THEN AND NOW – HERE AND THERE

         (Photo Source: Google internet images)

(16 June 2012 – Well, corn is on sale at Safeway and very plentiful at the local Farmer's Market.  I really enjoy adding corn to salads, soups, salsa, and especially to my homemade corn bread (fresh corn kernels adds a great texture for a Tex Mex cornbread recipe). 

Below is a short offering I wrote, in which I mention how Summer is a time for leisure and fun -- to be enjoyed while one may, for Winter is not far behind those Summer days where one must forage for the good times. 

Also, below is my maternal Cousin Emily Elizabeth Dickinson's poem #930, in which she writes of her reflections on Summer and harvesting of corn and rose blooms turning into hose hips / seeds, having a sad face that turns bright red with cheer in time, feeling both the warmth of Summer and the frosty sorrow of Winter, and finally comparing our Summer and our Winter feelings and circumstance and wondering which really one prefers.  dht) 

  

THERE IS a Time for Summer play –

A moment of Joy before it strays.

WHERE IS the Age for Winter forage –

A blink of an eye before all's rendered passage.

[Dorothy Hazel Tarr]

  

 There is a June when Corn is cut
And Roses in the Seed —
A Summer briefer than the first
But tenderer indeed

As should a Face supposed the Grave's
Emerge a single Noon
In the Vermilion that it wore
Affect us, and return —

Two Seasons, it is said, exist —
The Summer of the Just,
And this of Ours, diversified
With Prospect, and with Frost —

May not our Second with its First
So infinite compare
That We but recollect the one
The other to prefer?

[Poem #930 by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson] 

JUST AS YOU SEE

[Photo source: GOOGLE online images]

(18 May 2012 – Does it ever seem that time is just a stage for us to act out our Lives—where the costumes and adornments cloak one's Journey on a Path that seems to stretch beyond tomorrow?  Stories of old tell the tale of faith and myth to sooth the soul and pacify the mind.  The Journey begins with a breath and ends with an exhausting sigh.  dht)

There are some days, where the whimsy in one just needs to shine.  Nothing in the ordinary will do!  The fanciful mood takes flight and soars – wanting only the adornment of time, space, and place.

What moment out of time doth suit my purpose?

What realm will hearken to my Heart's Desire?

What venue will serve my circumstance?

The play is about to begin – the house is full to overflowing.  The script has been rehearsed.  The director calls the actors to action.  Life after all is just a play – with the characters each hosting their part.

When is the play to end ? When the story is told.  When the curtain comes down.  When the audience vacates their places.  When the players have done with their roles.

The purpose in mind is Just As You See.  There is nothing more.  The play is done.  The actors gone.  The audience withdrawn to their next venue.

Life is Just As You See.  There is nothing more.  All else is fancy and myth.

[Dorothy Hazel Tarr]

Related themes:

"All the world's a stage" is the phrase that begins a monologue from William Shakespeare's As You Like It, spoken by the melancholy Lord Jaques, a Lord attending the banished Duke.  It is one of Shakespeare's most frequently quoted passages.  The idea that "all the world's a stage" was already clichéd when Shakespeare wrote As You Like It.  Therefore, Jaques is intended to sound at least a little pretentious here.  Jaques (pronounced "jay-keys" or "jay-kweez") is the resident sourpuss in the Forest of Arden, home to political exiles, banished lovers, and simple shepherds.  Jacques' speech compares the world to a stage and life to a play, and catalogues the seven stages of a man's life, sometimes referred to as the seven ages of man: infant, school-boy, lover, soldier, justice, pantaloon, and second childhood, "sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything" {"sans" meaning without}.  

WIKIPEDIA on William Shakespeare (baptised 26 April 1564; died 23 April 1616) was an English poet and playwright, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/All_the_world's_a_stage

"As You Like It", Act Two, Scene 7, Lines 139-166, by William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages.  At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school.  And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow.  Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth.  And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part.  The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound.  Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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The Path Behind

                            [Photo Source: Google online images]

(23 OCT 2011 - Who is to say how long the Journey?  How long the Heartache?  How long the grieving?  Who can say – when it's done?  There is but ONE LIFE, but many ROADS and many TEARS to pave a Path!  Never again to relive those precious moments Past – Yet Never really living the Present!  Forevermore living on the sidelines and shadows! ~dht-2011)

The Past is so hard to release – 

at times, it is the only Reality –

the only Companion.

There is only the Past –

there is Nothing to take its place –

in the Here, Now, or Future.

The Path ahead holds no interest –

holds no variation –

holds no Hope.

Tis a never ending struggle –

putting one foot in front of the other –

getting through the daily serving –

of Heartache and Despair.

My daily walk -- Footsore –

with wounded Heart --

with eyes continually looking –

at The Path Behind.

[Dorothy Hazel Tarr - 2011]

EVERYDAY WORDS - EVERYDAY THOUGHTS

[PHOTO CREDIT: Google online images]

(On Friday, 8 July 2011, I wrote about one of my Maternal Cousin Emily Elizabeth Dickinson's poems. This poem has NO TITLE (for she did not title her writings), but it is listed in the book of her poems that I have, by just the first line. The poem is below; and I added some comments below it.  

