Well, did some reading this morning while waiting for my computer to do its virus scan/update and I'm half way through "Lean Mean Thirteen". Could probably finish it this afternoon but I also want to do some stitching. Also spent time catching up on emails, friends' blogs, egroups, etc. And adding to my to-do list for tomorrow!!

A Grave

Man looking into the sea,
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have to it yourself,
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,
but you cannot stand in the middle of this;
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey foot at the top,
reserved as their contours, saying nothing;
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea;
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look--
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate them
for their bones have not lasted:
men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave,
and row quickly away--the blades of the oars
moving together like the feet of water spiders as if there were no such thing as death.
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx--beautiful under networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed;
the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting catcalls as heretofore--
the tortoise shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath them;
and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of bell buoys,
advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink--
in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.

Marianne Moore
1887 -1972

A lovely sunshine day today, which is wonderful after several days of pelting rain and winds. Rupert is the only place I've ever lived where it actually does rain sideways at times.

Still Falls the Rain

Still falls the Rain--
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss--
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross.

Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammerbeat
In the Potters' Field, and the sound of the impious feet
On the Tomb:
Still falls the Rain
In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us--
On Dives and on Lazarus:
Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.

Still falls the Rain--
Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man's wounded Side
He bears in his Heart all wounds,--those of the light that died,
The last faint spark
In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,
The wounds of the baited bear,--
The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat
On his helpless flesh . . . the tears of the hunted hare.

Still falls the Rain--
Then--O Ile leape up to my God: who pulls me doune--
See, see where Christ's blood streames in the firmament
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree
Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart
That holds the fires of the world,--dark-smirched with pain
As Caesar's laurel crown.

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man
Was once a child who among beasts has lain--
'Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee.'

Dame Edith Sitwell
1887 - 1964

This is my latest cross stitch finish - Autumn Angel. It's a Stoney Creek pattern - another insert for a mouse pad and the last of the series of the seasons.



Spent some time doing physio yesterday afternoon - I've lost a little mobility in the arm where my lymphnodes were removed in March and they're trying to bring back as much as possible. Interesting experience. The exercises seemed simple enough, but there was a little ache last night as I was stitching. It's all gone today though.



And spent more time in the hospital this morning getting labwork done. I see my doctor every 3 months to get my meds renewed and I have to have the labwork done before every visit so he can see if there are changes needed. I swear I'm on a first name basis with all the lab staff!



Know Then Thyself



Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,
The proper study of mankind is Man.
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
A being darkly wise and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act or rest,
In doubt to deem himself a God or Beast,
In doubt his mind or body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reasoning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such
Whether he thinks too little or too much:
Chaos of thought and passion, all confused;
Still by himself abused, or disabused;
Created half to rise and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled;
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!
Go, wondrous creature! mount where science guides:
Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides:
Instruct the planets in what orbs to run,
Correct old time and regulate the Sun;
Go, soar with Plato to th' empyreal sphere,
To the first good, first perfect, and first fair;
Or tread the mazy round his follow'rs trod
And quitting sense call imitating God--
As Eastern priests in giddy circles run,
And turn their heads to imitate the Sun.
Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule:
Then drop into thyself, and be a fool!
Superior beings, when of late they saw
A mortal man unfold all nature's law,
Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape,
And showed a NEWTON as we show an ape.
Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind,
Describe or fix one movement of his mind?
Who saw its fires here rise and there descend,
Explain his own beginning or his end?
Alas, what wonder: man's superior part
Unchecked may rise, and climb from art to art,
But when his own great work is but begun,
What reason weaves by passion is undone.



Alexander Pope
1688 - 1744

Gotin a few good stitching sessions and have only back stitching to finish. YEAH!!!

The Haunted Palace

In the greenest of our valleys,
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace
(Radiant palace) reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow
(This, all this, was in the olden
Time long ago):
And every gentle air that dallied
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute's well-tuned law;
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate
(Ah! let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate);
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh--but smile no more.

Edgar Allan Poe
1809 - 1849

Not a lot happening although I did get in a couple of good stitching sessions. Progress on Autumn Angel can at least be seen.

