Working on Recitation for an end-of-term program for parents

I wanted to share a few photos and brief descriptions of one of my classes in 

Poetry Recitation for an end of year program 

Rehearsal 

Performance day

For this performance, from a later term, the class chose "The Retired Cat" by

William Cowper

We staged a bit of a skit for the recitation of this one. 

Take time to memorize some poetry!

 It will stay with you - very likely sink down deep into your soul - for a very long time.

Javamom

A Night Piece

Hunter's Moon October 2011

A Night Piece

by William Wordsworth

composed 1798, published 1815

--The sky is overcast

With a continuous cloud of texture close,

Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,

Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,

A dull, contracted circle, yielding light

So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,

Chequering the ground--from rock, plant, tree, or tower

At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam

Startles the pensive traveller while he treads

His lonesome path, with unobserving eye

Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split

Asunder,--and above his head he sees

The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.

There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,

Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small

And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss

Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,

Yet vanish not!--the wind is in the tree,

But they are silent;--still they roll along

Immeasurably distant; and the vault,

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,

Still deepens its unfathomable depth.

At length the Vision closes; and the mind,

Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,

Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,

Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

Placed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination" printed in the "Lyrical Ballads"

The Names by Billy Collins - In memorium 9 11

The Names
Billy Collins

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han,
Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

~ August ~

August
by James Whitcomb Riley


A day of torpor in the sullen heat
Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream
The panting cattle lave their lazy feet,
With drowsy eyes, and dream.

Long since the winds have died, and in the sky
There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief;
The sun glares ever like an evil eye,
And withers flower and leaf.

Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote
The thresher lies deserted, like some old
Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat
Upon a sea of gold.

The yearning cry of some bewildered bird
Above an empty nest, and truant boys
Along the river's shady margin heard--
A harmony of noise--

A melody of wrangling voices blent
With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls
Of piping lips and thrilling echoes sent
To mimic waterfalls.

And through the hazy veil the atmosphere
Has draped about the gleaming face of Day,
The sifted glances of the sun appear
In splinterings of spray.

The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn,
Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by,
A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on
His journey to the sky.

And down across the valley's drooping sweep,
Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade,
The forest stands in silence, drinking deep
Its purple wine of shade.

The gossamer floats up on phantom wing;
The sailor-vision voyages the skies
And carries into chaos everything
That freights the weary eyes:

Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat
Increases--reaches--passes fever's height,
And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet,
Within the arms of Night.

Ornithography - a poem by Billy Collins

Hubby and I spent the afternoon reading poetry to each other; one of our favorite things to do. Here's one of my favorites from the day's reading ~

Ornithography

by Billy Collins, U.S. Poet Laureate 2001-2003

(The legendary Cang Jie was said to
have invented writing after observing the tracks of birds.)

A light snow last night,
and now the earth falls open to a fresh page.

A high wind is breaking up the clouds.
Children wait for the yellow bus in a huddle,

and under the feeder, some birds
are busy writing short stories,

poems, and letters to their mothers.
A crow is working on an editorial.

That chickadee is etching a list,
and a robin walks back and forth

composing the opening to her autobiography.
All so prolific this morning,

these expressive little creatures,
and each with an alphabet of only two letters.

A far cry from me watching
in silence behind a window wondering

what just frightened them into flight —
a dog's bark, a hawk overhead?

or had they simply finished
saying whatever it was they had to say?

A Beethoven Solo for Barking Dog?

In honor of Beethoven's Birthday, a twist of a reminder of the wonderful conclusion of his Fifth Symphony. Enjoy!! (This is one of my favorite poems).


Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.


When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

~ Billy Collins

A Pablo Neruda poem in English

Ode to The Tomato

From: ‘Odas elementales’

by Pablo Neruda

The roadway

is full of tomatoes,

midday,

summer,

the light

splits itself

in two

halves

of tomato,

runs

down the roads

as juice.

In December

it goes wild

the tomato,

invades

kitchens,

infiltrates lunches,

settles itself

quietly

on sideboards,

among glasses,

butter-dishes,

blue salt-shakers.

It has

its own light,

gentle authority.

