Arbor Vitae

Happy Arbor Day!

Arbor Vitae = Tree of Life

Arbor Vitae in the Human Cerebellum

Previous Arbor Day Posts
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023 & Veterans Day
Arbor Vitae

St. Mark's Day

~ The Feast of St. Mark ~

Charlottesville, Virginia

Venice, Italy

Two Very Long Poems for the Day

St. Mark
by D. H. Lawrence

There was a lion in Judah
Which whelped, and was Mark.
But winged.
A lion with wings.
At least at Venice.
Even as late as Daniele Manin.
Why should he have wings?
Is he to be a bird also?
Or a spirit?
Or a winged thought?
Or a soaring consciousness?
Evidently he is all that
The lion of the spirit.
Ah, Lamb of God
Would a wingless lion lie down before Thee,
as this winged lion lies?

The lion of the spirit.
Once he lay in the mouth of a cave
And sunned his whiskers,
And lashed his tail slowly, slowly
Thinking of voluptuousness
Even of blood.
But later, in the sun of the afternoon
Having tasted all there was to taste,
and having slept his fill

He fell to frowning, as he lay
with his head on his paws

And the sun coming in through
the narrowest fibril of a slit in his eyes.

So, nine-tenths asleep, motionless, bored,
and statically angry.
He saw in a shaft of light a lamb on a pinnacle,
balancing a flag on its paw.
And he was thoroughly startled.
Going out to investigate
He found the lamb beyond him,
on the inaccessible pinnacle of light.

So he put his paw to his nose, and pondered.
"Guard my sheep," came the silvery voice
from the pinnacle,

"And I will give thee the wings of the morning."
So the lion of the senses thought it was worth it.
Hence he became a curly sheep-dog with dangerous propensities
As Carpaccio will tell you:
Ramping round, guarding the flock of mankind,
Sharpening his teeth on the wolves,
Ramping up through the air like a kestrel
And lashing his tail above the world
And enjoying the sensation of heaven and righteousness and
voluptuous wrath.

There is a new sweetness in his voluptuously licking his paw
Now that it is a weapon of heaven.
There is a new ecstasy in his roar of desirous love
Now that it sounds self-conscious through the unlimited sky.
He is well aware of himself
And he cherishes voluptuous delights,
and thinks about them

And ceases to be a blood-thirsty king of beasts
And becomes the faithful sheep-dog of the Shepherd,
thinking of his voluptuous pleasures
of chasing the sheep to the fold

And increasing the flock, and perhaps giving a real nip
here and there, a real pinch, but always well meant.

And somewhere there is a lioness
The she-mate.
Whelps play between the paws of the lion
The she-mate purrs
Their castle is impregnable, their cave,
The sun comes in their lair, they are well-off
A well-to-do family.
Then the proud lion stalks abroad, alone
And roars to announce himself to the wolves
And also to encourage the red-cross Lamb
And also to ensure a goodly increase in the world.
Look at him, with his paw on the world
At Venice and elsewhere.
Going blind at last.

AND

The Eve of St. Mark: A Fragment
by John Keats

Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell,
That call’d the folks to evening prayer;
The city streets were clean and fair
From wholesome drench of April rains;
And, on the western window panes,
The chilly sunset faintly told
Of unmatur’d green valleys cold,
Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,
Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,
Of primroses by shelter’d rills,
And daisies on the aguish hills.
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell:
The silent streets were crowded well
With staid and pious companies,
Warm from their fire-side orat’ries;
And moving, with demurest air,
To even-song, and vesper prayer.
Each arched porch, and entry low,
Was fill’d with patient folk and slow,
With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,
While play’d the organ loud and sweet.

The bells had ceas’d, the prayers begun,
And Bertha had not yet half done
A curious volume, patch’d and torn,
That all day long, from earliest morn,
Had taken captive her two eyes,
Among its golden broideries;
Perplex’d her with a thousand things,—
The stars of Heaven, and angels’ wings,
Martyrs in a fiery blaze,
Azure saints and silver rays,
Moses’ breastplate, and the seven,
Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,
The winged Lion of St. Mark,
And the Covenantal Ark,
With its many mysteries,
Cherubim and golden mice.

