Two poems by Whitman

Michael and Eric and I were discussing Whitman last night over dinner. (Wasn't that a great opening sentence? It's rare to get a chance to sound so much like a snooty literary type.) Two poems from Leaves of Grass came to my mind that I had read a long time ago. At one time I had been working to memorize poems. It's handy at times and is a good concentration exercise. Here are the two. I looked them up because I didn't trust myself to remember them accurately.

A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.


When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer

When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

A Treasured item

It's hard to believe that it's Christmas Eve already. These days are flying by. Pat and Barry are here for Christmas and Pat and I have been working along in the kitchen all day getting ready for meals this evening and tomorrow.

I'm including a photo of one of my most treasured possessions. These are the measuring spoons that came from my mother's house. As far back as I can remember, the food preparation for every holiday, celebration, or family gathering involved these spoons. It's funny to think of them as one of the great constants in my life but they are, in their way, a witness to most of the landmarks on my journey so far. It cheers me up every time I see them in the kitchen drawer.


It helps that they're probably the most useful measuring spoons ever made. They have nice long handles and rectangular bowls that make it easier to reach into small boxes and bottles of ingredients. They're not available any more but they turn up on eBay every now and then.

A couple of quotes for Christmas

Christmas is approaching at a breakneck pace. I've been doing my best to get ready and I'm not doing such a hot job of it. As always when I need a booster shot of holiday spirit, I re-read A Christmas Carol by Dickens. It has one of my favorite passages about the holiday. I also love the carol It Came Upon the Midnight Clear. The third and fourth verses - which nobody ever sings - are my favorites. Those two items usually do the trick for me. Here they are...


From A Christmas Carol...

"There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say," returned the nephew. "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round--apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that--as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"

From It Came Upon the Midnight Clear...

O ye beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow;
Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
Oh rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.

For lo! the days are hastening on,
By prophets seen of old,
When with the ever-circling years
Shall come the time foretold,
When the new heaven and earth shall own
The Prince of Peace, their King,
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing.

(By the way, you can read or download full text versions of A Christmas Carol from Project Gutenberg, one of the coolest sites on the web, if you ask me.)

Thanksgiving

As far back as I can remember this has been my favorite holiday. There are no presents, minimal decorations, and only as much preparation as you are interested in doing. The whole goal of the day is to be with people who are dear to you and take stock of all the good things that have come to you over the year.

I have so much to be thankful for this year that it makes my head spin. What could have been a truly awful time has turned out so differently. As this day arrives I’m well on the route to recovery after surgery with a good likelihood that I’m completely done with this disease. More important than that, it is so clear to me now how surrounded I am by the kindest and most loving family, friends, and neighbors that it could be possible to have. I can’t think of anything more that I could ever need. As the time passes I will hold on to this year. No matter what comes in the future, I hope that the knowledge that I ever had a year as wonderful as this will carry me through.

I am in the middle of Thanksgiving preparations. I have hosted the dinner for my family for several years but this year we’ll be having it at John & Jennie’s house. That’s a relief. I’m not quite up to the task this year. Tom will be on hand to help get ready and to make the gravy. That’s a skill that continues to elude me.

We have a few offbeat Thanksgiving items that we roll out every year. I’ll include a photo of them here. You’ll see a crepe paper honeycomb fruit bowl. Pat bought that decades ago and it was always featured on the piano in our house at Thanksgiving. It has seen much better days. Still, looks aren’t everything. There are also some recently added paper pineapples and a turkey, plus a stuffed turkey that somehow ended up in the sacred holiday items collection.

My favorite set of items is our collection of poultry seasonings. The year after my mother died we were cleaning out the cabinet above the oven in her house and found all these containers of poultry seasoning. Evidently she bought one every year, used it for the holidays, stowed it in the cabinet, and forgot about it. In the 11 years that have passed since we found them, we’ve bought a new container of poultry seasoning every year. We label each one with the year that we bought it and we line them up in some place of honor during the meal. It’s a goofy tradition but it’s a tradition now and I can’t imagine Thanksgiving without it.

Oh, and while I was taking that photo, Sam the cat became interested in all the items on the table. Here she is investigating. She seems to be doing well, by the way. Thank you to all who were worried about her. Yet another reason to be grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Poem - Indian Summer by Sara Teasdale

This evening I drove home by way of the back roads. I had been up early this morning to watch the lunar eclipse. Several things came up and I was later than usual leaving work. Several times on the drive home I came upon
spots that had that typical look of early autumn - green leaves, yellowing fields, and light at a sharper angle than you see in mid-summer. It was so beautiful. It reminded me, out of the blue, of a poem by Sara Teasdale. Indian Summer. I love this poem - particularly those last two lines. They create such a compelling image. And here it is for you to read:

Indian Summer

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer
Shadowy fields that are senseless 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 and 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 you, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heartless.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction
While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.

- Sara Teasdale - from Rivers to the Sea