Sadly we have to

murder it:

sinking,

the knife

in its living pulp,

it is a red

heart,

a fresh

sun,

deep,

inexhaustible,

filling the salads

of Chile,

is happily wedded

to the clear onion,

and to celebrate

oil

lets itself

pour,

essential

child of the olive,

over its half-open hemispheres,

the peppers

add

their fragrance,

salt its magnetism:

it’s a stylish

wedding,

parsley

lifts

little flags,

the potatoes

boil with vigour,

the roast

knocks

on the door

with its aroma,

it’s time!

come on!

and on to

the table, in the middle

of summer,

the tomato,

earth-star,

star

repeated

and fecund,

shows us

its convolutions,

its channels,

the famous fullness

and plenty

delivers up

without stone

without rind

without scales or spines

the gift

of its fiery colour

and the whole of its freshness.

Una poema de Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda

El mar

NECESITO del mar porque me enseña:
no sé si aprendo música o conciencia:
no sé si es ola sola o ser profundo
o sólo ronca voz o deslumbrante
suposición de peces y navios.
El hecho es que hasta cuando estoy dormido
de algún modo magnético circulo
en la universidad del oleaje.
No son sólo las conchas trituradas
como si algún planeta tembloroso
participara paulatina muerte,
no, del fragmento reconstruyo el día,
de una racha de sal la estalactita
y de una cucharada el dios inmenso.

Lo que antes me enseñó lo guardo! Es aire,
incesante viento, agua y arena.

Parece poco para el hombre joven
que aquí llegó a vivir con sus incendios,
y sin embargo el pulso que subía
y bajaba a su abismo,
el frío del azul que crepitaba,
el desmoronamiento de la estrella,
el tierno desplegarse de la ola
despilfarrando nieve con la espuma,
el poder quieto, allí, determinado
como un trono de piedra en lo profundo,
substituyó el recinto en que crecían
tristeza terca, amontonando olvido,
y cambió bruscamente mi existencia:
di mi adhesión al puro movimiento.

Memorization / Recitation

Happy Friday, Readers!

Members of the international AmblesideOnline e-list may have read my posts earlier in the week. I'll cross post them in one grouping here, for many who are not on that list. It is from my local CM book club reading for our meeting last week. My original post was in reference to CM's advice to focus well and "reading only once." For poetry, though, (and for passages to be recited) we are given a glimpse of a way to "memorize" that is easy, Think of it as "Taking it to heart" instead of memorizing bits and pieces, phrase by phrase.

This is also a post for those who weren't able to meet with us Monday last, and missed out on the discussion.

Read on!
~.~.~.~.~

Reading for recitation should be read every day, up to a half-dozen or more times...then it can be memorized without effort. THIS is why poetry can and should be read/enjoyed more than once through. Take in the images, and dwell upon them. Read the beautiful phrases and cadences aloud in a meaningful way. In CM's volume one, (primarily addressing children ages 6-9, but she does expand here and there on other ages) which my local book club has been reading through together this year, CM shares this on pages 224-226:

[side note: "E" is the first letter of the name of the niece whose "easy" poetry memorization story Charlotte is relating to us.]


"I hope that my readers will train their children in the art of recitation; in the coming days, more even than in our own, will it behove every educated man and woman to be able to speak effectively in public; and, in learning to
recite you learn to speak.

Memorising--Recitation and committing to memory are not necessarily the same thing, and it is well to store a child's memory with a good deal of poetry, learnt without labour. Some years ago I chanced to visit a house, the mistress of which had educational notion of her own, upon which she was bringin up a niece. She presented me with a large foolscap sheet written all over with the titles of poems,, some of them long and difficult: Tintern Abbey, for example. She told me that her niece could repeat to me any of those poems that I liked to ask for, and that she had never learnt a single verse by heart in her life. The girl did repeat several of the poems on the list, quite beautifully and without hesitation; and then the lady unfolded her secret. She thought she had made a discovery, and I thought so, too. She read a poem through to "E"; then the next day, while the little girl was making a doll's frock, perhaps she read it again; once again the next day, while E's hair was being brushed. She got in about six or more readings, according to the length of the poem, at odd and unexpected times, and in the end E. could say the poem which she had *not* learned.