ENJOY the poem!!  And if you have never read any of her writings, you are in for a Journey of Heart and Thought. dht-2011)

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Your thoughts don't have words every day

They come a single time

Like signal esoteric sips

Of the communion Wine

Which while you taste so native seems

So easy so to be

You cannot comprehend its price

Nor its infrequency

[#1452 - A Poem by --  Emily Elizabeth Dickinson]

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Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet (and my maternal Cousin).  Born in Amherst, Massachusetts.

WEB SITE

[ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson ]

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DEF: "esoteric" Adjective: Intended for or likely to be understood by only a small number of people with a specialized knowledge or interest.

In this poem, my Cousin EMILY says to ME that there are NOT words enough to describe every feeling and emotion that float through my mind every day. Moreover, that the meaning of some thoughts is confusing to some who do not know my circumstance or me. In addition, some 'words' when said or written have a 'price' that is a toll paid by the author for their effect on the emotions and attitude of self and others.

EMILY did not follow the typical path of a woman of her time for she never married. She lived a solitary life in her parent's home taking care of the household and her parents during their lifetime and illness and after their deaths and living alone in the homestead in Amherst, Massachusetts. She spent many hours conjugating the mental processes and writing down some of her feelings and thoughts about her life, nature, faith, love, death, and other topics. In over 1700 poems and writings, that are known about, she recorded on paper (by hand -- no computers or MSWord) her thoughts in 'words'. Today she is considered a genius with the use of words, and there are college courses, books, museums, and historical societies that are dedicated to reading her 'words' and analyzing each punctuation, phrase, topic, and nuance.

The EMILY DICKINSON MUSEUM comprises two historic houses in the center of Amherst, Massachusetts associated with the poet Emily Dickinson and members of her family during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The Homestead was the birthplace and home of the poet Emily Dickinson. The Evergreens, next-door, was home to her brother Austin, his wife Susan, and their three children. The Museum was created in 2003 when the two houses merged under the ownership of Amherst College. Its mission is to educate diverse audiences about Emily Dickinson’s life, family, creative work, times, and enduring relevance, and to preserve and interpret the Homestead and The Evergreens as historical resources for the benefit of scholars and the general public.

WEB SITES

[ http://www.emilydickinsonmuseum.org/ ]

[ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson_Museum ]

For myself, I believe EMILY'S 'words' and her poetry and writings can be best enjoyed when applied to my own life and experiences. In this way, I am internalizing her whispered words that murmur to my heart and that put a 'period' to my feelings and thoughts. Sometimes, I find that by reading something she has written, I am better able to gain clarity on a point in my life. Clarity helps remove the confusion and shadows that intrude and hinder the 'walk of life'. There are enough 'boulders' and 'rough seas' that make the Journey difficult!

I am reminded of a time that a DEAR FRIEND of mine, helped me to reach clarity at a time, a couple of years ago, when I was baffled and confused. My friend listened to me describe my status and said that it sounded like I was experiencing DEEP GRIEF. This was a welcome realization and helped me put into perspective the many confusing feelings and thoughts that floated through my mind and heart and fell softly on to my wet cheeks. Grief is a personal process that no 'words' can explain, but 'words' in a Poem, a Prayer, or from a DEAR FRIEND can help the healing process through the solitary feelings from loss of loved ones.

[Dorothy Hazel Tarr - 2011]

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ELEVATION -- A Poem

[PHOTO Source and Credit:  Courtesy of  J.M. Hire]

(10 JUN 2011 – A special THANK  YOU to my kindred spirit "CAMV" for sharing this poem with me and for her sister "JMH" for the two beautiful photos to partner with the words of the poem.  ENJOY!!  Dorothy Hazel Tarr - 2011)

SOURCE LINKS

I was new to the poetry and writings of this French poet before my kindred spirit shared the poem ELEVATION.  I want to explore more of his writings. Here is some info from wikipedia  about him.

[ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Baudelaire ]

Charles Baudelaire (April 9, 1821 – August 31, 1867) was a French poet who produced notable work as an essayist, art critic, and pioneering translator of Edgar Allan Poe. His most famous work, Les Fleurs du mal (The Flowers of Evil) expresses the changing nature of beauty in modern, industrializing Paris during the nineteenth century. Baudelaire's highly original style of prose-poetry influenced a whole generation of poets including Paul Verlaine, Arthur Rimbaud and Stéphane Mallarmé among many others. He is credited with coining the term "modernity" (modernité) to designate the fleeting, ephemeral experience of life in an urban metropolis, and the responsibility art has to capture that experience.
Philosophy --  Many of Baudelaire's philosophical proclamations were considered scandalous and intentionally provocative in his time. He wrote on a wide range of subjects, drawing criticism and outrage from many quarters.
It is interesting to me, to note that Charles Baudelaire knew the painter Édouard Manet.

