West Chester

Pennsylvania, not New York.

This is my home town.  I have not lived there since 1970, but I have been visiting there ever since.

Now there is a Facebook page for people to post pictures; Chris Ann Colvin has posted some lovely ones, like this one of Miner Street, where my parents had their first apartment.

My parents moved from West Chester to Baltimore, to an assisted living place I found for them, in 1998.  They died in 2007 and 2010, respectively.  

When I visit West Chester, since 1999 I have stayed with one of my childhood friends and her husband, who live in a house like the ones in the photo above, on one of the neighboring streets.

West Chester is a lovely town which I did not appreciate at 22; I was hankering for life in the Big City.  

Now I walk around and drive around West Chester, drinking it in.

I'm going there today.

Still Celebrating

Christmas  -   Really, we should all begin celebrating Christmas on December 24 and keep celebrating until at least January 6...and some, even until Candlemas Day, February 2!

It's our commercial culture that has formed us to start celebrating right after Thanksgiving and stop right after December 25.

But I am helpless to change that.

Nevertheless...

Here's a Christmas poem from G.K. Chesterton:

Christmas Poem

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost---how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wife's tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall all men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

(Gilbert Keith Chesterton)

A Foggy Christmas

But still, it's Christmas.   Here's a poem by William Wordsworth:

"Minstrels"
William Wordsworth

The minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check, the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened?--till was paid
Respect to every inmate's claim,
The greeting given, the music played
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And "Merry Christmas" wished to all.

Christmas in the Conservatory at Longwood Gardens

 

Christmas Joy

here's a poem by G.K.Chesterton:

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost---how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wife's tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall all men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

 

O Emmanuel

Last day of the "O" Antiphons -  is  "O Emmanuel"

Which for me becomes this:

 

 

O manual, laboring handbook,

gladden the work of our hands.

We wait for peace,

but terror comes instead.

What factory fashioned the

slashing shrapnel?

 

Emanate

manual light, new elevation,

elicit handmade candles,

bread, bowls,

chairs,

decoys.

Carpenter, potter, baker,

emit manual glory.

 

 

O Route of Jesse

The "O Antiphon" for today, "O Root of Jesse,"  changes for me into this:

 

O Route of Jesse

through the desert

of dessert,

foretold by sage

mint and rue, too.

Streets of severance,

tendrils twining on my ankles,

bring me down, holy holly,

bind me, blind me, clutching ivy,

map my angry trip

through the muck of humility.

 

 

 

O Gathering Light

"Gathering Light"  painting by Janice Mason Steeves

Here's my "O" Antiphon for the day:

O gathering light,

receiving light,

ours, ocelli,

theirs, ommatidia,

Who opens the insects

to navigate the world,

finally, late this year, in

mid-November, when

strangely green leaves still stand on the pin oak,

on the mild still day,

at last , a ladybug

sails her way to my window screen,

A fly taxis in for a landing

on the lip of my cup.

Their semper cells –

crystalline cones under the eye lens –

always vigilant,

gathering light.

O facets,

oh cell’s eye,

oh my tidings awake,

graciously give me that

faceted

facile receiver!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fourth Sunday of Advent

 

This continues my own "O Antiphons" :

 

O long night

full cold moon,

draw me like the sea,

draw me like Magritte paints you

peering through the wrought iron tree.

O Duende,

when I sing with you, no one can qualm,

no one can calm,

no one can come dancing to the dark sound

without feeling your pull on their tides.

 

 

The Artist's Eye

Mario Marini  "The Miracle"

Today's prompt on The Daily Post is:  Is there a painting or sculpture you’re drawn to? What does it say to you? Describe the experience.

About forty years ago I took a course at Johns Hopkins University called “Images of Man in Modern Sculpture.”  Apologies for the lack of inclusive language, but that was 1976!   My teacher was Phoebe Stanton,the art critic for the Baltimore Sun. Our textbook was the Hirschhorn Museum in DC, as well as the Baltimore Museum of Art.

I believe it was at the Baltimore Museum of Art that I encountered the sculpture pictured above.
When I say encounter, I mean it.  I stood before it, transfixed, almost as transfixed as the human figure on the horse.

When I saw this prompt, this sculpture came to mind.

