Home Again

I brought Mo home yesterday, and he had to inspect every room and learn his way around by touch and smell.

There's a beautiful cardinal on the windowsill. Must be a young bird, because its back and tail are very dark instead of bright red. One of these days, I'm going to make a cardinal quilt.

***

Beautiful weather today. I've walked all around and around outside, accompanied by the stray black cat. I was afraid the hydrangeas would die, after we removed the enormous hedge at the side of the house. But I guess the house itself shades them until noon, and the trees at the west side of the yard shade them in the late afternoon. The plants look healthy, and the blooms that have come out range from dark pink to dark purple.

 

This is the "bird-feeding station" from the outside:

Right now it's the squirrel-feeding station. I can't see a nest in that big bush, but towhees don't make very neat nests, so it may be well camouflaged. If it's there.

 

The pink oxalis grows in the lawn between mowings. I'm thinking about trying to make a big patch of it on the sunny side of the house.

This is another kind of oxalis. It grows wild all over the yard. Oxalis is also known as sorrel. I remember chewing the leaves of the yellow-blooming kind when I was a kid, and it has a very sour, but very delicious, taste. I called it "sour grass."

 

I suspect Mr. Reed's crew of dumping dry leaves under the trees on the west side of the house. When you try to walk over there, you feel like you're falling for a few seconds, the leaves are so deep. The lower end of this patch is covered with wild violets, which of course have already bloomed.



Sometimes They Come Back

A year later, the fleas have invaded again. This has happened just in the last few days, while Mo has been out of the house. So I'll spend today spraying and vacuuming every inch I can reach.

Maybe it was a mistake to feed the birds. The towhee seems to have forgot about feeding, he just wants to get through that window. He has tried both sides, top and bottom, and must have some bruises from collisions with the glass. What can you do? You try to be nice, and there alway, alway, something backfires.

I'm done with Facebook.

***

The quilt top is coming along. The angel-print fabric I wanted to use for a border is too dark, and more brown-and-yellow than orange. I tried bleaching swatches of it, but it just leaves various shades of yellow.

But I love the angels. I'll figure something out.

***

I've figured out one thing the towhee is doing: He flies over and gets a seed, then flies back into the bush. I think the nest must be in that bush, and he's feeding the setting bird. Do I have to worry about the baby birds when they hatch?

Super Cat

The vet. doctor phoned this afternoon, and the first thing she said was, "This cat is going to outlive all of us!" She has Mo on meds for early-stage kidney failure, but otherwise all his tests were normal. She said he has gained some weight, and that he's easy to medicate. Mo is a good cat. We decided to leave him there till he finishes the course of medicine, and I'll pick him up Tuesday, since that's the first day the clinic will be open because of the holiday.

I don't remember a single useful thing I did today (Saturday), except "supervise" the Lowe's guy who unloaded about a ton of topsoil and sand into my garage. It's in plastic bags, so hopefully we won't have to shovel it directly out of the basement. That one activity must have been pretty exhausting, because around five p.m. I was so sleepy I crawled into my bed and slept until 9:30.

And I think I'm going back to the same place in a few minutes.

Loving couple

Both Towhees are on the windowsills. The little mama bird is in front of the sunny window, and papa bird keeps going over to the shaded side, getting a sunflower seed and cracking it, then coming back and feeding it to the female bird. Most amazing animal thing I've ever seen, I think.

Jed's coming over this afternoon, and we plan to take some fried chicken or something over to Susan's, and everybody get together for game night.

Monday Poetry Reading

We had a good crowd, but mostly "new" people. The absent regulars--Ramey, Joe, Sherry--should be aware that we talk about them when they're not there. But good talk.

I almost didn't go to the meeting myself. I got a lot done yesterday, but I hurt all day. All over. Well, not all over; my head didn't hurt. Neither did my feet. Just all that stuff in between. On days like that, I hardly ever remember that in the cabinet I've got at least three mild OTC pain relievers. "One sure, if another fails" (Browning, "Soliloquy Of the Spanish Cloister").

