Friday, July 31, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I'm totally smitten with scapes. By which I don't mean landscapes or seascapes (although I do love those, too) but garlic scapes! That's what they call the tops of garlic plants--the last several inches of stem with the buds of would-be garlic flowers--available at farmers' markets this time of year.
Friday, July 17, 2009
You've got to read this piece by Ben Greenman called "The First Hundred (Dog) Days" from today's New York Times. It offers a light-hearted touch to this (very foggy where I am) Friday morning.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Yesterday I ran across a favorite set of lines from Walt Whitman, part of his "Song of Myself". So here they are, without adornment or commentary from me:
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Some days this is just the poem that fits. Especially on a perfect summer day in Maine like this day.
i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of allnothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
PS. The image is of one of my painting from last summer, which seems to fit the "leaping greenly spirits of trees" idea.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
After midnight I woke up,
shook off sleep and stumbled
out of the cabin into the darkness
that was—amazing!—full of light.
The whole sky was spread before me
twice: the white spool of the moon, a few
milky blue-grey clouds, and a thousand stars
drifted above the pond and in the pond
without distortion. Then some faint breath
of wind or gentle fish ripple
wobbled the moon, and two
glittering threads traveled across the dark
silk of the pond—two luminous strands unraveled
from the spool of the moon. The air was chill
and damp; the beckoning of sleep
a warm cocoon. Even so
I lingered in the clear air, alone
and happy, an accidental witness
of this dazzling secret, this
extravagant beauty opening in the dark
after midnight—unfolding one way or
another every night, for no one
in particular, even for
no one at all.