Its title is “The Miracle.”  What are they seeing, the man and the horse?

Or did the miracle happen inside me as I stood before it?


Today is also another day closer to Christmas, and here is my "O Antiphon" for today:

O seal of our yearning

glued on the long blue envelope

of sky,

Ciel of our yearning,

grey, mushy today in winter rain,

keep the ink of my prayer

from fade or blood.

 

"Blue Sky Horizon"  by Brian Graben

 

O Key of Rilke

"Bird and Key" by Christian Schloe




Waiting for my students to arrive for their exam from Introduction to Poetry... I'm attaching my poem of the day, from my O Antiphons, and inspired by the poet Rilke:

"The Key to Success"  by Carrie Jackson

O key of Rilke

where you wait for me

in the pages of the love poems,

O key of C, solid, predictable, yet sliding into

the key of see, often blurry, often double,

barely a quay of sea for me,

tenuous, untethered ,

loose on the wide ocean

of your mercy,

mer

si

merci.

 

 

 

 

 

"Key Keepers"  by Ilya Zomb

 

 

 

 

O Magritte Sky

"Beautiful World"   by Rene Magritte


Today begins the "O Antiphons."

from the USCCB website:

The Roman Church has been singing the "O" Antiphons since at least the eighth century. They are the antiphons that accompany the Magnificat canticle of Evening Prayer from December 17-23. They are a magnificent theology that uses ancient biblical imagery drawn from the messianic hopes of the Old Testament to proclaim the coming Christ as the fulfillment not only of Old Testament hopes, but present ones as well. Their repeated use of the imperative "Come!" embodies the longing of all for the Divine Messiah. 

Here's an artistic rendering of these by Philip Chircop SJ:

In English, they read:

 

O Wisdom of our God Most High,

O Lord of the House of Israel,

O Root of Jesse’s stem,

O Key of David,

O Radiant Dawn,

O King of all nations

O Emmanuel, our King and Giver of Law

But I have my own set of "O Antiphons", and I'm going to use one for each of these days.
They are really plays on words in some cases, and others, just private symbols of mine. But they are also poems and prayers:


I love some of the paintings I've found that depict some of these images, and will put them here, too.

So, to begin:

O Magritte sky

over the dead college,

over the government installation

between snowstorms at sunset,

classroom buildings black shoulders

trees creaking butlers in high relief,

bring me an illusion of reprieve.

 

 

"The Blank Page"  by Rene Magritte


 

 

 

 

"Territory" by Rene Magritte

BakingDay

Well, not the whole day, but all morning and part of the afternoon...
I had made the dough ahead of time and stored it in the freezer. For me, this is the most productive and least tiring process.
So today I baked:

1. Peanut Butter Hershey Kiss cookies
2. Thumbprint cookies

On previous days I baked:

1. Toll House cookies
2. Peanut butter chip cookies
3. Sugar cookies
4. Fruitcake cookies
5. Orange Marmalade bars
6. English Shortbreads
7. Berliner Kranze cookies

These photos are not mine; I was too busy baking to think about taking photos !   However, mine looked like these.
So I still have the Molasses Sugar Cookie dough in the freezer, and I am considering making some Italian cookies that I've never made before.
One of my ideas of heaven is making cookies in a roomy kitchen with a view of the lighted Christmas tree and carols playing on the CD player. This was realized for me today.

Unexpected Guests

Bilbo Baggins surrounded by unexpected guests

I’m brain dead from grading papers, and the finals are still to come!  That’s my excuse for lacking the imagination to spin a yard about unknown and unexpected guests turning up in my living room, eating cake. - Which was the prompt from The Daily Post today.


I am composing a poem in which the unexpected guests are metaphors… but it’s still percolating.
In the meantime, here are some works of art that depict unexpected guests:

“Unexpected Guests” by August Muller

“Unexpected Guests” by Yana Movchan

and then, here are peregrine falcons, who showed up as unexpected guests at Yorkminster Cathedral. They built a nest and raised their young there:

And then, Harry, Ron, and Hermione arrived as unexpected guests at the home of Xenophilius Lovegood:

Now I am thinking of the difference between a visitor and a guests. What is it?
“Oh, do not ask ‘what is it’ –  let us go and make our visit”   T.S.Eliot

In the Bleak Midwinter

"In the Bleak Midwinter " by Becca Merry



Today's poem from the Advent Literary Calendar ( BookRiot) is "In the Bleak Midwinter" by Christina Rosetti:

 

 

 

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,

 

Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;

 

Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,

 

In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

 

 

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;

 

Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.

