Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Thursday, December 25

There was a little girl

There was a little girl, 
            Who had a little curl, 
Right in the middle of her forehead. 
            When she was good, 
            She was very good indeed, 
But when she was bad she was horrid.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Sunday, December 7

A visit from St. Addie

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Steampunk Addie St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

Wednesday, December 3

The fortnight before Christmas

Momma's working at both JoAnn's AND Toys"R"Us which leaves Precious Little Time for Me, but she was in a sentimental mood when she returned home the other night.

While putting items away at Toys"R"Us she discovered a reprint of a classic book she hadn't seen or thought of in 45 years or so: Little Golden Book's The Night Before Christmas.

This 1949 Little Golden Book edition of the famous poem, The Night Before Christmas, was a staple in the Golden Book line for many years. (The first 12 Little Golden Book titles were published on Oct. 1, 1942.)

Momma remembers that edition clearly and is thrilled to share that with us. 


Tuesday, December 2

What are little girls made of, made of?


What Folks Are Made Of?

What are little babies made of, made of?
What are little babies made of?
Diapers and crumbs and sucking their thumbs;
That's what little babies are made of.

What are little boys made of, made of?
What are little boys made of?
Snips and snails and puppy-dog tails;
That's what little boys are made of.

What are little girls made of, made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and everything nice;
That's what little girls are made of.

What are young men made of, made of?
What are young men made of?
Sighs and leers and crocodile tears;
That's what young men are made of.

What are young women made of, made of?
What are young women made of?
Rings and jings and other fine things;
That's what young women are made of.

What are our sailors made of, made of?
What are our sailors made of?
Pitch and tar, pig-tail and scar;
That's what our sailors are made of.

What are our soldiers made of, made of?
What are our soldiers made of?
Pipeclay and drill, the foeman to kill;
That's what our soldiers are made of.

What are our nurses made of, made of?
What are our nurses made of?
Bushes and thorns and old cow's horns;
That's what our nurses are made of.

What are our fathers made of, made of?
What are our fathers made of?
Pipes and smoke and collars choke;
That's what our fathers are made of.

What are our mothers made of, made of?
What are our mothers made of?
Ribbons and laces and sweet pretty faces;
That's what our mothers are made of.

What are old men made of, made of?
What are old men made of?
Slippers that flop and a bald-headed top;
That's what old men are made of.

What are old women made of, made of?
What are old women made of?
Reels, and jeels, and old spinning wheels;
That's what old women are made of.

What are all folks made of, made of?
What are all folks made of?
Fighting a spot and loving a lot,
That's what all folks are made of.


Sugar & Spice
https://www.etsy.com/listing/213554405/sugar-spice-outfit-for-18-dolls-such-as


Not my gumdrop buttons!
https://www.etsy.com/listing/213554473/not-my-gumdrop-buttons-outfit-for-18

Wednesday, April 10

She walks in beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!


Lord Byron, 1814

I was willing to accept it, up until the last line. 

Yeah, right.

 

Tuesday, November 22

The day the muses died

Between Heaven and Hell
On Nov. 22, 1963 three influential men and authors died: author Aldous Huxley, U.S. President John F. Kennedy, and author C. S. Lewis.

The world was so shattered by Kennedy's assassination that the other deaths were barely noted at the time, so I thought I'd take a moment to think of all three.

Huxley was an English writer best known for his novels including Brave New World and a wide-ranging output of essays. Huxley also edited the magazine Oxford Poetry, and published short stories, poetry, travel writing, and film stories and scripts. Huxley spent the later part of his life in the United States, living in Los Angeles from 1937 until his death.

Kennedy was the 35th President of the United States, serving from 1961 until his assassination in 1963. He was the youngest elected to the office and the first president to have been born in the 20th century. Kennedy is the only Catholic president, and is the only president to have won a Pulitzer Prize. Events during his presidency included the Bay of Pigs Invasion, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the building of the Berlin Wall, the Space Race, the African American Civil Rights Movement and early stages of the Vietnam War.

Lewis, known to his friends and family as "Jack," was a novelist, academic, medievalist, literary critic, essayist, lay theologian and Christian apologist. He is known for his fictional work, especially The Screwtape Letters, The Chronicles of Narnia and The Space Trilogy.

Today The Episcopal Church and I remember Lewis:
O God of searing truth and surpassing beauty, we give thee thanks for Clive Staples Lewis, whose sanctified imagination lighteth fires of faith in young and old alike. Surprise us also with thy joy and draw us into that new and abundant life which is ours in Christ Jesus, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

On November 22, 1963, three great men died within a few hours of each other: C.S. Lewis, John F. Kennedy and Aldous Huxley. All three believed, in different ways, that death is not the end of human life. Suppose they were right, and suppose they met after death. How might the conversation go? Peter Kreeft imagines their discourse as a modern Socratic dialog--a part of The Great Conversation that has been going on for centuries. Does human life have meaning? Is it possible to know about life after death? What if one could prove that Jesus was God? Combining logical argument and literary imagination, Kreeft portrays Lewis as a Christian theist, Kennedy as a modern humanist and Huxley as an Eastern pantheist. Their interaction involves not only good thinking but good drama.

Sounds fascinating and the premise (of course) reminds me of Lewis' own The Screwtape Letters.


Tuesday, October 18

Ode to Phillis

On this date in history, my Dear Friend Phillis Wheatley was finally freed from slavery.
Momma's Phillis Wheatley

Phillis was the first published African American poet and first African-American woman whose writing was published. Probably born in Gambia, Senegal, she was made a slave when she was about 7-years-old. She was purchased by the Wheatley family of Boston, who taught her to read and write, and encouraged her poetry.

Phillis' intelligence and writing was an astonishment to many white people and she had to
prove in court (including John Hancock) in 1772 that she was smart enough to write! Their signed attestation was later published in the preface of her book

Phillis visited England for five weeks in 1773 (accompanying her master's son) where admirers of her poetry raised the funds for the publication of her book, Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral. (The book was published in London because Boston publishers refused to.) 

Although relatively well treated by her owners, Phillis was finally freed on Oct. 18, 1773 and she married about three months later. However, her husband was imprisoned for debt in 1784 and she became ill and died on Dec. 5, 1784.

Phillis had to be careful what she said or wrote but stated in her July 1778 poem, On the Death of General Wooster:

But how, presumptuous shall we hope to find
Divine acceptance with th' Almighty mind—
While yet (O deed Ungenerous!) they disgrace
And hold in bondage Afric's blameless race?

I like to think I look a little like her.