February Bulletin 2019

Poetry, posies, and cupids

Those Hours With You

Oh what a dreamer's delight! I found this sweet illustrated poem at Value Village for $1.99, bundled with 3 other tiny frames--bonus! The 1700s themed illustration, gilded details, and reflective verses thrill my soul. It looks like framed Maurine Hathaway prints were a popular piece of 1920s décor.

I Vow to Thee my Country

Troops in the field of Nepean High School in Westboro, Ottawa, Ontario. In majestic honour of all in service.

Yes, Mother Dear

Good things are always where they are meant to be, and leap out at me at the right time.  A couple of weeks ago I was at a church garage sale flipping through the frames when I found this print from 1923. Breathless and beaming with joy, I gave the saleswoman the $0.25 for it, thanked her while telling her my scheme, and covered the frame in a bag before my mom saw. 

My mom was totally oblivious, which is pretty astounding because she always has premonitions about gifts. Maybe that's a mom thing. Anyway, this vintage, found, faded, faithful, floral, framed, poetic, typographic gift is beautiful in so many ways--just like the wonderful lady who proudly propped it up on her mantel today. 

Petal Heart

"Nature never did betray the heart that loved her."

--William Wordsworth in Tintern Abbey

Flowers Preach

It's National Poetry Month! Here's a lovely poem called "Consider the Lilies of the Field" by Christina Rossetti:

Flowers preach to us if we will hear:--
The rose saith in the dewy morn:
I am most fair;
Yet all my loveliness is born
Upon a thorn.
The poppy saith amid the corn:
Let but my scarlet head appear
And I am held in scorn;
Yet juice of subtle virtue lies
Within my cup of curious dyes.
The lilies say: Behold how we
Preach without words of purity.
The violets whisper from the shade
Which their own leaves have made:
Men scent our fragrance on the air,
Yet take no heed
Of humble lessons we would read.
But not alone the fairest flowers:
The merest grass
Along the roadside where we pass,
Lichen and moss and sturdy weed,
Tell of His love who sends the dew,
The rain and sunshine too,
To nourish one small seed.



Lovely Literature

These two cute books are from 1957. They are full of musings on love with illustrations by Ruth McCrea.

L'Amour is composed of quotes and proverbs about love.

The poems and letters in Love Poems and Love Letters for All the Year are sectioned into monthly chapters.

I have to say, though, that my favourite aspect of these books is their appearance. They are slender and whimsical little compilations that make reading all the more delightful!

Snow-Bound

"...Shut in from all the world without,

We sat the clean-winged hearth about.

Content to let the north-wind roar

In baffled rage at pane and door,

While the red logs before us beat

The frost-line back with tropic heat;

And ever, when a louder blast

Shook beam and rafter as it passed,

The merrier up its roaring draught

The great throat of the chimney laughed..."

--John Greenleaf Whittier in Snow-Bound

Beautyfall

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells."

--John Keats in "To Autumn"

Those elegant words perfectly introduce the season of bee petting. When the bees curl up all plump and dewy-furred against warm bricks and asphalt, I carefully stroke their soft backs. It is an unusually serene bonding experience! Sometimes they raise a fuzzy leg in weak acknowledgement, and then I leave them alone. When the laborious bees slow their whirling around the flowers I can tell the year is truly shifting into a tranquil yet vibrant phase. It is a rich and rustic time in which I adore the photo opportunities of everyday life.



Chalk and Shadows

"Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing."

--Edmund Burke

I Remember When

Here is a poem written by my great-great-grandma, Alice. I love how it demonstrates exactly why we need to understand and value the past while we can.

When we were adolescent kids,

And all of us at home,

Our Grandma lived there with us, so

She wouldn't be alone.

 

We loved our dear old Grandma'ma,

And treated her quite well;

But she bored us most to death

With the stories she would tell.

 

She'd talk for full and hour or more--

Just pause to catch a breath--

The same old stories o'er and o'er,

'Til we were bored to death!

 

We'd nudge beneath the table;

We'd wink, we'd yawn; but then,

Grandma always held the floor

With her "I remember when".

 

But now she's gone forevermore;

And we are growing old,

And wish that we had listened to

The stories Granny told.

 

Today we're always questioning:

Who were our folks and kin?

How did they look, and act, and speak?

And did they laugh and sing?

 

Whatever bro't them to this place?

Why did they settle here?

What trials and hardships did they face?

What evils did they fear?

 

We want to know about their church--

The folks who gathered there--

Their loves, their hates, their doubts, their fears

The burden of their prayer.

 

Our Granny told us all those things,

In one way or another;

But we just let her precious words

In one ear, and out the other.

 

And now--today--we long to know

The tales we laughed at then;

And wish that we had listened to

Her "I remember when".

Ironically and unfortunately I don't know that much about Alice, other than that she was a high school English teacher and cat lover. I feel like we would have gotten along very well, and wish I could hear her talk about her life. It just goes to show that we should all always keep our ears open to stories of other generations!

Mommy

I found this poem titled "Mother" in a Rachel Ashwell book, although the author was unspecified. Nevertheless, it is a beautiful and true piece of writing. Motherhood should be appreciated beyond measure. 

 

 Mother is a little girl who trod my path before me;
Just a bigger, wiser little girl who ran ahead--
Bigger, wiser, stronger girl who always watches o’er me,
One who knows the pitfalls in the rugged road I tread.

 

Mother is a playmate who will always treat me kindly--
Playmate who will yield me what true happiness demands.
She will never let my feet stray into brambles blindly--
Mother’s just a bigger little girl who understands.

 

Mother is an older little playmate who’ll befriend me--
Yesteryear she traveled in the path that’s mine today.
Never need I fear a foe from which she might defend me--
Faithful little pal who ran ahead and learned the way.

Here are some '80s photos of my mom. She is creative, funny, talkative, and we get along great! I have ran out of ways to describe how amazing she is. I love her so, so, so much!

Continuing down the path, here is my wonderful grandma. She was a painter and always looked effortlessly perfect.

 (My grandfather's caption clearly proves that he agreed!)

...And here she is with her mom, my great grandma, who was a talented photographer and a lover of literature.

 "Yesteryear she traveled in the path that’s mine today..."

"...Faithful little pal who ran ahead and learned the way."

Happy Mother's Day, all!

National Poetry Month

In celebration of April, National Poetry Month, here is a brilliant, blithe poem and a quote.

"Daffodils" 

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed--and gazed--but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

--William Wordsworth

"Everybody who has ever lived in the world and could string two rhymes together has written a poem on spring. It is the most berhymed subject in the world--and always will be because it is poetry incarnate itself. You can never be a real poet if you haven't made at least one poem about spring."

--Lucy Maud Montgomery in Emily of New Moon