More Poems...

...of the memorizing kind.  

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Jabberwocky

BY LEWIS CARROLL

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: 
All mimsy were the borogoves, 
      And the mome raths outgrabe. 

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! 
|      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! 
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
      The frumious Bandersnatch!” 

He took his vorpal sword in hand; 
      Long time the manxome foe he sought— 
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
      And stood awhile in thought. 

And, as in uffish thought he stood, 
      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, 
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, 
      And burbled as it came! 

One, two! One, two! And through and through
      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! 
He left it dead, and with its head
      He went galumphing back. 

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? 
      Come to my arms, my beamish boy! 
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” 
      He chortled in his joy. 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: 
All mimsy were the borogoves, 
      And the mome raths outgrabe.

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Yet I Do Marvel
Countee Cullen

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending stair. 
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What awful brain compels His awful hand.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

Knocked Off Kilter

by the violence in Las Vegas and the unwillingness in this country to prevent it.  

But, continuing on in my narrow version of existence—I'm going back to the topic of memorizing poetry...

Things have become competitive here in seeing who can get Guest down first. (I have to admit that the "poem" is repetitive, and that makes memorizing hard.) Hard is good though, and the brain is a muscle, so it might be good to think of memorizing as a visit to a fitness center.  Here's a good article on the joys of memorization:  Got Poetry? 

And here is another possible subject in case Edward Guest is not your cup of tea. (More choices to come.)

  If Little Red Riding Hood
       by Jeff Moss 

If Little Red Riding Hood had a dad,
Perhaps things wouldn't have turned out so bad.
He'd have taught her the useful things a dad can teach you,
Like the difference between Grandma and a wolf who'll eat you.

He'd have brought her two photographs to let her see
How completely different two things can be.
He'd show her a picture of his kindly old mother,
And say, "Grandma's one thing. A wolf is another.

Grandma wants to hug you and give you a kiss.
A wolf wants to eat you, and he looks like this— 
Big teeth, big ears, and plenty of fur.
Now look at your grandma, does a wolf look like her?

Your report card was great, I know you're smart,
So it shouldn't be hard to tell them apart.
Now, please get to Grandma's before it gets dark,
Don't go through the forest, stay out of the park.

Don't stop to talk to any wolves you meet,
And don't wear that red thing when you walk down the street. "

Memorize

Now is just as good a time as anytime to memorize a poem.  And, we all should. Great for young people. Even better than Tai Chi for old people.

Actually, I was thinking of calling this post "The Unattended Garden" which has a nice ring to it, and is factual. But tonight I thought poetry should take precedence. (The photos, however, are of the unattended garden,  which actually looks ready to provide quite a bountiful crop of squash and beets.)

But, anyway.

Memorizing poetry was at one time considered an important part of pedagogy. That idea faded in the glare of the technological revoulution; but, recently, those in the know have begun to remind us of the benefits.

"Memorize a poem. Find your kindred spirits across the centuries so that — as W. H. Auden counseled — you might, 'composed like them/Of Eros and of dust,/Beleaguered by the same/Negation and despair, /Show an affirming flame.'”

So here's the deal: anyone who reads this blog (and the Force be with you if you do) and everyone else within that sphere of influence (of any age), shall commit to memorizing a poem—haiku okay, but preferably something of more than a few stanzas. Below is the one I'm working on (and about halfway there).

Then, at various times, whenever in company assembled: recitations.

Any poem is fine, or this one, or any of those I will post in future blogs.

I know the piece below is by Edgar Guest, and a bit on the trite and schmaltzy side, but for this purpose, ALMOST anything goes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It Couldn't Be Done

Edgar Albert Guest

Somebody said that it couldn't be done
But he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it!

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;
At least no one ever has done it;"
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat
And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure,
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.

Big Party

In honor of Will's 6th.  

Errands and Projects

...and a ride to the prairie.  Another perfect (if dry) day with a cool north wind counterbalanced by a bright, warm sun. In spite of everything, Pax and I got in a bike/run to the prairie, which has now almost completed its annual cycle. (I plan to put together a photo essay of a prairie year, from spring burn to first frost.)

Big bluestem, about 7 feet tall.

Perfect Weather, Busy Day

But no rain for a month.  

