Showing posts with label seasons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label seasons. Show all posts

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Seasons change, and so did I


 





The Glory Is Fallen Out Of

the glory is fallen out of
the sky the last immortal
leaf
is dead and the gold
year
a formal spasm
in the

dust
this is the passing of all shining things
therefore we also
blandly

into receptive
earth, O let
us

descend






take
shimmering wind
these fragile splendors from
us crumple them hide

them in thy breath drive
them in nothingness
for we

would sleep






this is the passing of all shining things
no lingering no backward-
wondering be unto
us O

soul, but straight
glad feet fear ruining
and glory girded
faces

lead us
into the
serious
steep darkness

e. e. cummings





Friday, January 20, 2017

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Spring, spring, it's SPRING!








Spring

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 lightnings 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.

Monday, February 20, 2012

Tom Robbins on February: you may be little, but you're small!



They say that February is the shortest month, but you know they could be wrong.



Compared, calendar page against calendar page, it looks to be the shortest, all right. Spread between January and March like lard on bread, it fails to reach the crust on either slice. In its galoshes – and you’ll never catch February in stocking feet – it’s a full head shorter than December, although in leap years, when it has growth spurts, it comes up to April’s nose.











However more abbreviated than its cousins it may look, February feels longer than any of them. It is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip off its mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles into every gullible face, behaviour that grows quickly old.






February is pitiless, and it is boring. That parade of red numerals on its page adds up to zero: birthdays of politicians, a holiday reserved for rodents, what kind of celebrations are those? The only bubble in the flat champagne of February is Valentine’s Day. It was no accident that our ancestors pinned Valentine’s Day on February’s shirt: he or she lucky enough to have a lover in frigid, antsy February has cause for celebration, indeed.







Except to the extent that it “tints the buds and swells the leaves within,” February is as useless as the extra r in its name. It behaves like an obstacle, a wedge of slush and mud and ennui, holding both progress and contentment at bay.



James Joyce was born in February, as was Charles Dickens and Victor Hugo, which goes to show that writers are poor at beginnings, although worse at knowing when to stop.





If February is the colour of lard on rye, its aroma is that of wet wool trousers. As for sound, it is an abstract melody played on a squeaky violin, the petty whine of a shrew with cabin fever. O February, you may be little but you’re small! Were you twice your tiresome length, few of us would survive to greet the merry month of May.

Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume






http://members.shaw.ca/margaret_gunning/betterthanlife.htm