I have tried the plan often since, and found it effectual. The child must not try to recollect or to say the verse over to himself, but, as far as may be, present an open mind to receive an impression of interest. Half a dozen repetitions should give children possession of such poems as-"Dolly and Dick,' 'Do you ask what the birds say?' "Little lamb, who made thee?' and the like? The gains of such a method of learning are, that the edge of the child's enjoyment is not taken off by weariful verse by verse repetitions, and , also, that the habit of making mental images is unconsciously formed."

CM goes on to give another example of a convalescing woman who read Lycidas because she was not allowed to do anything else. She was able to repeat long passages of it the next day, and etc. As her health returned, she was not able to do this so well, because she became once again preoccupied with her many other interests in her life.

Taking from what is in the passage I shared and applying it to my youngest, who is 12, I would read a chosen poem to him while he is eating cereal one day. The next day, I might read it aloud and well (but casually, not strictly) while he is playing legos. On the third day, I'd read the same poem aloud again while we're in the car (with one of the teens or hubby driving ;-) going to visit a friend or to homeschool Co-op. On the fourth day I'd read to him while we are sipping iced mochas in Starbucks and the fifth day, while we are taking a walk together. On the sixth day...well, you get the picture.

It reminds of the Bible verse "teach it to your children as you rise up and as you lie down, while you walk by the way..." Others would call it The Hebrew Education. It is centered more in gentle appreciation of the material, not frantic memorization. (with the added benefit of building your relationship with your child) as well as the fact that it happens to become more and more "memorable" or *rememberable* to them in this relaxed, non-stressed out way.

[Brief aside: It is the opposite of our family drive to AWANAs years ago, when kids were frustrated maybe to tears, b/c they had waited too long to truly "memorize" their verses. We needed to have taken time to ingest and absorb those life verses, instead of what it had eventually become...a legalistic approach to scripture memorization prompted by rewards. Ugh. I hope they forgive us for that time. I wasn't all for nothing, b/c God's word never returns void. We learn scripture much more naturally, now.]

I cannot convey how much I'm enjoying reading CM's volumes this second time around and applying it to our younger two and their particular needs and strengths, since our older two are pretty well set in their lifelong learning. Our oldest son graduated last spring and is preparing for colllege entrance in January. Dd is 16 but she has almost completed her high school classes. I can also apply it to my Spanish classes and sessions.

The topic of the Science of Relations (relationships) is my most passionate topic that I speak on in our local hs group every year. It is given especially for the new homeschool moms in a specifically designed curriculum written for them, so that they can imagine a broader view of homebuilding for their families.

This is my heart for homeschooling and for mentoring others along the way:

We can be a bridge that helps our children (and perhaps even our friends!) build relationships with the famous, the infamous, the wise, brave, and the noble. We may simply introduce them to some of these, and share in the joy of getting to know others of these. But it definitely strengthens our bonds by building common interests in not only words and sounds, but with people, places, and things. It works, and it is priceless, cheaper AND *better* than any curriculum package out there. Now take that savings to the bank :-).


Sincerely,

Javamom

Flowers and Poetry

Not only did we have a pitcher full of flowers that I bought for the party (above), some of the girls at K's birthday party brought me bunches of wildflowers. Some of them were three feet tall! Those are some old, healthy plants! You can see them (well, maybe not the tall ones) in the photos below of the feet.

Here is a poem one of the girls made for K with our fridge poetry magnets:





Good times :-)

Life is a Poem

The ballad, I; I shun the world, Its bustle and its noise, Its busy hasty rushing crowds And bright consumer toys. Indeed, I sometimes like the old Because it's not the new; And if you think that's strange or wrong, I might not much like you. What Poetry Form Are You?

If I were not a Ballad, I'd be Heroic Couplets. THAT is a hoot! Ballad suits me very well.

If one thinks that "liking the old because it's not new" is strange or wrong though, I would not show my displeasure, but would try to extend grace instead. I will simply hope that they learn how to come down from the sometimes "adrenaline addictive rush" of living at such breakneck pace most days, and hope that they learn to slow down and appreciate the simpler things in life from time to time.

