Did someone say roses? Here is my favorite love/rose poem.
Xoxoxo stan
The Ivy Crown William Carlos Williams
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another, from its confinement or find a deeper well. Antony and Cleopatra were right; they have shown the way. I love you or I do not live at all.
Daffodil time is past. This is summer, summer! the heart says, and not even the full of it. No doubts are permitted though they will come and may before our time overwhelm us. We are only mortal but being mortal can defy our fate. We may by an outside chance even win! We do not look to see jonquils and violets come again but there are, still, the roses!
Romance has no part in it. The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together. It has its seasons, for and against, whatever the heart fumbles in the dark to assert toward the end of May. Just as the nature of briars is to tear flesh, I have proceeded through them. Keep the briars out, they say. You cannot live and keep free of briars.
Children pick flowers. Let them. Though having them in hand they have no further use for them but leave them crumpled at the curb's edge.
At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns. Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse at least, blinded by the light, young love is. But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips. We will it so and so it is past all accident.
Kirsten Kern,PhD, LMTI
Texas Healing Arts Institute
School of Massage, Day Spa and Clinic
7001 Burnet Road
Austin, TX 78757
stan@texashealingarts.com
512 323 6042
_____
From: weeklong-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org [mailto:weeklong-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org] On Behalf Of Alice Gordon Sent: Monday, March 14, 2011 1:20 PM To: weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org Subject: Re: [Weeklong-l] Tuesday
Mary, As if I didnt want to be there so much already, you give us a fortune-teller version of Claytons report of the film partynow I can just about imagine the whole thing, from trowel to verse! Love to all, A
_____
From: Mary Collins mmcollins50@yahoo.com Reply-To: weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org Date: Sun, 13 Mar 2011 19:58:45 -0700 (PDT) To: weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org Subject: Re: [Weeklong-l] Tuesday
Oh, how I want to be there. All the East Coasters are there in spirit. Will someone please recite Gertrude Stein's: The World is Round (excerpt) Gertrude Stein http://www.poetrysociety.org/psa/poetry/poets/gertrude_stein/ I am Rose my eyes are blue I am Rose and who are you I am Rose and when I sing I am Rose like anything
and also, from Ms. Stein,
* "When I said.
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.And then later made that into a ring I made poetry and what did I do I caressed completely caressed and addressed a noun." (Lectures in America)and "Civilization begins with a rose. A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. It continues with blooming and it fastens clearly upon excellent examples." (As Fine as Melanctha)
And I am thinking of Sonnet 18, too: Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And Summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd: But thy eternal Summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Finally, the long but oh-so-beautiful "Ode," whose last four lines are perfect: Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 12501900.
William Wordsworth. 17701850
536. Ode Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. 5 It is not now as it hath been of yore; Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The rainbow comes and goes, 10 And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; 15 The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound 20 As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 25 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea 30 Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday; Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 35 Shepherd-boy!
Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, 40 My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feelI feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May-morning, 45 And the children are culling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm: 50 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have look'd upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet 55 Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 60 Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come 65 From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 70 He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; 75 At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, 80 And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. 85
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! 90 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; 95 And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long 100 Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage' With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 105 That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity; 110 Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, Mighty prophet! Seer blest! 115 On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a master o'er a slave, 120 A presence which is not to be put by; To whom the grave Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight Of day or the warm light, A place of thought where we in waiting lie; 125 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 130 Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, 135 That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest 140 Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; 145 But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized, 150 High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, 155 Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 160 To perish never: Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! 165 Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, 170 And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! 175 We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright 180 Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; 185 In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, 190 In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquish'd one delight 195 To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; 200 The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 205 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
http://www.philomobile.com/main
_____
From: Clay Stromberger cstromberger@mail.utexas.edu To: weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org Sent: Sun, March 13, 2011 10:19:04 PM Subject: Re: [Weeklong-l] Tuesday
Augie, Emma and I will be there, ready to follow the instructions of those who actually know what they are doing in a garden.
cs
On Mar 13, 2011, at 8:56 PM, Jeff Larsen wrote:
Will and I are planning to be there and will bring a few implements of
destruction. Would it make sense to try to put in a watering system of buried garden hose or PVC?
Love, Jeff
--- On Sun, 3/13/11, Maggie Megaw maggie@bizaffairs.com wrote:
From: Maggie Megaw maggie@bizaffairs.com Subject: [Weeklong-l] Tuesday To: weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org Date: Sunday, March 13, 2011, 7:08 PM Thought we should touch base about Tuesday--who's going, what we need in terms of shovels, watering cans, and so on. Doc, shall we each come equipped with the above and shall we each bring a bag of potting soil? You said before that you would get the rose bushes--is that right? Let us know--I can bring tools and can run errands tomorrow. Xxxmaggie
Maggie Megaw Business Affairs Inc 2415 Main Street Santa Monica, CA 90405
Weeklong-l mailing list Weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/weeklong-l
Weeklong-l mailing list Weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/weeklong-l
Clayton Stromberger Outreach Coordinator, UT Shakespeare at Winedale College of Liberal Arts, University of Texas at Austin www.shakespeare-winedale.org http://www.shakespeare-winedale.org cell: 512-363-6864 UT Sh. at W. office: 512-471-4726
_______________________________________________ Weeklong-l mailing list Weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/weeklong-l
_____
_______________________________________________ Weeklong-l mailing list Weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/weeklong-l
No virus found in this incoming message. Checked by AVG - www.avg.com Version: 9.0.894 / Virus Database: 271.1.1/3506 - Release Date: 03/14/11 02:34:00