 

In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed

 

The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

 

 

Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day,

 

Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;

 

Enough for Him, whom angels fall before,

 

The ox and ass and camel which adore.

 

 

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,

 

Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;

 

But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,

 

Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

 

 

What can I give Him, poor as I am?

 

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;

 

If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;

 

Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

 

 

 

Quilt by Ruth Power:   "In the Bleak Midwinter"

 

 

 

 

Print by Rebecca Thorne:  "In the Bleak Midwinter"

Saint Lucy's Day

These notes come from two websites:  American Catholic   and   The Catholic Company: 

“Lucia means “light” and so her feast day is celebrated with candles, torch lights, and even bonfires. Falling during the Advent season—and thus a long, dark winter—there are many beautiful traditions associating this saint with the meaning of her name, the story of her life, and her glorious position in heaven.”  The Catholic Company

                                                

In some Catholic cultures it’s common to have a Mass procession on St. Lucy’s feast day with young girls carrying candles, with the lead girl wearing a wreath of lights . Tradition holds that St. Lucy would wear a wreath of candles on her head so she could see better as she served the poor Christians hiding from persecution in the dark underground catacombs of Rome.

Many countries have special St. Lucy’s day traditions, but perhaps the most well-known are the ones of Italian and Scandinavian origin. According to this resource, in Sweden,

“the oldest daughter of a family will wake up before dawn on St. Lucy’s Day and dress in a white gown for purity, often with a red sash as a sign of martyrdom. On her head she will wear a wreath of greenery and lit candles, and she is often accompanied by ‘Star Boys,’ her small brothers who are dressed in white gowns and cone-shaped hats that are decorated with gold stars, and carrying star-tipped wands. ‘St. Lucy’ will go around her house and wake up her family to serve them special St. Lucy Day foods” which were usually baked sweets.

 

 

The other part of the story of Saint Lucy is that she was an early Christian martyr,  from Syracuse in Sicily.  Many legends abound about her martyrdom. The most prevailing one is that the torturers put out her eyes before they killed her.  Thus, she is the patron of persons with eye diseases.  So she is a friend of mine!

portrait of a lady as St. Lucy, by Giovanni Boltraffio




Painters over the years have let their imaginations run wild over this grisly martyrdom, usually including her extracted eyeballs in paintings of Saint Lucy:

Incres' version:

 

 

 

 and one by Domenico Beccafumi:

 

 

 

 

and this one, from the Griffony polyptych, National Gallery , DC:



As a poet, I am awed by John Donne's long and mysterious poem:

 

 

A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day

 

 

 

 

By  John Donne  

 

 

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,

 

Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;

 

         The sun is spent, and now his flasks

 

         Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;

 

                The world's whole sap is sunk;

 

The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,

 

Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk,

 

Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,

 

Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.

 

 

Study me then, you who shall lovers be

 

At the next world, that is, at the next spring;

 

         For I am every dead thing,

 

         In whom Love wrought new alchemy.

 

                For his art did express

 

A quintessence even from nothingness,

 

From dull privations, and lean emptiness;

 

He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot

 

Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.

 

 

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,

 

Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;

 

         I, by Love's limbec, am the grave

 

         Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood

 

                Have we two wept, and so

 

Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow

 

To be two chaoses, when we did show

 

Care to aught else; and often absences

 

Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

 

 

But I am by her death (which word wrongs her)

 

Of the first nothing the elixir grown;

 

         Were I a man, that I were one

 

         I needs must know; I should prefer,

 

                If I were any beast,

 

Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,

 

And love; all, all some properties invest;

 

If I an ordinary nothing were,

 

As shadow, a light and body must be here.

 

 

But I am none; nor will my sun renew.

 

You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun

 

         At this time to the Goat is run

 

         To fetch new lust, and give it you,

 

                Enjoy your summer all;

 

Since she enjoys her long night's festival,

 

Let me prepare towards her, and let me call

 

This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this

 

Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.