Bertha was a maiden fair,
Dwelling in th’ old Minster-square;
From her fire-side she could see,
Sidelong, its rich antiquity,
Far as the Bishop’s garden-wall;
Where sycamores and elm-trees tall,
Full-leav’d, the forest had outstript,
By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,
So shelter’d by the mighty pile.
Bertha arose, and read awhile,
With forehead ’gainst the window-pane.
Again she try’d, and then again,
Until the dusk eve left her dark
Upon the legend of St. Mark.
From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin,
She lifted up her soft warm chin.
With arching neck and swimming eyes,
And daz’d with saintly imageries.

All was gloom, and silent all,
Save now and then the still foot-fall
Of one returning homewards late,
Past the echoing minster-gate.
The clamorous daws, that all the day
Above tree-tops and towers play,
Pair by pair had gone to rest,
Each in its ancient belfry nest,
Where asleep they fall betimes,
To music and the drowsy chimes.

All was silent, all was gloom,
Abroad and in the homely room:
Down she sat, poor cheated soul;
And struck a lamp from the dismal coal;
Lean’d forward, with bright drooping hair
And slant look, full against the glare.
Her shadow, in uneasy guise,
Hover’d about, a giant size,
On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,
The parrot’s cage, and panel square;
And the warm angled winter-screen,
On which were many monsters seen,
Call’d doves of Siam, Lima mice,
And legless birds of Paradise,
Macaw, and tender Avadavat,
And silken-furr’d Angora cat.
Untir’d she read, her shadow still
Glower’d about, as it would fill
The room with wildest forms and shades,
As though some ghostly Queen of spades
Had come to mock behind her back,
And dance, and ruffle her garments black.
Untir’d she read the legend page,
Of holy Mark, from youth to age,
On land, on sea, in pagan chains,
Rejoicing for his many pains.
Sometimes the learned eremite,
With golden star, or dagger bright,
Referr’d to pious poesies
Written in smallest crow-quill size
Beneath the text: and thus the rhyme
Was parcel’d out from time to time:

——‘Als writith he of swevenis,
Men han beforne they wake in bliss,
Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound
In crimped shroude farre under grounde:
And how a litling childe mote be
A saint er its nativitie,
Gif that the modre (God her blesse!)
Kepen in solitarinesse,
And kissen devoute the holy croce,
Of Goddes love, and Sathan’s force,—
He writith; and thinges many mo
Of swiche thinges I may not show.
Bot I must tellen verilie
Somdel of Saintè Cicilie,
And chieflie what he auctorethe
Of Saintè Markis life and dethe:’

At length her constant eyelids come
Upon the fervent martyrdom;
Then lastly to his holy shrine,
Exalt amid the tapers’ shine
At Venice,—

~About this poem: wiki & wiki

Shakespeare for Kids

The 460th Annversary of Shakespeare's Birth
and the 408th Anniversary of his Death
April 23, 1564 - April 23, 1616

And heart-breaking Sonnet #90
-- not for kids, which I must have
read before, but needed reminding:

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah! do not, when my heart hath ‘scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.

If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune’s might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.

Additional Shakespeare Birthday Posts

23 April 2010
18 May 2011
23 April 2012
23 April 2013
25 April 2014
29 April 2015
23 April 2016
23 April 2017
~~~
~~~
24 April 2020
~~~
~~~
23 April 2023
23 April 2024

Earth Has Everything

Happy Earth Day from the Moon

I think everyone remembers
Maggie Smith's poem "Good Bones," right?
[And ~ more]

Well, here's another one, perfect for Earth Day,
in which the poet tries to think of a gift
for the Planet that already has everything:

Love Poem
What can I give you? You have plenty
of seas, seven at last count, and another

version of yourself beneath them, unseen:
doppelganger caves and mountains,

the tallest secret ranges not for climbing.
Besides, I can't make you a sea

or fill each transparent wave with equally
transparent fish. I can't assemble

a forest or populate the trees with birds.
You have all the cranes you could want,

feathered or folded from paper. Look,
I have these two babies—but you?

You have more children than you can feed,
more than you can keep alive. Every day

you lose thousands, gain thousands.
No wonder the numbers mean nothing.*

You need more than I or anyone can give.
But, fool that I am, I love you. I'm hot

for you. Here, warm your hands by the fire.
I made it with myself and a match.

