May Offerings – Part V: Something to Delight both Head and Heart

A Poem for Today

“A Birthday Poem”
By Ted Kooser

Just past dawn, the sun stands

with its heavy red head

in a black stanchion of trees,

waiting for someone to come

with his bucket
or the foamy white light,

and then a long day in the pasture.

I too spend my days grazing,
feasting on every green moment

till darkness calls,

and with the others

I walk away into the night,
swinging the little tin bell

of my name.

Today I will observe (“celebrate” is far too cheerful a word for the occasion) my 108th birthday, and though I have made this claim many times, I want to inform everyone that once a person reaches 108 years of age, he or she transcends time and becomes a living fossil.

Below – A brief pictorial autobiography: 1. The log cabin in which I was born in Paterson, New Jersey. 2. My elementary school in Grover’s Mill. 3. My third-grade classroom. 4., 5., 6. – Three of my career-related childhood dreams that never came to fruition: quarterback, sailor, cowboy. 7. My first car. 8. My train stopping in Lincoln, Arkansas on the day that I arrived in Fayetteville to begin my graduate studies at the University of Arkansas. 9. Finally, my sons, or as I like to call them, “The three reasons why, though I am one hundred and eight, I look and feel much older.”









Happy Cinco de Mayo (Mexico)

In the words of one historian, “May 5th is celebrated as Cinco de Mayo in Mexico and among Mexican-American communities in the United States. The date commemorates the Mexican army’s unlikely victory over French forces at the Battle of Puebla on 5 May 1862, under the leadership of General Ignacio Zaragoza Seguín.”

Below – John Tato: “Cinco de Mayo”
aCinco de Mayo

Happy Children’s Day (Japan)

In the words of one historian, “May 5th is Children’s Day (or Boys’ Day) in Japan, on which families raise carp-shaped flags on poles above their homes (carp, because of the Chinese legend that a carp swims upstream to become a dragon, and the way the flags blow in the wind makes it seem as if they were swimming). The black carp at the top represents the father, the red carp represents the mother, and the last carp represents the son. Another carp would be attached to the cord for each additional son.”
aBoys' Day

Birthday Presents for My Readers – Part I of V: Edward Hopper

Below – Nine paintings by one of my favorite artists: “Cape Cod Evening”; “Road in Maine”; “Gas”; “Railroad Sunset”; “Seven A.M.”; “Rooms for Tourists”; “Railroad Crossing”; “Early Sunday Morning”; “Four Lane Road.”









A Second Poem for Today

“Nothing Gold Can Stay”
By Robert Frost

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.

American Art – Part I of III: Olga Plam

Olga Plam is a contemporary American painter.






Birthday Presents for My Readers – Part II of V: Loren Eiseley

Below – Some quotes from the work of Loren Eiseley, who is one of my favorite authors.

