From My Big Orange Book: Wild Swans

Wild Swans by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
And what did I see I had not seen before?
Only a question less or a question more.
Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,
House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
Wild swans, come over the town, come over
The town again, trailing your legs and crying!

Illustration from a vintage calendar



From My Big Orange Book: Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

The Philosopher

 

And what are you that, wanting you,

     I should be kept awake

As many nights as there are days

     With weeping for your sake?

 

And what are you that, missing you,

     As many days as crawl

I should be listening to the wind

     And looking at the wall?

 

I know a man that's a braver man

     And twenty men as kind,

And what are you, that you should be

     The one man in my mind?

 

Yet women's ways are artless ways,

     As any sage will tell,—

And what am I, that I should love

     So wisely and so well?

From My Big Orange Book: John Dryden

I feed a flame within, which so torments me
That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
That I had rather die than once remove it.

Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.
Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,
But they fall silently, like dew on Roses.

Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel,
My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel;
And while I suffer this to give him quiet,
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.

On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;
While I conceal my love no frown can fright me.
To be more happy I dare not aspire,
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.

—from The Maiden Queen

From My Big Orange Book: Cowper & Gibbings

     Back in the dawn of my internet days, I went nuts with the novelty of hunting down and purchasing hard-to-find and out-of-print books online. Of course, the novelty, fun as it was, didn't squelch my enthusiasm for book hunting in actual book stores. It merely supplemented it.

     Anyhow, in those early days, for some reason I wanted a copy of "The Task"—that monumentally long blank verse poem by William Cowper (pronounced "Cooper," for those who don't already know). Published in 1785, this poem in six books covers a variety of topics from the humble sofa to slavery, from trends to faith, from nature to French politics. It is a poetical compendium of Cowper's philosophies. I did a search through Abebooks and ordered his Complete Poetical Works for a very reasonable price. When it arrived from Colin Martin Books, U.K., I was taken by both its age and its diminutive size. Since I don't have a camera, I'll have to use my powers of description. It measures, in inches, 3 1/2  x 5 1/4 x 1; it is bound in royal blue cloth with embossed boards (there are large ovals on both boards where some sort of image was supposed to have been) and gilding on the spine; all the pages' edges are gilt. It was printed in 1849 and is illustrated throughout with beautiful copper plate engravings protected by tissue paper. The text is so minute, it cannot be read without reading glasses or a magnifying glass. My particular copy has a bookplate on the front pastedown that reads, "Bibliothèque Congregation de Notre Dame, Maison des Oiseaux" (why "The House of Birds," I have no idea), and bears the image of two angels looking up at the Sacred Heart and the Immaculate Heart, which float side by side in a sunburst.

     Though I certainly haven't read "The Task" in its entirety, I do like to read a passage at random every so often. Here's one that hit home with me. I came across it years ago, just before my return to the Catholic Church.

     Oh, for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
     Some boundless contiguity of shade,
     Where rumor of oppression and deceit,
     Of unsuccessful or successful war,
     Might never reach me more!  My ear is pained,
     My soul is sick, with every day's report
     Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.

     I was so struck by this passage, I immediately copied it into both my journal and my Big Orange Book of poetry and quotes that I love.

     On one of my hunts in Houston's Detering Book Gallery back in 2001, I ran across a handful of volumes by one Robert Gibbings, Irish, d. 1958, a major wood engraver and author of travel and natural history. These volumes were once owned by my old ghostly friend Mildred Robertson, of whom I wrote this post. Since Mildred liked them, I'll like them, I thought, and bought the books. I'm so very glad I did—Gibbings, besides being a marvelous artist (his own engravings illustrate the books) was a marvelous writer. It's been many years since I read him, but I remember mentally drifting down the Thames with him through his lyrical descriptions.

Each season of the year, as it comes round, is the best. Each day, each hour that we are alive is the richest. For what is yesterday but a memory, and what is tomorrow—which may never come? ~ from Sweet Thames, Run Softly

     I know many a writer has written of living in the present moment, but Gibbings' version struck just the right note with me. Here's another, less meditative passage, from Sweet Thames, Run Softly:

The rain came down on me one morning so that I shouldn't have been surprised if whales had dropped out of the sky. The river was whipped with such fury that the splash of each splash splashed back again. The surface was like boiling mercury. The rain ran off the sides of my canvas cover like the fountain which played around the Sultan of Cheribon's couch to keep the poor fellow cool in the hot weather, and I was hard put to it to prevent the deluge finding an entry into the boat.