Mo is still at the vet clinic. The doctor said she would call me Saturday afternoon, but she didn't. I phoned yesterday morning, but the assistant said she would call me later in the day, but she didn't. Luckily, she never seems to charge me room and board when she keeps Mo longer than planned, just a basic charge plus whatever tests or medicines that she quotes beforehand or in the process. When she examined him Saturday morning, she said he still has a little bit of vision. Poor Mo.

*

Poetry is important, probably as important as any other art. Painting/visual arts and crafts show form, color, texture, beauty. Prose is stories in one form or another. Poetry is ideas and emotion in distilled form, even if it has no form. Even if you can't see or hear, once you get a poem, you keep the best part of it, sometimes all of it. Of course, that's true of the other arts, like music. Art gets inside you, if you let it.

*

I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood;

Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath,

The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,

And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers "Death."

from "Maud," by Lord Tennyson

"Maud" is a long, creepy and beautiful poem, and worth reading. "...They have not buried me deep enough."

I quit "work" yesterday before remembering to put the trash cart on the curb, and now I hear the garbage truck.

Poem For Sunday

Today

It is a fair May morning, though

you could not call it fine;

hidden by low weeping clouds,

the sun has yet to shine.

Faint mists hang in the silent trees;

no birds the silence break.

The quiet streets, the gentle mists

have lulled me wide awake.

I love the waiting stillness, when

the sun has yet to shine.

It is a fair May morning, and

I dare to call it fine.

by jrc, 5/19/2013

*

Boy, old Arthur Ritis has got ahold of my right hand and is twisting it all to heck! I was unable to resist submerging the thumb into my mug of coffee, which had cooled down to just the right warmth. Guess I'll go soak the whole hand in some warm water; that seems to help a little.

Rain and Thunder All Night

"Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.
Let us discover some new alphabet
For this, the often-praised, and be ourselves
The rain, the chickweed and the burdock leaf,
The green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,
And all that welcomes rain; the sparrow, too,
Who watches with a hard eye, from seclusion,
Beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done. ..."

Conrad Aiken, 1889-1973

*

I hope it has rained enough for a while. The park is underwater, and my basement has wet spots on the floor.

Mama Towhee

Passeridae

Little gray-brown bird who looks like this, only not so colorful, keeps scooting over to get one sunflower seed, then flying away. I guess it's some kind of sparrow, but looks like one of Peterson's "confusing fall warblers," too.

The towhees just sit there and keep cheeping and eating. Right now the female towhee is visiting. She's brown all over her back and head, where the male is black, and she's smaller. Here comes Big Daddy Towhee. Cute couple.

I keep hoping the flicker will come back.

*

If I'm lying, I'm dying--A tufted titmouse came and got a seed! I've got to get a photo of that bird.

*

A little gray-brown bird who looks like this

keeps scooting over to get one sunflower seed,

then flying away. I guess it's a kind of sparrow,

but looks like one of Peterson's fall warblers.

 A prose poem? Or blank verse.

My Mistake

I threw out a handful of black oil sunflower seeds for the towhee. But next time I looked, Guess Who was chomping them up. Have to get a squirrel-proof bird feeder.

***

More than 50 of my poems have won money prizes, and 50-odd more have won honorable mentions or special mentions. A lot of both have been published. I've written poems about at least 50 people I've known, other than myself, and about 40 or so that I didn't know.

Old Age Is So Much Fun

Like when you go to pick something up, and start dropping it and trying to catch it before it hits the ground. And wind up batting it around the room. Sometimes it's not broken, and sometimes it is and then you can throw it away.

I post this picture of Lady Ottoline Morrell, because it's one of the things I've always wanted to paint but didn't have the courage to start. Or the talent to finish. She was too rich, immoral and scandalous, and not pretty, but isn't this a great photograph?

Speaking of broken china, Jed gave me a lovely coffee mug for Mother's Day. I suspect it was on his conscience that he broke one of my blue china mugs, which really didn't bother me a bit. I break something almost every day.

*
 

Impromptu Apple Pie

Hot buttered biscuit tops and bottoms, topped with grated cheddar and applesauce. I ate them too fast to photograph.