I don't always shun the busy-ness. There is plenty of volunteering to be done and groceries to be purchased and therefore the need to be driving at the busiest times of day in order to accomplish these things. BUT I usually "steer around" (pun intended) the busiest times, if at all possible.


Hat tip: both Mama Squirrel and Tim's Mom

Javamom

Crashing an English Teacher's conference

We had some crazy fun today... fun for us anyway ;-). Photo with the Poet Laureate TBP later.
Technically, we crashed a convention...as Hubster's paperwork and registration never went through! He had verbal agreements over the phone of our being able to attend the Billy Collins luncheon today.

The ladies at the luncheon ticket table were...well, one of them was very gracious and sold us tickets and said we could do our registration later. It was fun just walking in with no "official" nametag. We had great seats.

Collins was so easy to listen to and just as I thought he would be. Read this interview to get a better idea of what I mean. He read a lot of his poems to us and had many wise things to say about the teaching and writing of poetry. He took questions, and I'll have to write about those later. Many of them were just plain simpleton questions. I wonder what he was expecting and if he was disappointed?

There were but four of his books left for purchase after his session. We had plenty of time to chat with him in the book-signing line; I spoke with him twice, since dh was the last one in line.

More later, as we're off to see family before a nephew heads of to Air Force basic Training early next week.

Javamom

Billy Collins is comin' to town!

Oh, My! The Hubster (a High school English and American Lit. teacher) and I (a home school and co-op languages teacher) get to go to a teachers' conference this weekend where Billy Collins will be speaking. I am beside myself! Hubster (aka Dread pirate Sparsebeard) is so good to me...taking me to cultural events and all.

I will type up the two Collins poems that first turned my head. I have shared the first one here before, and yes, it *is* worth repeating. Not only because of my love for classical music, but also because most of us can relate to the issue an annoying, barking dog in the neighborhood.

My usual remedy is to put a thick pillow over my head to drown out the noise, then bury myself deeper under the layers of quilts. It *almost* works.

Without further ado ~

Another reason why I don't keep a gun in the house
by Billy Collins

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.



The Lanyard

The Lanyard
– Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past –
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had a made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift — not the archaic truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

(from The Trouble with Poetry, Random House, 2005, pp. 45-46)

Pack, Clouds, Away

Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day!
With night we banish sorrow:
Sweet air, blow soft! mount, lark, aloft!
To give my Love good-morrow;
Wings from the wind, to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow.
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing!
To give my Love good-morrow.
To give my Love good-morrow,
Notes from them I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin readbreast!
Sing, birds, in every furrow!
And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair Love good-morrow,
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush--
Stare, linnet, and -sparrow,
You pretty-elves--amongst yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow!
To give my Love good-morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.

Thomas Heywood

I have been down and sick with the flu for almost a week, falling just after the business and joy of singing on Easter Sunday and having family over.

I can finally be up for a few hours at a time. I'm getting at least *some* appetite back, as well.

Away, clouds of illness! Away, weakness!
Welcome strength...you are far too long away~

Javamom

Brilliant Poem!

Another reason why I don't keep a gun in the house
by Billy Collins

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Robert Frost Quote

"You don't know the metaphor in its strength and weakness. You don't know how far you can expect to ride it when it may break down with you. You are not safe in Science, you are not safe in History." ~Robert Frost

According to a lecture to which I just listened this week, Frost says that Science and History are just as saturated with metaphor and metaphoric devices as literature. The weakness of metaphor, in Frost's opinion, is that one may eventually stop seeing the metaphor; one begins to see the metaphor as the truth. It (the metaphor) is NOT literal, it is figurative.

UPDATE: Sherry asked a good question in the comments section. I am in the process of reading the Frost text, "Education by Poetry" from which the lecturer quoted, so that I can get a better understanding of it by reading it completely in context, and see if I agree with the aforementioned lecturer! Feel free to share your own observations and thoughts!

Books in the New Year

We were introduced to the Poet Laureate Billy Collins last year, and we are becoming huge fans.

Collins' poem "The Lanyard" makes me laugh! It's even funnier when you hear him read it aloud himself.


The Lanyard

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

- Billy Collins


I have been considering what books to add to my "wish" list for 2006, and this is one that I'd like to have for our home library:

The Poetry Home Repair Manual by Ted Kooser, another Poet Laureate

What books are you adding to your list of "must haves" this year?