I happened to be tied up at the mouth of a backwater, and I suppose my craft was inconspicuous. Anyway, just as I lifted a corner of the canopy to glimpse if there was a break in the sky, what should I see on the opposite bank but a girl, running fast up-stream, and she with nothing on. It was still raining so hard that I could not see clearly, but instead of the delicate pink which I am led to believe is the usual colour of naked damsels, this naiad was shining all over with the rain, so that she might have been clothed in silver sequins.

Now, said I to myself, is this nature, or am I a gentleman? But before I had reached a conclusion my head touched one of the main supports of the canopy, and a sluice of water into the stern of the boat abruptly changed the subject of my thoughts.

      Oh, Gibbings, you are delightful. I really should read you again. Thank goodness for My Big Orange Book, which reminds me of writers like you and Cowper, who have made such significant impressions on me!



Robert Gibbings

 

Saturday Scraps and Something From My Big Orange Book

     Facebook is a wondrous thing. I'm so grateful not only to have reconnected with many old friends and acquaintances, some of whom go back much further than I'd care to contemplate; I'm grateful also to have made many new friends that I have yet to meet face to face. There is no other social network quite like it. Twitter is fine, but to me a bit superficial. Email and Google+ are fine, too, but neither has the cozy, homey feeling that Facebook has. 

     In just the past three days, I've experienced both the sorrow of losing one of my dearest Facebook friends and the joy of finding yet another friend from junior high. The former was one of those friends I have never met, but with whom I shared a mutual love for the books of Helene Hanff, classical music, and poetry. She was a wise, loving, gentle soul, taken suddenly by a stroke, and though I'll miss her greatly, I also rejoice that she is now finally home. I've never had a pen pal in the traditional sense of the term, but friends whom one meets on social networks are the 21st century equivalent.

    

     These past months, I've been enjoying weekly outings with my oldest friend ("oldest" in the sense of "longest-term"). Since she has just recently returned to this, her birth city, after many years living in St. Louis, she's eager to rediscover childhood places as well as discover places she's never been. Some we've visited so far are also brand new to me, though I've been back in the city since the fall of 2006. Shame on me! Actually, I'm not unique in this. I know there are many people who don't know their own cities as well as they could/should. Maybe it's precisely because they live there and have all the time in the world; if they were merely visiting, they would more likely get out there and see the sights while they can. In my case, until my friend moved back here I had no one with whom to see the sights (I have sisters, but they have lives of their own) and I am loath to wander about on my own.

     I think I have finally finished The Distant Belovèd. (If you don't know what that is, click "Love Poems" at the top of this page.) That is, I've finished it in the sense that I really don't think I can add any more new poems to it. The reason for this is, I think the thing that fuelled and inspired it, the fire that has burned so brightly and steadily since 1995, has finally begun to subside. Yes, the collection is finished, but the editing and revising of it is by no means over. I have a feeling I'll be culling several pieces as well.

     So in honor of this, I'd like to share a poem, not from The Distant Belovèd, but a sonnet by Maurice Baring. This is one of the pieces from my Big Orange Book (and if you don't know what that is, again, click its link above!).

Vale *

I am forever haunted by one dread,
That I may suddenly be swept away,
Nor have the leave to see you, and to say
Good-bye; then this is what I would have said:

I have loved summer and the longest day;
The leaves of June, the slumberous film of heat,
The bees, the swallow, and the waving wheat,
The whistling of the mowers in the hay.

I have loved words which left the soul with wings,
Words that are windows to eternal things.
I have loved souls that to themselves are true,

Who cannot stoop and know not how to fear,
Yet hold the talisman of pity's tear:
I have loved these because I have loved you.

vale - Latin, "farewell", pronounced "wah-leh"

Maurice Baring

From My Big Orange Book: Dante Gabriel Rossetti

self-portrait

Silent Noon

from "The House of Life"

 

Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass—

The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:

Your eyes smile peace.  The pasture gleams and glooms

'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.

All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,

Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge

Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.

'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.

 

Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragonfly

Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:

So this winged hour is dropt to us from above.