“It is a commonplace of all religious thought, even the most primitive, that the man seeking visions and insight must go apart from his fellows and love for a time in the wilderness.”
“Perhaps a creature of so much ingenuity and deep memory is almost bound to grow alienated from his world, his fellows, and the objects around him. He suffers from a nostalgia for which there is no remedy upon earth except as it is to be found in the enlightenment of the spirit–some ability to have a perceptive rather than an exploitive relationship with his fellow creatures.”
“Every time we walk along a beach some ancient urge disturbs us so that we find ourselves shedding shoes and garments or scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers like the homesick refugees of a long war.”
“One does not meet oneself until one catches the reflection from an eye other than human.”
“If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water.”
“The need is not really for more brains, the need is now for a gentler, a more tolerant people than those who won for us against the ice, the tiger and the bear. The hand that hefted the ax, out of some old blind allegiance to the past fondles the machine gun as lovingly. It is a habit man will have to break to survive, but the roots go very deep.”
“The journey is difficult, immense. We will travel as far as we can, but we cannot in one lifetime see all that we would like to see or to learn all that we hunger to know.”
“While wandering a deserted beach at dawn, stagnant in my work, I saw a man in the distance bending and throwing as he walked the endless stretch toward me. As he came near, I could see that he was throwing starfish, abandoned on the sand by the tide, back into the sea. When he was close enough I asked him why he was working so hard at this strange task. He said that the sun would dry the starfish and they would die. I said to him that I thought he was foolish. there were thousands of starfish on miles and miles of beach. One man alone could never make a difference. He smiled as he picked up the next starfish. Hurling it far into the sea he said, ‘It makes a difference for this one.’ I abandoned my writing and spent the morning throwing starfish.”
“Since the first human eye saw a leaf in Devonian sandstone and a puzzled finger reached to touch it, sadness has lain over the heart of man. By this tenuous thread of living protoplasm, stretching backward into time, we are linked forever to lost beaches whose sands have long since hardened into stone. The stars that caught our blind
amphibian stare have shifted far or vanished in their courses, but still that naked, glistening thread winds onward. No one knows the secret of its beginning or its end. Its forms are phantoms. The thread alone is real; the thread is life.”
“This is the most enormous extension of vision of which life is capable: the projection of itself into other lives. This is the lonely, magnificent power of humanity. It is . . . the supreme epitome of the reaching out.”
“Though men in the mass forget the origins of their need, they still bring wolfhounds into city apartments, where dog and man both sit brooding in wistful discomfort.
The magic that gleams an instant between Argos and Odysseus is both the recognition of diversity and the need for affection across the illusions of form. It is nature’s cry to homeless, far-wandering, insatiable man: ‘Do not forget your brethren, nor the green wood from which you sprang. To do so is to invite disaster.’”

Birthday Presents for My Readers – Part III of V: Horses

Below – Let’s saddle up and “light out for the territory.”





Birthday Presents for My Readers – Part IV of V: Yukon Territory

Below – Six photographs of my heart’s wilderness home.






Back from the Territory – Art: Nathalie Parenteau (Part III)

In the words of one writer, “When asked how her images take form, Northern artist Nathalie Parenteau promptly replies: ‘They take shape on their own. I just scratch the canvas with the paint brush and there they are.’ Or so it seems.”
Nathalie Parenteau lives and works in Whitehorse, Yukon Territory.

Back from the Territory, I share this with you, before I light out again.

Below – “Beluga Blue”; “Berry Picker”; “Breathing Hole”; “Calving Grounds”; “Canyon”; “Caribou in Storm.”; “Circle of Life”; “Creation.”








Birthday Presents for My Readers – V of V: Robinson Jeffers

Below – Three poems by Robinson Jeffers, who is one of my favorite poets.

“Hurt Hawks”


The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,
No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.
He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,
The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.
You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.


I’d sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk; but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bones too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.
We had fed him for six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
Implacable arrogance. I gave him the lead gift in the twilight. What fell was relaxed,
Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.

“Boats in a Fog”

Sports and gallantries, the stage, the arts, the antics of dancers,

The exuberant voices of music,

Have charm for children but lack nobility; it is bitter earnestness

That makes beauty; the mind

Knows, grown adult.

A sudden fog-drift muffled the ocean,

A throbbing of engines moved in it,

At length, a stone’s throw out, between the rocks and the vapor,

One by one moved shadows

Out of the mystery, shadows, fishing-boats, trailing each other

Following the cliff for guidance,

Holding a difficult path between the peril of the sea-fog

And the foam on the shore granite.

One by one, trailing their leader, six crept by me,

Out of the vapor and into it,

The throb of their engines subdued by the fog, patient and

Coasting all round the peninsula

Back to the buoys in Monterey harbor. A flight of pelicans

Is nothing lovelier to look at;

The flight of the planets is nothing nobler; all the arts lose virtue

Against the essential reality

Of creatures going about their business among the equally

Earnest elements of nature.

“To the Stone-Cutters”

Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated

Challengers of oblivion

Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,

The square-limbed Roman letters

Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well

Builds his monument mockingly;

For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun

Die blind and blacken to the heart:

Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found

The honey of peace in old poems.

American Art – Part II of III: John Nieto

John Nieto is a contemporary American painter.







A Third Poem for Today

“Traveling through the Dark”
By William Stafford

Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

American Art – Part III of III: Brooke Newman

Brooke Newman is a contemporary American painter.







A Fourth Poem for Today

“Sailing to Byzantium”
By William Butler Yeats


That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.


An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.


O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.


Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

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