Maggie Smith

*Interestingly, and sadly, Stephen Crane (1871 - 1900) observed the same excess in an encounter with the ocean.

XXXVIII
The ocean said to me once,
"Look!
Yonder on the shore
Is a woman, weeping.
I have watched her.
Go you and tell her this --
Her lover I have laid
In cool green hall.
There is wealth of golden sand
And pillars, coral-red;
Two white fish stand guard at his bier.

"Tell her this
And more --
That the king of the seas
Weeps too, old, helpless man.
The bustling fates
Heap his hands with corpses
Until he stands like a child
With a surplus of toys."

************

Previous Earth Day Posts
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024

Get Out of Town

Thanks to Jim Barnes ~ poet, teacher & friend
for helping me track down
this long-lost poem
by National Treasure
David Russell Wagoner
(June 5, 1926 - December 18, 2021)

Advice from a poet:
"Get out of town."

Wagoner graduated from highschool in 1944. "Valedictory to Standard Oil" was written 22 years later (published in 1966), and "Letter to An Old Poet" an additional 47 years later (2013). In the early poem, he thinks of those long-ago classmates, and in the later one he recalls a helpful English teacher and a grammar lesson from those schooldays in Whiting, Indiana. Thanks to Miss Clippinger, he realizes that his life task without ceasing is to consider every possibiity and maximize his options:

Letter To An Old Poet

~Inspired by Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet

Do you still believe, old man, you are a poet?
If so, what you must do is so obvious,
you shouldn’t need reminding. You should keep trying
to do whatever you haven’t done or start
doing again what you didn’t manage to do
right in the first place. You should stay alive
as often as possible and keep yourself open
to anything out of place and everything
with nowhere else to go, to carry what’s left
of your voice out and beyond, into, over,
and under, past, within, outside, between,
among, across, along, and up and around
and to be beside yourself when the spirit moves you
and to thank Miss Clippinger for your prepositions.

David Wagoner (1926 - 2021)

Click here to read
more by David Wagoner

A Cluttered Mind

"A cluttered desk is a cluttered mind."

When it comes to clutter,
Colin Thompson is my favorite!

A conversation with my friend Mumbi,
concerning some shared reading and research
on the topic of contemporary Kenyan poetry:
Mumbi: Your brain must be so compacted with so many ideas from all the reading that you have done. I think writing comes naturally to you because your brain needs relief before you fill it up again!

Kitti: Your description of my brain makes me laugh! But I also know you mean it as a compliment, and I greatly appreciate that!

Long ago in my teaching days, one of my students wrote something so funny that I have never forgotten. They were supposed to be coming up with metaphors, and one of them said: “A cluttered desk is a cluttered mind.” I immediately incorporated that phrase into my daily vocabulary!

Even now, whenever I’m working on a project, with papers spread all over the countertops, I’ll say to Gerry: “Sorry! It’s just my cluttered mind!” Or when I’m sorting out and putting stuff away, I’ll say: “I’m trying not to have a cluttered mind!” Haha! But true!

Mumbi: Thank you for understanding that I used “compact” in a positive sense. "Clutter" can be relative. You are brilliant and diligent. I couldn’t do all the reading that you do without bursting my head. Writers are born.

Thank you very much for giving a forum to the Kenyan women and spending your precious time. It is an honor to them. Your blog is a channel through which you publicize the actions of those who advocate for making the world an equal playing field for all. Kenya's leadership is totally off course, pursuing personal wealth with absolute apathy to an otherwise very hard-working, low-income majority.

Thank you for shining a light to some who probably think that no one notices what they do.

Kitti: Mumbi, you are too kind! Thank you for shining that very same light right back to me. And also for sending me these books, which are a wake-up call to appreciate the choices, benefits, and privileges that we enjoy, compared to the hardships currently endured by these writers and activists.

For graffiti art and
revolutionary poetry from Kenya,
see my recent post

To the Literary Battle Fronts
"Tell me, Nairobi, are you that place?"
"What will it take?"