Oh! clasp we to our hearts for deathless dower,

This close-companioned inarticulate hour

When twofold silence was the song of love.

 

 

Music by Ralph Vaughan Williams

Sir Thomas Allen, baritone

Malcolm Martineau, piano

 



From My Big Orange Book: A beautiful song by Enrico Ruggeri

Oggetti Smarriti  (Lost Objects)

C'è il vestito da sera
There's the evening gown
Che mettevi per me
That you wore for me
Tra le cose che hai dimenticato qui
Among the things you forgot here
Delle scarpe di tela
Some canvas shoes
Consumate dal sole
Faded by the sun
Tra le cose che hai dimenticato qui
Among the things you forgot here
C'è un giornale che ho letto
There's a newspaper that I read
Le candele di cera
The wax candles
Tra le cose ch non hai portato via
Among the things you didn't take away
Il mio primo biglietto
My first note
Quella tua canottiera
That t-shirt of yours
Tra le cose che mi fanno compagnia
Among the things that keep me company
È incredibile pensare a come
It's incredible to think how
A volte si nascondono
Sometimes things hide
Poi saltano di fuori
Then jump out
Quando non le cerchi più
When you're not looking for them anymore
Sono come le persone come noi
They're like people like us
Sono fatte come siamo fatti noi
They're made like us
C'è quel vaso di fiori
There's that flower vase
Che non riempivo più
That I stopped filling
Tra le cose che hai dimenticato qui
Among the things you forgot here
Una stampa a colori
A colored print
Credo fosse Dalì
I think it was Dalì
Tra le cose che hai dimenticato qui
Among the things you forgot here.
E il vento trasporta memorie
And the wind carries memories
Sconfitte vestite dei grandi vittorie
The vanquished garb of great victories
E il vento riporta alla luce
And the wind brings back to light
Certi segni sulla pelle che non cambieranno mai
Certain signs on the skin which won't ever change
Sulle debole persone come noi
On weak people like us
Sulle povere persone come noi
On poor people like us
C'è un'impronta sul muro
There's an imprint on the wall
Perché un quadro non c'è
Because there's no picture there
Tra le cose che hai dimenticato qui
Among the things you forgot here
Tra i coltelli e il caffè
Among the knives and the coffee
Hai lasciato anche me
You forgot me, too
Tra le cose che hai dimenticato qui
Among the things you forgot here

Music and lyrics by Enrico Ruggeri
English translation by Leticia Austria

From My Big Orange Book: Siegfried Sassoon

It has been quite a while since I posted something from My Big Orange Book, so let me once again explain what My Big Orange Book is. Years ago when I lived in Houston, I bought a big orange blank book at Borders. It was on sale for five dollars, so naturally I had to have it. But it was far too large and heavy to use as a journal, at least in the way I journal, which is to tote the journal around with me and write in cafes and restaurants. So I decided to use the big orange blank book to copy any poems, quotations, or song lyrics that moved me.

 

Today, I'd like to share a sonnet by Siegfried Sassoon titled "Strangeness of Heart."

When I have lost the power to feel the pang
Which first I felt in childhood when I woke
And heard the unheeding garden bird who sang
Strangeness of heart for me while morning broke;
Or when in latening twilight sure with spring,
Pausing on homeward paths along the wood,
No sadness thrills my thought while thrushes sing,
And I'm no more the listening child who stood
So many sunsets past and could not say
What wandering voices called from far away:
When I have lost those simple spells that stirred
My being with an untranslated song,
Let me go home forever; I shall have heard
Death; I shall know that I have lived too long.

From My Big Orange Book: Happy Birthday, Emily Dickinson!

 

Going to Him! Happy letter!

Tell Him -

Tell Him the page I didn't write -

Tell Him - I only said the Syntax -

And left the Verb and the pronoun - out -

Tell Him Just how the fingers burned -

Then - how they waded - slow - slow -

And then you wished you had eyes in your pages -

So you could see what moved them so -

 

Tell Him - it wasn't a Practised Writer -

You guessed - from the way the sentence toiled -

You could hear the Boddice tug, behind you -

As if it held but the might of a child -

You almost pitied it - you - it worked so -

Tell Him - No - you may quibble there -

For it would split His Heart, to know it -

And then you and I, were silenter.

