue? I want them to say that threatening women just because you can is wrong. I want them to say that our goal in this country is a cultural and social environment in which we all feel safe, regardless of how we are built.
My MeToo
For me, it was stalking stalking by a nasty old creepy chemistry professor at the University of Arkansas? Standing outside my classroom watching me teach, giving my students the heebie - jeebies; following me around the grocery store; stopping me on the sidewalk and staring at my chest; ringing my doorbell at 10:30 pm. He knew where I lived, and he seemed to have figured out what I was doing every hour of the day. It was a scary semester. My gut told me, Be afraid; be very afraid. And I was. There, I feel better for having said all that.

PS. No, he never touched me.

PPS. Perhaps a little off topic, but not entirely: there was also the time in high school when a few friends and I all received some obscene phone calls at our houses. It happened shortly after a group picture of us had been in the local paper, so we thought maybe some weirdo had seen it and somehow looked up the phone numbers of the girls in the photograph. Strangely enough, the upshot at our house was that I got in trouble from my mother for somehow "causing" the obscene weirdo to call our number! What???? I was way more traumatized by my mom's reaction than I was by the phone call.
SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS ON MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Wednesday, March 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Wednesday, February 28, 2018

Yellow Gold Guayacan

THE GUAYACAN TREE, ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS
The People and the Guayacan
by Ethel Gilmour (1940 - 2008)
Museum of Antioquia ~ Medellin, Colombia

The Complete Installation ~~~~~~ Detail of Girl Standing Beneath Tree

About the painting: "In this work we see fragments full of tenderness over the peaceful life of a town whose center is a flowering Guayacan. Ethel, tiny among the rain of yellow flowers, looks at the majesty of the tree. She tells us that the old people of the town sit to watch the Guayacan at the end of the day."
Herman Hesse wrote:
"Trees are sanctuaries; Who knows how to talk to them,
Who knows how to listen to them, learn a truth.
"

I cannot find much written in English about this painting or this artist,
but I did find this essay "The Yellow Guayacan"
by Alberto González

Those of us who have followed Ethel's work recall how the parochial world of Colombian art imitating what was seen in Art Forum or Art in America only three decades ago decided that the painting had died and that the Future belonged to the video, "proposals" and facilities, but even though the prophecy of the new gravediggers never came to fruition. An artist of this era who loved painting, needed to have strong convictions and be very brave to reject the tribal wisdom of criticism in the late 1970s, but fortunately Ethel had both, coupled with solid professional training, which allowed her to approach the world of her own experiences, to recreate it in powerful and meaningful images.

Our painter, a native of Charlotte, a small town in North Carolina, completed her academic training at the prestigious Pratt Institute in New York, where she had professors such as Erwin Panfosky, the father of modern iconology, and the painter George McNeil, who in turn had been a disciple of Hans Hoffman, the famous pedagogue who had opened, along with Jackson Pollock, Arshile Gorky, Robert Motherwell and others, a new way to American art and "Abstract expressionism." After a rich experience at the University of the Sorbonne in Paris and in the field of lithography, Ethel arrived in Colombia and in 1971 we see her linked to the National University in the Medellin headquarters where she would share her teaching experience With the sculptor Germán Botero and the painter Saturnino Ramírez, thus becoming one of the career artists at the University.

Ethel Gilmour tells us a story to celebrate the joy of life and the beauty of the world. Firmly committed to the experiences of the new cultural medium, Ethel begins to rework her pictorial language; This is how his initial paintings, of strong brushstrokes and aggressive color, are transformed into images more purified but not less intense. At a time when much of the art is parody and parasitarily given to cite the mass media, Ethel's work goes against the current, opting for a difficult road, since its figuration will always be controlled by that fine abstraction of its own, Which comprises the rigorous arrangement of the planes of the pictorial surface and the care in the accents of color or of ways to direct the gaze of the beholder in an unforgiving manner; These elements, coupled with an elegant and refined handling of color, speak of a cultured but also readable painting for an unprepared audience.

It is important to note in Ethel's work that special tension between pictorial space and its objects that she transforms into emblems: tables, dogs, toys, or even reproductions of the great painters she loves: Gaugin and Matisse, And also the great painters, however, she is not a "feminist painter" in the ideological sense of the term, but there is no doubt that her work, like that of Paula Modersohn - Becker or that of Gerogia O'Keeffe, conveys a powerful feeling Of feminine experience, such as those forms and those spaces that suggest the sensation of protection and, above all, the construction of an imagery based on everyday objects that, as already said, our artist elevates them to the level of emblematic forms.

When visiting the last exhibition of Ethel Gilmour and bidding farewell to the fabulous yellow guayacan, there remains a different and peculiar visual impression: it is the presence of the aroma that emanates from her recent work, a work with which this great painter has wanted to thank her friends and admirers.

~ Alberto González (& google translate)

There is so much more to learn about the guayacan tree.

The yellow clusters are blossoms, not leaves!

****************

Because mine is a blog of connection and coincidence,
here are a couple of loosely connected poems
from Chilean (not Colombian, I know) poet
Pablo Neruda (1904 - 1973)

This one is about yellow flowers,
though not about trees:

Ode to some yellow flowers

Rolling its blues against another blue,
the sea, and against the sky
some yellow flowers.

October is on its way.*

And although
the sea may well be important, with its unfolding
myths, its purpose and its risings,
when the gold of a single
yellow plant
explodes
in the sand
your eyes
are bound
to the soil.
They flee the wide sea and its heavings.

We are dust and to dust return.
In the end we're
neither air, nor fire, nor water,
just
dirt,
neither more nor less, just dirt,
and maybe
some yellow flowers.


found in Neruda's Odes to Common Things
translated by Ken Krabbenhoft; Bulfinch Press, 1994
(other ~ translations)
[*We'll have to revisit this poem come October!]

****************

This one is about trees,
though not about yellow flowers:

The Tree Is Here, Still, In Pure Stone

The tree is here, still, in pure stone,
in deep evidence, in solid beauty,
layered, through a hundred million years.
Agate, cornelian, gemstone
transmuted the timber and sap
until damp corruptions
fissured the giant's trunk
fusing a parallel being:
the living leaves
unmade themselves
and when the pillar was overthrown
fire in the forest, blaze of the dust-cloud,
celestial ashes mantled it round,
until time, and the lava, created
this gift, of translucent stone.


~ Pablo Neruda

****************

"If trees could build houses
they would build them out of our bones."
~ Michael Lipsey ~


****************

And lastly, remember these Golden Oldies?

"The trees are drawing me near
I've got to find out why . . ."


And this one:

If only it said "blossoms of yellow" instead of "white,"
it could be about the guayacan tree:

The Sweetheart Tree

They say there's a tree in the forest
A tree that will give you a sign
Come along with me to the Sweetheart Tree
Come and carve your name next to mine

They say if you kiss the right sweetheart
The one you've been waiting for
Big blossoms of white will burst into sight
And your love will be true evermore


Songwriters: Johnny Mercer / Henry N. Mancini
Sung by Natalie Wood / Johnny Mathis / many others

Medellín, Colombia ~ December 2016

Botero Plaza



SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS ON MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Wednesday, March 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ "Not Cool, Not Funny"
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com