Manet and Baudelaire became constant companions from around 1855. In the early 1860s, Baudelaire accompanied Manet on daily sketching trips and often met him socially. Manet also lent Baudelaire money and looked after his affairs, particularly when Baudelaire went to Belgium. Baudelaire encouraged Manet to strike his own path and not succumb to criticism. "Manet has great talent, a talent which will stand the test of time. But he has a weak character. He seems to me crushed and stunned by shock". In his painting Music in the Tuileries, Manet includes portraits of his friends Théophile Gautier, Jacques Offenbach, and Baudelaire. While it's difficult to differentiate who influenced whom, both Manet and Baudelaire discussed and expressed some common themes through their respective arts. Baudelaire praised the modernity of Manet's subject matter: "almost all our originality comes from the stamp that 'time' imprints upon our feelings".  

When Manet's famous Olympia (1865), a portrait of a nude prostitute, provoked a scandal for its blatant realism mixed with an imitation of Renaissance motifs, Baudelaire worked privately to support his friend, though he offered no public defense (he was, however, ill at the time). When Baudelaire returned from Belgium after his stroke, Manet and his wife were frequent visitors at the nursing home and she would play passages from Wagner for Baudelaire on the piano.

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ELEVATION
(NOTE:  This poem was originally written in FRENCH, and there are may translations on the Internet.  Below is one translation.  dht-2011)

[~A Poem by Charles Baudelaire, translated by William A. Sigler]

[ http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/elevation/ ]

Above the ponds, beyond the valleys,
The woods, the mountains, the clouds, the seas,
Farther than the sun, the distant breeze,
The spheres that wilt to infinity.

My spirit, you move with agility
And, like a good swimmer who swoons in the wave
You groove the depths immensity gave,
The inexpressible and male ecstasy.

From this miasma of waste,
You will be purified in superior air
And drink a pure and divine liqueur,
A clear fire to replace the limpid space.

Behind this boredom and fatigue, this vast chagrin
Whose weight moves the mists of existence,
Happy is he who vigorously fans the senses
Toward serene and luminous fields—wincing!

The one whose thoughts are like skylarks taken wing
Across the heavens mornings in full flight
Who hovers over life, understanding without effort
The language of flowers and mute things.

SOURCES OF some interesting YOUTUBE LINKS —

Printed in french with instrumental video:

[ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDXd2wFIZK8&feature=related ]

 Read in French with instrumental music:

[ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVpJoDOxxDw&feature=related ]

 Sung in French by Patricia Guede with instrumental music by Regis Flecheau and photos:

[ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYzHVLnt2NE ]

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[PHOTO Source and Credit: Courtesy of  J.M. Hire]

Just Butterflies - and - Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

PHOTO SOURCE: National Geographic online images]

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Butterfly – A poem #354 by Emily Dickinson

From Cocoon forth a Butterfly

As Lady from her Door
Emerged -- a Summer Afternoon --
Repairing Everywhere --

Without Design -- that I could trace

Except to stray abroad
On Miscellaneous Enterprise
The Clovers -- understood --

Her pretty Parasol be seen

Contracting in a Field
Where Men made Hay –
Then struggling hard
With an opposing Cloud –

Where Parties -- Phantom as Herself --

To Nowhere -- seemed to go
In purposeless Circumference --
As 'twere a Tropic Show --


And notwithstanding Bee -- that worked --
And Flower -- that zealous blew --
This Audience of Idleness
Disdained them, from the Sky --

Till Sundown crept -- a steady Tide –

And Men that made the Hay –
And Afternoon -- and Butterfly –
Extinguished -- in the Sea --

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[PHOTO SOURCE: National Geographic online images]

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Butterfly – A poem #541 by Emily Dickinson

Some such Butterfly be seen

On Brazilian Pampas --
Just at noon -- no later -- Sweet --
Then -- the License closes --

Some such Spice -- express and pass --

Subject  to Your Plucking --
As the Stars -- You knew last Night --
Foreigners -- This Morning –

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 [PHOTO SOURCE: National Geographic online images]

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Butterfly – A poem #533 by Emily Dickinson

Two Butterflies went out at Noon --

And waltzed upon a Farm --
Then stepped straight through the Firmament
And rested, on a Beam --

And then -- together bore away

Upon a shining Sea --
Though never yet, in any Port --
Their coming, mentioned -- be --

If spoken by the distant Bird --

If met in Ether Sea
By Frigate, or by Merchantman --
No notice -- was -- to me --

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A SPECIAL THANK YOU for a PERFECT gift and remembrance from a KINDRED SPIRIT and FRIEND -- A Book of Poems by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson. This Book is very special to me, for it was only this year (2011) that I was delightfully surprised to find that Emily and I had the same maternal "many" great grandparents.  I am delighted to call Emily my maternal Cousin. And, I am very grateful for Ancestry.com for help in researching my Family History.  Many thanks again for this wonderful Book of Poetry goes to my SPECIAL FRIEND who knows how much Family and Friendship mean to me.  -- WITH warm affection, respect, and friendship, Dee [Dorothy Hazel Tarr - 2011]

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