NASA Mars Project

*

Hello, Planet Mars:

Led by your twinkling red light,

MAVEN comes in peace.

***

Friday, May 10:

http://www.voanews.com/content/send-your-poems-to-space-maven/1653450.html

Everyone who submits a haiku will have his name on the DVD. Someday, at least my name will be on Mars.

One haiku formula:
Five syllables
Seven syllables
Five syllables
*
A poem by me, composed of 4 haiku, about someone buried at Pleasant Ridge:

I will shelter here,
sharing with these silent friends
nights of black velvet;

Leaves of gold and flame
falling from the autumn skies
will adorn my bed.

Winds of many moods
and melodies will whisper
soft, like a lover,

While I close my eyes,
as petals of petunias
close in the darkness.

Good Eats

Yesterday I had about a peck of fresh vegetables in the refrigerator, so I chopped and piled them all in the big steel skillet, added salad dressing and other stuff, and baked them for about an hour. Then I ate nearly all of it, but had this little platter full for my lunch today.

I'm missing Jeopardy!

For S.D.S.

I think I like the little oxalis flowers best of all. They thrive and survive in the lawn, springing up a few days after they're mowed down with the grass. Every time I look at them, I remember SDS, remember being in the yard at Hammond Camp with all the flowers blooming, the hollyhocks so high I couldn't see the top, and the rump and straw hat of Granny bent over some plant.

***

For S.D.S.

I can remember when

you were so beautiful,

red hair tucked under a

floppy straw hat,

working the magic you

did in the garden to

make the sunflowers grow

tall as a tree.

The cream colored rose with a

blush at the center, bloomed

lushly, its great blossoms

nodding, and you

the same color, with russet curls

straying from under the

straw colored bonnet, seemed

kin to the flowers.

Oh, daffodils, roses, sweet

peas and blue violets, your

sisters or children, come

back every year;

but why should this be, with the

rose blushing, cream colored,

russet framed face of you

vanished and gone?

Blessings

A woodpecker is eating my house.

*

What would I do without the birds, squirrels, chipmunks, stray cats and dogs, Mo, and Gretchen? It would get lonesome around here. But I might get more useful stuff done, if that's important.

I've got to pack a book, then go to the P.O.

Parties, roses, and houses

I'm proud for the old climbing rose, because it puts on such a show. The camera doesn't seem to catch the subtle pink of the blossoms, but it's really pretty. But I'm right ashamed of myself for letting it run wild this way. Years ago, when I first planted the rose and it had grown a lot, I put up a trellis for it to climb on. Of course, before long the wind blew the trellis away, so I put up another one, which suffered the same fate. So what did I do then?

***

Went to India's birthday gathering yesterday, at Ramey's wonderful house up on Hawk Hill, and had a lovely time with sisters and friends. Of course I forgot to take my camera. I call the house wonderful because it reminds me of houses I've seen or read about in books. Arlington. "Our" house on Ponce de Leon in Montgomery. Tara. With flowers all around; that would be China Court. Rambling architecture, with rooms added here and there, seems to recall Howard's End. I long for sweet peas, but at Hawk Hill instead of here.

I like the (for-sale) brown house on King's Forest Drive, partly because it reminds me of Ramey's house and back yard.

Anyway, after this blooming season, I'll get Ricky to chop the Cecile Brunner rose back, and try to control it somehow.

***

Jo-Ree back on the windowsill, cheeping loudly. He's fat as a bear--looks like he gained numerous grams.

Crazy Command Decision

I hereby order myself to be happy for the rest of my days. And nights. Think up ways to make everything fun, the philosophy of Ms. Stubbs who was once my landlord and a sweet friend.

Today I'm going to a birthday party. I'll wear my new pants that fit me, and I shall cut off my hair so that next week I'll be obliged to go to a salon and have some repairs made. Maybe in today's venture I'll bleach out the rest of the color. Of course, it'll wind up yellow and strawlike, but that should be an improvement.