@The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A literary blog of connection & coincidence;
custom & ceremony

Related Posts
To Create a Space for Women's Creativity
Maganjo

Orla Kiely from Cards to Cats

Authentic Orla Kiely Postcards

Orla Kiely Shampoo Bottle

My sister's Orla Kiely purse,
looks to me like the real thing!

My journal from Vickie,
inside & out & bookmark

Some drapes I wanted,
but couldn't find in the USA

Got these knock-offs instead

The cats love them!

Other British Favs
Emma Bridgewater & Cath Kidston
[polka dots]

Something Sensational to Read

A Peek Inside Cecily's Diary
&
Gwendolyn & Cecily Consult Their Diaries
(2002)

Gwendolyn:
“I never travel without my diary.
One should always have
something sensational to read in the train.”

From The Importance of Being Earnest:
A Trivial Comedy for Serious People
(1895)

By Oscar Wilde
(1854 – 1900)

Like Gwendolyn, I never travel without my blog,
always available on phone or laptop!
Should I need some additional sensational input,
here are my go - to websites:

Brandon Robshaw and the English Language

The Corners ~ Nadia Bolz - Weber
[On my blogs many times: QK, FN, KL]

The Daily Upside

The Marginalian

Ravenous Butterflies

Saved by Design ~ Duo Dickinson

Slow Boring

StoryPeople

Wait But Why

If I don't have time for all of them,
I focus on Nadia and Duo
-- even better when the themes mesh!

Happy Spring!

Blue Moon Diner

Whether or not anything fabulous is going on
with the moon or with Purdue,
one of our favorite places in Charlottesville
is the Blue Moon Diner,
where the menu is always fabulous!

We usually go for breakfast,
but look how cool it looks at night!

Everywhere you look, the Blue Moon is Nostalgia Central:
kitchen magnets, old toys, Depression glass, record albums.

It is a living history museum filled with
tchotchkes of the heart from every decade.

Sitting at the yellow table, for example,
takes me straight back to childhood.

[Also seen in L.A. Confidential]

Many Easters ago, my mother sent me some family recipes
along with the following note that I have saved in my cookbook:

"Do you remember our yellow chrome chairs,
and wobbly bright yellow Formica - topped table,
and light yellow enameled canisters,
and all you kids gathered round, cutting out cookies?"

Yes, I do! I remember all those things!

And should you ever wonder where all those
dear old kitchen artifacts have gone, just stop by
the Blue Moon Diner; you'll find them there!

Readings for Lent, Easter, and Women's History Month

Handey, Hemingway, Huxley, Emerson,
Steve Jobs, Maya Angelou, Henri Nouwen,
Duo Dickinson, Michael Lipsey,
Nadia Bolz-Weber, and more,
reminding us each in their own ways:
Memento Mori
@The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker

Rembrandt, Stacey Zisook Robinson,
E. M. Forster, Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
depicting the steadfast
Esther of a Thousand Ideas
@The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker

Janeen Koconis, Lydia W. Gaitirira
and many young writers from Kenya, striving
To Create a Space for Women's Creativity
@Kitti's Book List

An Easy March

APRIL FOOLS!

I love the dichotomy of this descriptive passage
from one of my favorite girlhood books,
Ginnie and the Mystery House:

Winter was really going now. The March wind raged, and the trees stood stark against the sky; but the ground lay dry and bare, waiting for the shadow of green that would soon creep through to carpet it. . . .

March, with its boom of threatening winds, had blown itself out and died quietly in the night. Ginnie awoke on the first of April to spring sunshine dancing on tender green. Funny, she thought as she stood at the open window of her room for a moment before getting dressed, how the weather seemed to know when a new month started.

This was April Fool's Day. . . . (77, 109)

More seasonal description from
Ginnie and the Mystery House
and Ginnie and the Mystery Doll

Looking back over the month, however,
it seems that March was easy on us this year,
not much of a lion, mostly a lamb.

**************

UVA ~ March 13th

Essence of the Equinox ~ March 20th

Cheers to Spring! ~ March 21st

Palm Sunday Moon ~ March 24th

Weeping Cherry ~ March 25th

Changing Each Day ~ March 26th

Ready for Easter ~ March 29th

Here Comes Peter Cottontail!