Now the summer perch flips twice and glides
a lateral fathom at the first cold rain,
the surface near to silver from a frosty hill.
Along the weed and grain of log he slides his tail.

Nervously the trout (his stream-toned heart
locked in the lake, his poise and nerve disgraced)
above the stirring catfish, curves in bluegill dreams
and curves beyond the sudden thrust of bass.

Surface calm and calm act mask the detonating fear,
the moving crayfish claw, the stare
of sunfish hovering above the cloud-stained sand,
a sucker nudging cans, the grinning maskinonge.

How do carp resolve the eel and terror here?
They face so many times this brown-ribbed fall of leaves
predicting weather foreign as a shark or prawn
and floating still above them in the paling sun.

Richard Hugo

Another Blog?

Abby is suggesting that I do another blog (actually that Pax and I do it)—a two-or-three-time-a-week nature/scientific blog—completely separate from this blog but loosely affiliated with KWill Publishing. Aimed at middle school level readers. No personal or family stuff, just our observations; perhaps called "Rambles With Paxton" in deference to Steinbeck's "Travels With Charlie." Or something else?

I guess that seems like a good idea? (Writing is pastime, after all.) So, as an audition (or pilot blog post), please see below the fold. (N.B. I can only write one blog a day so what's down there will have to do.)

I can say, however, in passing, that a dry cold front moved though last night, and conditions are now very pleasant, if also very, very dry.

Right now I can see four squirrels working in the back yard. They hop from one spot to another, stop, sit up, maybe chew something, then hop to another spot. Often they dig. Once in a while they chase each other up and down a bush.

I call what they are doing work because they stick to it, never seem to take a break, and do it from first light until it’s too dark to see. Each squirrel seems to be working on its own, no teamwork, but never any real fights either.

I’m quite sure that they are not just snacking all day long, but actually thinking ahead, planning for the future so to speak. They take the things they find—seeds, nuts, dried crab apples, dried bits of mushroom—and bury them. They are putting these food items into storage, for the lean times to come. 

Wait, I just saw one of my backyard workers jump at a robin—shooing it away from a tasty morsel.

I know they are burying some of the stuff they collect because I find little divots all over the yard, and because every spring sunflowers sprout up in odd places (seeds taken from the bird feeder). One morning last winter I saw a dozen squirrels gathered underneath the feeder.

Why are there so many squirrels in this neighborhood? Could there be too many? One or more of them chewed a hole in the corner of my neighbor’s garage door, because, I assume, dog food was stored inside. We found a big squirrel nest in the attic of this house when we moved in. ( But I found their sneaky entrance holes and patched them up.)

Its a basic fact of ecology that a population of animals will keep expanding until the resources they are living off are used up. Then “survival of the fittest” kicks in.

I think the large population of squirrels in this neighborhood is the result the the great number of trees, including many oaks and walnuts, in all the yards and especially in the park across the street. Also a lot of bird feeders. Also because of a lack of predators. 

Actually, I should say, because of a small number of predators. We can't forget about Pax. Pax, as we know, is a terrier, born and bred to hunt rodents. When he was younger he used to chase every squirrel he saw, and would sometimes catch one, which was a rather gruesome and unhappy ending for that animal. Survival of the fittest again—Pax catching the slowest ones, those not quick-witted enough to know a dog is dangerous, or those just not fast enough to make it to the safety of a tree.

Are predators necessary and good? Aldo Leopold thinks so. His essay “Thinking Like a Mountain” in A Sand County Almanac shows what happens when predators are wiped out. 

Pax isn’t mean and nasty, btw. He isn’t cruel, either. He’s just doing what comes naturally.

Did I say that the hard working squirrels in my back yard were thinking ahead and planning for the future? On second thought, I don’t think so. What I really think is that they are motivated by instinct. They have a feeling in their bones that if they don’t do all their collecting, hopping, and digging right now they won’t be around next spring.

Countless Little Things

Unpacking, sorting, rearranging, replacing, hooking up, reconnecting. (And, almost everything working.)

Evening visit to Whitewater City Market.   Pulled pork sandwiches from Casual Joe's smokehouse.

Yes, the joys of civilization. Of course there were nearly half a dozen major siren events, and the "Proud Boys" are back in the house around the corner with their big Trump banner across the front of their garage. (In fairness, they are the oddballs in Whitewater.)