 

Tell Him - Night finished - before we finished -

And the Old Clock kept neighing "Day"!

And you - got sleepy -

And begged to be ended -

What would it hinder so - to say?

Tell Him - just how she sealed you - Cautious!

But - if He ask where you are hid

Until tomorrow - Happy letter!

Gesture Coquette - and shake your Head!

 

Thank you, Emily, for expressing in your singular and astonishing way the secrets of the human heart.





From My Big Orange Book: Robert Frost

     I met this poem via a choral arrangement by Randall Thompson which we sang in high school. I immediately loved both text and musical setting, and have since considered the poem to be one of my favorites of all time.

"Choose Something Like a Star"

O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud—
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says, 'I burn.'
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell us something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height.
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.

A helpful analysis of this poem

A beautiful performance of Randall Thompson's setting, accompanied by stunning images taken from Hubble.

From My Big Orange Book

In my Big Orange Book I have copied down several poems by American lyric poet Sara Teasdale. Her poems have resonated with me since college, when I found an early edition of her volume Love Songs in an antiquarian bookstore. She's been a major influence on my own poetry. Though her early work can at times be what one might call "sentimental," her best poems are, in my opinion, quite moving. Her language is accessible and also extremely musical, which is why many composers, including most notably John Duke, have chosen her texts to set to music.

 

Teasdale used this sonnet as the introduction to Love Songs. It has no title, but simply bears the dedication "To E." I assume she wrote it for her husband, Ernst Filsinger. It's one of my favorite Teasdale poems.

 

        I have remembered beauty in the night,

           Against black silences I waked to see

           A shower of sunlight over Italy

        And Green Ravello dreaming on her height;

        I have remembered music in the dark,

           The clean swift brightness of a fugue of Bach's,

           And running water singing on the rocks

        When once in English woods I heard a lark.

 

        But all remembered beauty is no more

           Than a vague prelude to the thought of you—

           You are the rarest soul I ever knew,

              Lover of beauty, knightliest and best;

        My thoughts seek you as waves that seek the shore,

              And when I think of you, I am at rest.

 

 

source



From My Big Orange Book

"Destructive self-criticism stops you from creating. Divine dissatisfaction inspires you to go on." — Ellen Burstyn, actor

Ms. Burstyn said this in a segment of Inside the Actors Studio. When I heard it, I immediately wrote it down in my Big Orange Book.

Along the same lines, pianist Stephen Hough wrote this recently on Twitter:

"Practising at any age: calm, concentrated, devoted, perfection as much as you can ... but kind to yourself, smiling, relaxed!"

When I read this, I thought back to all the years I cursed like a sailor and yelled at myself in practice sessions, called myself an idiot, threw music scores and even a jar of sun tea across the room, and banged my fists on the piano keys in frustrated rage. No wonder I now suffer from high blood pressure. If I'd known then what I know now ... nah. I'd still call myself an idiot. Too bad. Who knows how much more I would have accomplished, had I been kinder to myself and not given in to "destructive self-criticism"?

Music Monday: From My Big Orange Book

In my Big Orange Book, whose purpose is described in a previous post, I copied down the lyrics of Enrico Ruggeri's song "L'Orizzonte (di una donna sola)" in the original Italian, along with my translation. (You'll find the text and translation below the video.) When I began the Big Orange Book, I was living in Houston, going through a long period of solitude, mostly of my own choosing. My closest friends were also colleagues at work, and there were times when I needed to separate myself from my work altogether, which meant separating myself also from my friends. Those times were much needed times of restoration, but they brought a certain weight of loneliness. I guess that's why I took to this song.

L'Orizzonte (di una donna sola) The Horizon (of a lone woman) - words and music by Enrico Ruggeri

Mangiano spesso da sole
     They often eat alone
E si domandano perché
     And wonder why
E quasi si sentono in colpa
     And they almost feel guilty
Se si avventurano per bere un caffè
     If they venture out for a coffee
Parlano ancora di vole
     They talk again about flights
Che non prendono quasi mai
     That they almost never take
Ed hanno paura del tempo
     And they're afraid of time
Perché il tempo ti sa guardare in faccia
     Because time knows how to look you in the face
Ed hanno gli occhi all'orizzonte
     They have their eyes toward the horizon
Ma non vanno via
     But they don't leave
Combattute tra il presente
     Torn between the present
E la malinconia
     And melancholy
Ma il mondo non aspetta ancora
     But the world still doesn't wait
Guardi indietro e già domani è qui
     Look back, and already tomorrow is here
Ci sono donne così, ci sono vite così
     There are women like that, there are lives like that

