Finding Out About Fish

Oh, Marcia,
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsichord.
I want high school report cards to look like this:

Playing with Gentle Glass Things
A

Computer Magic
A

Writing Letters to Those You Love
A

Finding out about Fish
A

Marcia's Long Blonde Beauty
A+!

Richard Brautigan, "Gee, You're so Beautiful That It's Starting to Rain"

Late Coffee and Oranges

Today, the first segment of Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning," which I adore, cannot help but adore.

I
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

Dinosaur, Colorado

Passing through here en route to Sundance a couple months back, I was amused by the number of enormous dino statues to be found in this tiny, tiny town. Last count: 37

The Polished Brass Knobs on Their Horns

Those of them that were spotted with white reflected the sunshine in dazzling brilliancy, and the polished brass knobs on their horns glittered with something of military display. Their large-veined udders hung ponderous as sandbags, the teats sticking out like the legs of a gipsy's crock; and as each animal lingered for her turn to arrive the milk oozed forth and fell on drops to the ground. The dairymaids and men had flocked down from their cottages and out of the dairy-house with the arrival of the cows from the meads; the maids walking in patterns, not on account of the weather, but to keep their shoes above the mulch of the barton. Each girl sat down on her three-legged stool, her face sideways, her right cheek resting against the cow; and looked musingly along the animal's flank at Tess as she approached.

Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d'Urbervilles

Dusk, Dirt

Let ladybugs go in the garden; 3,500 of them. Tickly and joyous. We were beside ourselves with glee in the dusk and in the dirt, limbs covered in ladybugs. What could be prettier?

Jealousy, Pigeons

Those dastardly folks over at Apartment Therapy have made me simultaneously broken-hearted and deliriously happy today. This post, about a pigeon house-turned-storage shed-turned-guest house, is killing me due to its wonderful/jealousy-inspiring pics. Anyone who knows me well knows that I'm constantly on the lookout for a turret to live in. Preferably a standalone turret. A tiny one. Mmmmph.

Little Noose, Little Loop

This sexy little thing from Mary Ann Samyn's keeping, careful Captivity Narrative:

Femme Fatale Alice

Little noose, little loop
of cloth cut and the button's
free, fake pearl gleaming
between his teeth. I've learned
you never know: even my plain dress
can set him thinking, and pleats
are worse--the iron's edge thrills
and makes him jealous.
He says deep pockets imply
occupation: his hands
now a schoolboy's complaining
how cold. Strange
the way he likes my shoes,
begs to touch heels and laces,
my mosquito-bitten ankles.
Who knew he'd call my name
this way, whisper
I was the slip-and-fall
rabbit hole waiting to happen?

Birdhouse, Blue

A beauty.

Furrows, Lees

This bit from Tennyson's "Ulysses" for Tuesday's furrowed forehead:

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me --
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads ...
Come, my friends.
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides: and though
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
One equal temper of heroic hearts
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Welcome, Goslings

In celebration, this bit from E.B. White's lovely, lovely Charlotte's Web:

Except for the goose herself, Charlotte was the the first to know that the goslings had at last arrived. The goose knew a day in advance that they were coming--she could hear their weak voices calling from inside the egg. She knew that they were in a desperately cramped position inside the shell and were most anxious to break through and get out. So she sat quite still, and talked less than usual.

When the first gosling poked its grey-green head through the goose's feathers and looked around, Charlotte spied it and made the announcement.

"I am sure," she said, "that every one of us here will be gratified to learn that after four weeks of unremitting effort and patience on the part of our friend the goose, she now has something to show for it. The goslings have arrived. May I offer my sincere congratulations!"

First Milk, Beestings

It is a habit of mine--likely a nasty one--of hurling things I love at people I love. Barbara Hamby has a lovely poem in which the speaker describes giving a multiple-choice test (maybe on Keats?) to potential suitors. While I'm not sure it would be the kind thing to do--required reading--I'm also often bursting with things that it's difficult to get very far without some spilling out; part of me thinks it's only fair to give those I love a fighting chance when these things invariably slip into conversation. It's terrible, I know.

Nonetheless, it's often all I can do to keep myself from opening the second-story window and hurling loveliness (wax candles and mittens and buttons) at those walking down the street. I'm hoping my entries here will sate that desire, if only a little. I'm sure it wouldn't do to leave anyone bruised.

So, an offering of first milk, beestings: That milk which starts sort of flowing out of mammals in late pregnancy, the kind that mothers burst with, that milk maids never pull.

All This Juice, All This Joy

I'm needing a little spring today, what with the May Day blizzard going on outside my window. This offering, from Gerard Manley Hopkins:

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring--
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightenings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden.--Have, get before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.