If We Must Die

If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

Claude McKay
1890 - 1948

Tuesday night Cynthia and I went to see "Tangled" and enjoyed it immensely. It was laugh out loud funny in places and we came out of the theater feeling we had been thoroughly entertained.

Greater Love

Red lips are not so red
As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Kindness of wooed and wooer
Seems shame to their love pure.
O Love, your eyes lose lure
When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!

Your slender attitude
Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed,
Rollling and rolling there
Where God seems not to care;
Till the fierce love they bear
Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude.

Your voice sings not so soft, --
Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft, --
Your dear voice is not dear,
Gentle, and evening clear,
As theirs whom none now hear,
Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.

Heart, you were never hot
Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot;
And though your hand be pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your cross through flame and hail:
Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.

Wilfred Owen
1893 - 1918

Well, I'm feeling much better today - think I'm over the worst.

Spent a large chunk of yesterday doing back ups of files on my old computer. It's taking longer than I thought it would, but I don't want to change to my new one until this is done. It's interesting to see what I've kept over the years - and there was a bit of head scratching as I tried to remember what on earth caused me to keep a few things!

It's interesting with the poems lately - since they are based on popularity in anthologies sometimes you get groups of poems with a particular theme or a particular point of view.

next to of course god america i

"next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country 'tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water.

e.e. cummings
1894 - 1962

Dealing with a head cold, so I'm feeling miserable and cranky. Had to miss my cancer support luncheon yesterday and that didn't help my mood any but you can't take colds or flu where there are people who may be undergoing chemotherapy. Plus, you really don't want to share diseases with anyone!

In a Dark Time

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing woood --
A lord of nature weeping in a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks -- is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon.
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is --
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire,
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

Theodore Roethke
1908 - 1963

Weep You No More, Sad Fountains

Weep you no more, sad fountains;
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste.
But my sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets.
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at ev'n he sets?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes,
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Anonymous

Well, looks like the cold weather has settled in to stay for a while. The sunny days are lovely and sunset last night was gorgeous. Not impressed by the minus temperatures but you can't have everything. LOL

Whoso List to Hunt

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, helas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore
Since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written her fair neck round about:
"Noli me tangere for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold though I seem tame."

Sir Thomas Wyatt, 1503 - 1542

We're having more of those crisp, clear, chilly winter days. MUCH preferable to snow but people are complaining about having to scrap their car windows and de-icing doors. Cold temperatures and living on the coast are not always compatable.

Come Sleep! O Sleep, the Certain Knot of Peace

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low:
With shield of proof shield me from out the press
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
O make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light.
A rosy garland and a weary head;
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

Sonnet XXXIX
Sir Philip Sidney 1554 - 1586

His Golden Locks Time Hath to Silver Turned

His golden locks time hath to silver turned;
O time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned,
But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing.
Beauty, strength, youth are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love are roots, and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,
And, lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms,
A man-at-arms must now serve upon his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are age his alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He'll teach his swains this carol for a song --
"Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,
Curst be the souls that think her any wrong."
Goddess, allow this aged man his right,
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

George Peele

Happy New Year!

I know, it's January 5th already, but this is my first post of the year. Had a very quiet New Year's Eve, but I did manage to stay awake until midnight and see 2011 come in. And that doesn't always happen.

Did not get a lot of stitching done but there is some progress on mouse pad #4. Now to buckle down and get it and #5 done and sent away. It's a good thing these aren't Christmas gifts.

I got a new computer for Christmas! I'm so excited. This Notebook has been a life saver but I can't download my digital camera to it so that's why there have been so few pictures. The new one has a card reader so it will be so much easier. I just need to back up my old hard drive and then I can set up the new system.

It was weigh day yesterday and I am so discouraged - I went up 10.5 pounds. Yes, it was the holidays but I truly didn't think I had overindulged that much. I felt so defeated as I got off the scale. However, new resolve has come with a new morning and I start again.

When the Rye Reach to the Chin

When the rye reach to the chin,
And chopcherry, chopcherry ripe within,
Strawberries swimming in the cream,
And school-boys playing in the stream;
Then O, then O, then O my true love said,
Till that time come again,
She could not live a maid.

George Peele, c.1558 - c.1597