I've made ten blocks of the new quilt, and ordered some angel fabric for a border or something. Isn't that a blast?!!!

I'm tired of being an old grouch. Here I go to de-witch myself.

There's a Burma girl a-settin' . . .

. . .

'Er petticoat was yaller,

And 'er little cap was green,

And 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat,

Just the same as Thebaw's queen;

And I seen 'er first a-smokin'

Of a whackin' white cheroot,

And a-wastin' Christian kisses

On an 'eathen idol's foot,

On an 'eathen idol's foot.

Bloomin' idol made o' mud,

What they called the great gawd Budd!

Plucky lot she cared for idols

When I kissed 'er where she stood!

Oh, the road to Mandalay

Where the flyin' fishes play,

And the dawn comes up like thunder

Out o' China 'crost the bay!

. . .

Elephints a-pilin' teak

In the sludgy, squdgy creek,

An' the silence 'ung that 'eavy,

You was arf afraid to speak!
. . .
When you've 'eard the East a-callin',
You won't never 'eed nothin' else!

***

Thank you, Cousin Ruddy, wherever you are.

***

Starting Over

I'm very thankful that the tests I've had this spring turned out negative. On the other hand, having my mind messed up with worrying about them beforehand, has caused me to miss the deadlines for submitting poems to the Alabama Conclave of Writers and the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. These are two major competitions, and the Conclave meeting will be held in Fairhope in July, where I would have loved to go back.

Another large group of writing contests, still open, is given by the Arkansas State Poetry Society. However, they don't list many poetry awards, and most of the ones listed are for special kinds of verse, which I hardly ever attempt. For example, poems with specified numbers of lines, with made-up rhyme schemes, "minute" poems, and so forth. I've done some of those, but they don't amount to anything. When I try to write to someone else's formula, it falls very flat. Maybe it shows skill, but no heart.

When I go online to find the Alabama State Poetry Society fall contests, the latest information on the site is for 2010.

What Scots, Hey?

Three cheers for Macbeth! This I say,

Aware of the villainous way

He slew Duncan and Banquo;

But this much I do know:

It sure made a doggone good play!

Today

I'm cleaning the cook-top, and if that ever gets done, I've got to mail a book.

I was thinking about words that I hate. "Words" would be more like it. I can only think of two that are not obscene, just made up. "Woot" and "meme." People that use them tend to use them at every opportunity. And in the case of "meme," to misuse it, if a question of appropriate use can even be applied. Gad. As if there were not enough words in the languages.

***

I started cleaning the cook-top yesterday, and thought it would be a two-day job. About a dozen pieces have gone through the dishwasher, but it looks like the rest of the matter, studded with nails and screws, will take another day at least.

***

"Away by the river so clear,

the ladies were wending their way;

when Pharaoh's little daughter

stepped down in the water

to bathe in the cool of the day. . . "

***

"There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passionflower at the gate--

She is coming, my dove, my dear!

She is coming, my life, my fate!"

From "Maud" by Lord Tennyson

The passionflower is commonly called maypop. It grows wild, has edible fruit, as well as some medicinal properties.

***

9:00 p.m.: I finished the cooktop. Tomorrow I'll start on the stove hood.

Zero At the Bone

Zero At the Bone

No ties was all that Ruby ever asked,
and all of substance that she ever got.
Money, of course: at random intervals,
she would phone us for money to come home.
She knew, but never said, we owed her that;
she didn't have to say—we knew it, too.
She always kept a nickel for the phone.

She only came home when she was too ill
or too addicted to recuperate
alone in some hole in a foreign wall,
Chicago or Detroit or Yazoo City.
The rent she paid was that she told us tales
of her adventures; a natural story-teller,
she made us laugh till everybody cried.

And then one day the wind would change and whisper,
“Ruby! Ruby!” and soon she would be gone,
leaving long-distance numbers on odd scraps
of paper, where we might or might not reach her.
Marriage she tried, on more than one occasion,
and once a step-child that she feigned to worship--
all, all abandoned in her frantic flight.