Christmas Poem

In memory of John Greenleaf Whittier, who was born on Dec. 17th, I share this interesting poem!

THE MYSTIC'S CHRISTMAS
By John Greenleaf Whittier

"ALL hail!" the bells of Christmas rang,
"All hail!" the monks at Christmas sang,
The merry monks who kept with cheer
The gladdest day of all their year.

But still apart, unmoved thereat,
A pious elder brother sat
Silent, in his accustomed place,
With God's sweet peace upon his face.

"Why sitt'st thou thus?" his brethren cried.
"It is the blessed Christmas-tide;
The Christmas lights are all aglow,
The sacred lilies bud and blow.

"Above our heads the joy-bells ring,
Without the happy children sing,
And all God's creatures hail the morn
On which the holy Christ was born!

"Rejoice with us; no more rebuke
Our gladness with thy quiet look."
The gray monk answered: "Keep, I pray,
Even as ye list, the Lord's birthday.

"Let heathen Yule fires flicker red
Where thronged refectory feasts are spread;
With mystery-play and masque and mime
And wait-songs speed the holy time!

"The blindest faith may haply save;
The Lord accepts the things we have;
And reverence, howsoe'er it strays,
May find at last the shining ways.

"They needs must grope who cannot see,
The blade before the ear must be;
As ye are feeling I have felt,
And where ye dwell I too have dwelt.

"But now, beyond the things of sense,
Beyond occasions and events,
I know, through God's exceeding grace,
Release from form and time and place.

"I listen, from no mortal tongue,
To hear the song the angels sung;
And wait within myself to know
The Christmas lilies bud and blow.

'The outward symbols disappear
From him whose inward sight is clear;
And small must be the choice of days
To him who fills them all with praise!

"Keep while you need it, brothers mine,
With honest zest your Christmas sign,
But judge not him who every morn
Feels in his heart the Lord Christ born!"

December Doldrums

I was feeling the first blast of December Doldrums yesterday, due in part to my frustration over having to be in a store (Wal-Mart this time) during the crazy time of frenzied shopping weekend for many people. Therefore, I was inundated by some of the more negative sides to this time of year...those things which I try to avoid the whole season through, if possible.

The day began cold, gray, and blustry outside (sans much-needed rain, mind you) and I'd overslept. Since some of the family had to arrive at church early, I would not be ready in time, so I went to second service. I got to sit with a friend and her hubby, who is one of our elders. That was a nice treat, as they've had to travel quite a bit lately, and it was good to see them. At the same time, though, some families have recently stopped going to our church, and therefore it is a little sad not to see them there anymore.

I've shared a bit of background to set up this lovely poem hubby wrote and sent to me today.

Oh Thou Dearest Liebfrau,

When life doth blast thee with cold, dry winds,
And all of your coffee beans worm-eaten,
Then mayest thou remember the love of thy youth,
Who wilt always fetch thee new beans,
For my heart like the sun comes up new in the morning,
And like steam always rises and rises,
For only externals sag down, down, down
In Adam's (gravity's) curse;
In you, sweet love, sweet love, sweet love,
The sun rises and sets in my heart with your smile,
And, pray, let not this cheese distract you from me.

Love,
The Hubs

He also sent an Emily Jane Bronte quote:

"No coward soul is mine, no trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven's glories shine, And Faith shines equal, arming me from Fear."

I think I am a coward when it comes to shopping at Christmas time...even for simple things such as bread or TP! Thank the Lord, I did find it a relief to qualify for the "express" checkout.

Texas Autumn

At Thanksgiving time in Texas, the leaves are all finally turning. The weather fluctuates from 60's to almost 80 degrees. It's a good thing to have mild weather in which to walk off all our Thanksgiving indulgences.

Family is still about town, brothers, their kids, their inlaws, and their grandkids. They're coming over for dessert and coffee today, to be together before another nephew heads off to Iraq with the Army on Monday.


"And now, with autumn’s moonlit eves,
Its harvest-time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home."

~From The Corn Song by John Greenleaf Whittier, fireside poet