Further Shore

People, I just really like the ocean.

Words by Edward Sandford Martin, drawings by Henry McCarter.  From Century Magazine, August 1898.  Found at Golden Age!

Let It Serve to Trample On

I don't know what it says about my mood that all I want to do lately is take walks and read poetry.  Autumn always tends to put me in a poetry mood.  Today's choice was Songs from the Portuguese.  Here, have some Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

What can I give back thee, O liberal
And princely giver, who hast brought the gold
And purple of their heart, unstained, untold,
And laid them on the outside of the wall
For such as I to take or leave withal,
In unexpected largesse? am I cold,
Ungrateful, that for these most manifold
High gifts, I render nothing back at all?
Not so; not cold, --but very poor instead.
Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run
The colors from my life, and left so dead
And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done
To give the same as pillow to thy head.
Go farther! Let it serve to trample on.

The photo, by Zanthia, is unrelated except that I want to go to there.  Do you have a favourite poet you turn to when your heart feels sad?

mwah!

I Love You More Than Applesauce

by Jack Prelutsky

I love you more than applesauce,

than peaches and a plum,

than chocolate hearts and cherry tarts

and berry bubblegum.

I love you more than lemonade

and seven-layer cakes,

then lollipops and candy drops

and thick vanilla shakes.

I love you more than marzipan,

than marmalade on toast,

oh I love pies of any size,

but I love YOU the most.

This is my favourite poem, which I share with you each year on Valentine's Day!  It comes from It's Valentine's Day, a fantastic book of poems.  I hope your day is filled with hugs, sweets, and (take a note from the critters*) lots of smooches!

*My mom is a small mammal interpreter (her actual title) at the National Zoo, and they like to include the animals in holidays. Here are a couple naked mole rats (my mother's favourite) enjoying a little heart of frozen fruit.

elihu and the Rubáiyát

At my fellowship today, I was going through files on old exhibitions and I came across one on a show the SAAM put on in 1995 all about the illustrations Elihu Vedder did for The Rubáiyát in 1884 (the museum owns the full set). To put it simply, I fell in love. I love the quality of Vedder's work, his drawings by turns complex (see above) and simple (see below), but always possessing such gorgeous, stylized movement. Plus, he incorporates the actual text of the poem into the drawings in a beautiful yet easily read hand.
I highly recommend studying all of Vedder's Rubáiyát illustrations. This small sampling hardly does them justice!
PS: If any of this seems familiar, it's because I blogged about The Rubáiyát last summer when I discovered a copy with illustrations by Edmund Dulac in a local shop.

like a dream of salt

regardless, originally uploaded by yyellowbird.

It snowed here today. Only for a few hours, but as soon as I realized it, I grabbed the dog and we went walking in it. I love snow. The dog's half Norwegian Elkhound, so she's partial to it, as well. Nothing stuck to the ground, but during those few hours, I ran outside again and again to stand in it. I love snow.

The cold, the snow, the fact that it was just the dog, the cat, and me; everything about the day made me think of this poem as I settled into bed. It's one of my favourites.

From the window I saw the horses.

I was in Berlin, in winter. The light
was without light, the sky without sky.

The air white like wet bread.

And from my window a vacant arena,
bitten by the teeth of winter.

Suddenly, led by a man,
ten horses stepped out into the mist.

Hardly had they surged forth, like flame,
than to my eyes they filled the whole world,
empty till then. Perfect, ablaze,
they were like ten gods with pure wide hoofs,
with manes like a dream of salt.

Their rumps were worlds and oranges.

Their color was honey, amber, fire.

Their necks were towers
cut from the stone of pride,
and behind their transparent eyes
energy raged, like a prisoner.

And there, in the silence, in the middle
of the day, of the dark, slovenly winter,
the intense horses were blood
and rhythm, the animating treasure of life.

I looked, I looked and was reborn: without knowing it,
there, was the fountain, the dance of gold, the sky,
the fire that revived in beauty.

I have forgotten that dark Berlin winter.

I will not forget the light of the horses.

Pablo Neruda, Horses

photo source