And all that she abandoned grieved for her,
and called and wrote the bogus addresses;
for everybody loved and envied her--
the love was open but the envy secret:
If we could be unchained and free like Ruby,
we'd manage better and enjoy it more,
not hurting those who loved us. So we thought.

And it was guilt that kept us sending money
or going to her rescue now and then.
Sometimes we wouldn't hear from her for years
and feared she might be dead; but then the phone
would ring, and we would send her twice the fare
that she required, hoping she wouldn't waste it,
and fixed the best room in the house for Ruby.

We buried her far from her violator,
and wept because we had let the villain live
and die in prison, instead of loading the shotgun
and blowing the son-of-a-bitch to kingdom come.

By JRC, August 13, 2012

Feast Or Fast

It's a good thing I don't care too much for food. Today I have chicken salad and apple-raisin pie that I made yesterday. Tomorrow I can only have clear liquids, then in the evening a delightful cocktail that is not so clear.

*

I tell you, folks, when this is over, if they let me come home, I'm going to change my way of living. I'm going to cancel my telephone and mail, then lock my doors and crawl under the bed and stay there.

Jacob's Ladder

Don't know why my photos turn out dark. Anyway, the quilt blocks are coming along, and I think the quilt will be nice.

Happy Saturday

Last night Jed and I watched "Lincoln," the Spielberg film with Daniel Day Lewis, after a delicious dinner at Logan's. Earlier in the day, we attended the joint Georgia-Alabama Poetry Societies' meeting in Carrollton. Heard readings of lots of poems, including winners of the student contests. I was happy to see so many poet friends--Jerri, Emily and her daughter, Joe, Virginia, Beth, and others. I won three volumes of poems by the Pulitzer Prize winning poet, Natasha Trethewey, for which I'm so grateful. It was a very full and joyous day.

The Georgia Poetry Society hosted this meeting. The prizes were books instead of money, which I think is a good idea. The prizes I won were for two third places and one first.

The Lincoln film was very good. Daniel Day Lewis is such a fine actor. At first I didn't recognize good old Tommy Lee Jones as Thaddeus Stevens in a curly black wig. Sally Field was a great choice to play Mary Lincoln. I didn't know the actor who played Seward, but I liked his portrayal.

Pardon My Grouse

This bird looks the way I feel. Frazzled. Another month like this, and I'll be just about ready to punch my ticket. Or kick my bucket. Or kick something else.

I know that the exam next Friday will just be the start of all the tests/procedures they'll want to run. That's what I know. What I fear is that I'll wind up in University Hospital, and I'D RATHER DIE HYAH! among the pollen, sick cats, thousands of books, reams of scrap paper, and other paraphernalia of the good life.

*

I have a poem in this anthology, published by the Birmingham Public Library. The book was sent to me by Haruyo Miyagawa, Head of the Arts/Literature/Sports Department.

What's Going On?

I don't know if I really couldn't get to sleep, or if I was just dreaming I wanted a cup of coffee, and I was cold, or I was too warm, or I was hearing noises, or what was going on. But I finally got up at 4:30, fed Mo, and made a big mug of coffee.

One thing on my mind is the start of a poem, or wanting to start one.

Really, the tragic bombing in Boston has shaken me up pretty badly--as it has done to everybody, I know. So what if I lose a night's sleep. We're not guaranteed sleep, or safety. Never were.

If I get through this month with all my faculties intact, maybe I can spend a week or so sleeping or writing the poem, or whatever.

Dinner

Chicken and veggie stew over pasta. Not great, but pretty good.

Look At Oneself

Looking for myself on the internet, I saw me mentioned as a prize-winning poet. How gratifying! I've got to get my poems published, all under one or two covers. That's going to be my goal for this year, at least to get the process started. It'll probably take a year or two, but it's got to be done.

I stumbled across a YouTube feature of Emmy Lou Harris and Robert Duvall singing "I Love To Tell the Story," and put it in my left-column music collection on this blog.

I once day-dreamed of having little replicas of the Beatles, Elvis and others, that one could hear sing anything at any time. I would add Emmy Lou and Robert to this collection. Also, as in my poem, Cat Stevens, Freddie Fender and Otis Redding.