Perdono troppe occasioni
     They miss too many chances
Non vogliono sbagliare più
     They don't want to make another mistake
Piangono a certe canzoni
     They cry at certain songs
Errori di gioventù
     Errors of youth
Scrivono lettere lunghe
     They write long letters
Che non mandano quasi mai
     Which they almost never send
Ed hanno il colore del vento
     And they have the color of wind
Perché è il vento che porta più lontano
     Because it's the wind that carries farther
L'orizzonte si addormenta
     The horizon goes to sleep
Prima di noi due
     Before we do
E scopri quella luce spenta
     And you discover that extinguished light
Tra le braccia sue
     Within his arms
Tu non sei cambiata ancora
     Still, you haven't changed
Guardi indietro e mi ritrovi qui
     Look back and you'll find me here
Sei una donna così, con un amore così
     You're that kind of woman, with a love like that

E nascondono i pensieri
     And they hide their thoughts
Nel silenzio
     In the silence
Tra le ombre e i desideri
     Between the shadows and their desires
E gli amici più sinceri
     And their most sincere friends
Non telefonano più
     Don't call anymore
Perché quando eri felice
     Because when you were happy
Non televonavi tu
     You never called
L'orizzonte ci risveglia
     The horizon will reawaken us
Quando lo vorrai
     When you want it to
E anche se il tuo amore sbaglia
     And even if your lover makes a mistake
Lo perdonerai
     You'll forgive him
Se qualcuno sta aspettando
     If someone is waiting
Guardi indietro e lo ritrovi qui
     Look back and you'll find him here
Per una donna così
     For a woman like that
Un orizzonte così
     A horizon like that

From My Big Orange Book

     Some years ago—actually, it must have been over a decade ago—I purchased from my neighborhood Barnes and Noble in Houston a huge blank book. Sizing in at 8.5 x 11 x 1 and weighing in at about three or four pounds, it is patently impractical as a schlep-around journal. Open, it would take up half the table in a cafe.

     Why did I buy it? It was on sale for five bucks. Reason enough for me. And as I heaved its burnt orange cloth bound poundage onto the checkout counter, I thought, "I'll find a use for it someday."

     It sat on my shelf for several weeks, then it came to me: I would copy in it any poem or part of a poem, any quotation or prose passage or song lyric, that spoke to me in a meaningful and lasting way. I had already copied many of these things into my journals over the years, but now I would have a single volume in which to gather, peruse, and reference them. Huzzah!

     I hasten to say that I did not own a computer at that time—but even if I did, I probably would still have copied the texts by hand into the book. That's just the kind of person I am. Here's what I wrote on the flyleaf:

Herein I have copied down poems, passages, phrases, etc. that have touched me or merely caught my fancy. Much handier to have them all in one single volume, don't you think? I have to say, however, that I probably will not copy one of my favorite poems of all time—"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"—because it's just too bloody long!

 

P. S.  I knew I'd find a use for this damn book.

     So I decided that, from time to time, I would post an entry or two from my Big Orange Book, beginning today. The entries on the first page are two short poems by Emily Dickinson. Are we surprised?

Ample make this bed -
Make this Bed with Awe -
In it wait till Judgment break
Excellent and Fair.

Be it's Mattress straight -
Be it's Pillow round -
Let no Sunrise' yellow noise
Interrupt this Ground -

* * *

Heart! We will forget him!
You and I - tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave -
I will forget the light!

When you have done, pray tell me
That I may straight begin!
Haste! Lest while you're lagging
I remember him!


     I also wrote, on the page facing these poems:

There seems to be quite a lot of Emily Dickinson in this volume. Not surprising - she is my favorite. I just want to make clear that all errors in spelling & punctuation are hers - taken from the R. W. Franklin edition. I, for some silly reason, didn't want you to think I had bad spelling & patchy knowledge of punctuation!

     Obviously, I mean for the Big Orange Book to be left, along with my journals and poetry, to my family after my passing. I do plan for the future, you know.