Furthermore, Pax loves retracing his favorite routes and checking up on past events, and he even got to chase a cat.

Slightly Disoriented...

...but, overall, glad to be home.

The ideas is...you come home in the fall when the weather up north is cold, damp and trending awful; and you want to retreat and retract into a snug space where you can tuck yourself away for the winter. So what do you do when it has been 91 degrees (F) pretty much since you began driving at 8 a.m.?

You unpack the vehicles, turn on the AC, and be glad you are not in Puerto Rico.

Red Sky at Morning

However, the only warning seems to be a heat advisory.  

Water system pulled and cottage winterized (one can hope), and on the road by noon and to St. Ignace by six. 

And another phantasmagorical face, this one smiling “see you soon.” 

Ninety-eight Point Seven

No, not the temperature (though close), nor the number of mosquitoes per cubic centimeter (though close), but the amount done in terms of shutting down and packing up. We are close to departure-ready, and looking forward to air conditioning and junk food. 

Winterizing Hotly

Again too hot and buggy to enjoy the odious tasks of winterizing.  But we did go for a fine late afternoon swim (having to climb over boulders to swimming depth), and the chilly water served well as balm for heat related aggravations.

Powerful, but narrow, band of thunderstorms slipped by just about suppertime, providing a nice cool-down.

Last Hurrah

Thomson’s and Lloyd’s for dinner. Sue did a lot of hard work in a hot kitchen.  

I'd complain about the weather if it weren't worse pretty much everywhere else. It is hard, though, to do the necessary shut-down chores when it's so muggy and buggy.

Haze, Fog, and a Little Rain

Humid, in other words.  

Gore Bay

It was hot and sweaty work, but, as time is running out, trees got planted. Three larch (tamarack), two black locust, and four Kentucky coffeetree (started from Whitewater seeds). Not that there aren't enough trees here already, but because the stand of tall, spindly ash trees between the front deck and the shore is not going to be here forever, replacements must be underplanted—or else. It will be interesting to see what the property looks like in 50 years—with any luck a few ash will remain, along with some hackberry, swamp white oak, larch, locust, and coffeetree...plus native cedar, balsam, and spruce. And, of course, poplar.

We are focused on shutdown. Though it feels like we just got here, the plan is to pull up stakes on Sunday.

Afternoon Sail

Seems to have become a habit, on these lovely autumn afternoons. Brisk NE breeze today, giving us a lively ride all across the bay, and back, while playing games with some substantial waves over on the west side. 

Crossed paths with Wolf on the way back, as the wind was lying down.

Only two sails on the bay all day long. And we are feeling guilty, when so much of the world is being ravaged. Perhaps Mother Nature is letting us know that she won't be trumped.

Thanks to Sue for the photos.

Tamiasciurus, Meleagris, Odocoileus, etcetera.

While life here may not be too wild, there is a lot of wildlife.  

Long ago now, back in the spring, I was worried that our little red squirrel population had been wiped out. Recently, however, it has been obvious that I was wrong—the population seems strong, just spread out so that each squirrel has its own territory sufficient for survival. Today, as I wandered around, I was scolded by quite a number of individuals.

This flock is oblivious of the day on the calendar marked "Thanksgiving."

And the white-tailed deer? They are getting their darker winter coat, but seem to have no idea what season is actually approaching. It's almost to the point where deer-catchers (like cow-catchers) will have to mounted to the front end of automobiles.

Not Much

Too warm for work, and thanks to colds, not enough energy to do any anyway. Did manage a dump run and a little grocery shopping. 

Sunny, and windy. A little evening rain breaking a long dry spell.  

Best Day of Summer So Far

Apparently hurricanes to the south make for spectacular summer weather in the north. We have, however, been rather hoping for a return to fall.

Although the marina is closed, quite a few people were around town today, including a family of five, with twins, at the beach, and a rally of more than a dozen Miatas by the farmer's market pavilion.

Who Is This Guy?

The face in the umbrella.  

I think he's scowling because of the weather(too hot and humid) and because those of us here are under the weather to a greater or lesser degree.  

High Pressure...

...weather system.  Calm. Warm, and humid, and sunny (with a strange high cloudiness). Things getting dry, and water level dropping (partly, I believe, due to high pressure pushing the water away from here).

Geese heading south, and sandhill cranes flocking in preparation for their migration.