*

Corned beef pasties for my supper.

If I Had a (Yellow) Hammer

A big old flicker (yellowhammer) tried to join the towhee on the window sill, but both of them flew away before I could get a picture. The woodpecker hammered awhile somewhere and then stopped. I've seen a flicker around here before; someday I may be able to photograph it.

Weird Dream

I drifted off to sleep thinking about flowers and wishing my rock-hard lot would grow them. Thinking I might sell this house and buy Jared's flower-surrounded yellow house. It has a storage house out back, that looks like a little cabin, where I could put all the junk that clutters my house.

Anyway, I had drifted off to sleep, when I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A cannon-shot, or something. Dreamed I got up and went into the kitchen. There was a hole in the ceiling, from which rainwater was dripping neatly into a hole in the floor. I thought, Oh no, whatever it is probably made a hole in my car--forgetting that my car was parked under the dining room, not the kitchen.

I went down to the basement, and saw that the water was dripping into a plastic bin, in which was the culprit--a round  quartz or silica rock about half the size of my fist. It was scaly-looking, like a lump of English Cheddar cheese, only prettier.

*

Today I aim to cut out the rest of the pieces for my Jacob's Ladder quilt. What's left of today.

Apis

Yesterday I saw several honey bees. I don't know if they're blooming weeds, or if the grass puts out blossoms, but the whole front yard was covered with tiny blue and yellow flowers, with a few dark pinks that looked like little sweet-peas.

I guess those precious little flowers, plus the leafing-out of the trees, account for the layers of yellow pollen on everything.

I've got all the colored pieces cut out for my Jacob's Ladder quilt. Just need to cut out the white, and start sewing it all together. I think this is the first time I've ever gone about making a quilt by cutting out all the pieces beforehand. But I'm working with mainly scraps, and wanted to make sure I had enough of everything before I start sewing. It'll be a mini- or lap-quilt, about 42x54 inches. Unless I decide to put borders around it. Nah.

Anyway, I was happy to see the honey bees. At least they're not yet extinct around here.

Tenants?

Now both towhees are on the window sill. I think they're probably nesting in the hedge bush outside these office windows. Or maybe he's just showing her this strange glass wall that whistles when he pecks on it.

Old Red-Eye Returns

I proclaim the rufous-sided towhee (Jo-Ree) as my official house bird. He's back on my window sill, pecking at the glass when I whistle to him. Jed was here Thursday night and yesterday morning, and the bird frequented the guest-room window.

*

I missed Joe W.'s book signing in Leeds today, because I didn't wake up until one o'clock, and by the time I'd brewed and drunk three cups of coffee, it was too late. He'll have another one soon in Odenville, and I'll try to make that one.

**

The first picture is from Wikipedia. The second photo is the one I took last year through the dirty window.

Wishful Thinking

*

**

***

"Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art. . ."

The poet John Keats, whose parents died when he was a child, was heir to two small fortunes. However, his adult life was spent in grinding poverty. He borrowed money from friends, just to be able to live. He died of tuberculosis at age 25, probably contracted while caring for his brother who died of the disease.

After his mother died, Keats lived with his grandmother, who appointed two men to be his guardians and mentors. At least one of these men knew that two of Keats's deceased relatives had left him substantial amounts of money, to be available when he reached the age of 21. However, the guardian(s) never told him, or anyone close to him, of the bequests, and no inquiries were made about the money.

He was the greatest of the late Romantic poets, achieving that stature in writing poetry for approximately five years, and dying at the youngest age of them all. Shelley lived to age 30 and Byron to 36.

Keats wrote, "Oh, for ten years!" to write down all that was in his mind, but he only got five.

It's amazing to contemplate how prolific these poets were, in spite of various hardships, troubles, and short lives. Byron wrote book-length poems, and several plays in verse. Shelley is regarded by many as the greatest poet, but in my opinion his works are marred by archaic language and a certain distance between the poet and the emotions that the works should evoke.

Many of Byron's poems are marred, of course, by facileness, flippancy and haste.