In memoriam ♥

~ Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there. I did not die ~

                                                                  Mary Elizabeth Frye

A Cobwebby poem

Cobwebs can be magical things. The glittery strands you can see an early morning often seem to be out of this world...like as if maybe faeries really do exist.

Sometimes you find old treasures hidden in old, dusty shops - this little book with nature poems for children truly is more than it looks ♥

Spine Poetry is fun!

I got the wonderful idea from here...and I just had to give it a go. It was great fun wandering around in my library looking at titles and trying to make them fit together - almost like solvng a puzzle! It was an entirely new way to utilize my books. Do give it a try yourself - you will be surprised by the sheer joy when you find that perfect something to finish off your brand new poem.

Without further ado - here is the result of my first ever attempt at spine poetry:

"The Colour of Magic"

This one turned rather dark, which quite surprised me. I have never done anything even remotely similar in the past, so this is an exciting new way to test my boundaries.

Roaming bookstores in Edinburgh!

"The Moon" by R. L. Stevenson

Det er den draumen

Det er den draumen

Det er den draumen me ber på

at noko vedunderleg skal skje,

at det må skje -

at tidi skal opna seg

at hjarta skal opna seg

at dører skal opna seg

at berget skal opna seg

at kjeldor skal springa -

at draumen skal opna seg,

at me ein morgonstund skal glida inn

på ein våg me ikkje har visst um.

                                                                                                         Olav H. Hauge (1966)

It is that dream

It is that dream that we carry

that something wonderful will happen,

that it must come to pass -

that time will open itself

that the heart will open itself

that doors will open themselves

that the stone will open itself

that springs will arise -

that the dream will open itself,

that we, one morning, will glide in

on a bay we never knew before.

                                                                                                  translated from Norwegian
                                                                                                                         by myself

Source

A poem for today

                                 Fire and Ice

                                                  Some say the world will end in fire,
                                                  Some say in ice.
                                                  From what I've tasted of desire
                                                  I hold with those who favor fire.
                                                  But if it had to perish twice,
                                                  I think I know enough of hate
                                                  To say that for destruction ice
                                                  Is also great
                                                  And would suffice. 

                                                   Robert Frost     

Stjerner og steinar - a Norwegian poem

This is a picture of a poem printed on a wall in one of our airports. I loved it when I first saw it, and wanted to share it with you. It is beautifully written in Norwegian, but I will attempt to translate it for you - although I am sure I will not be able to do it just.

Stjerner og steinar
by Odveig Klyve

Stars and stones

are hidden beneath scabs and tissue

in our black fields

pushing up through the pores

stars and stones 

We lift stones

and get lured by

stars 

Our bodies are illuminated and heavy

Stars and stones by Odveig Klyve
(translated from Norwegian by myself) 

It has been a while.

It has been more than a while, actually, since I wrote my last post. So much have happened these last two months, and my life is left not quite the same.

For a start I am not even at home. This is the first Christmas I have spent at work, away from my family. It has been strange, being here on my own, not really having much of a Christmas celebration. Strange knowing my family is spending the holiday together without me, doing all the usual things that we always do back home. Strange seeing and hearing about it all from a distance, only through pictures and phone lines. I have missed out on the little stories, the laughter and the late nights. They even have a puppy in the house that I have yet to meet! Apparently it is a little bundle of energy that is crashing through the house, frightening the cat into my parents bed - where it is not allowed, mind - and doing all sorts of mischief. My sister now has to get up in the mornings, which I find rather amusing as that is really not her cup of tea.

Most of all, though, I miss my grandma. She was a presence in my life that is now gone, a source of happiness and family stories from days long past and a place to go to. She was always there - and now she is not. I am still finding it hard to fathom that she no longer sits in her rocking chair with a crossword or three by her side, pondering a difficult word or browsing one of her dictionaries, or that I will never hear her voice again or record one more story. So much is lost with her. Her memories span across nearly a century, and the way of life she knew as a child is now nothing but whispers on the wind.

I have all this spare time now, too - time I used to spend with her. Time I have yet to figure out what to do with. Time is a funny thing.

"Each moment is a word of glass;

Each life, within a bubble sealed."

poem by Nicholas Gordon

Walking forward
Source: Jan Tajcnar

I hope you all have a Merry Christmas - wherever you may find yourself.

Cherish each moment.

_____________Come change_____________

The Autumn

Go, sit upon the lofty hill, And turn your eyes around, Where waving woods and waters wild Do hymn an autumn sound. The summer sun is faint on them — The summer flowers depart — Sit still — as all transform’d to stone, Except your musing heart. How there you sat in summer-time, May yet be in your mind; And how you heard the green woods sing Beneath the freshening wind. Though the same wind now blows around, You would its blast recall; For every breath that stirs the trees, Doth cause a leaf to fall. Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth That flesh and dust impart: We cannot bear its visitings, When change is on the heart. Gay words and jests may make us smile, When Sorrow is asleep; But other things must make us smile, When Sorrow bids us weep! The dearest hands that clasp our hands, — Their presence may be o’er; The dearest voice that meets our ear, That tone may come no more! Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth, Which once refresh’d our mind, Shall come — as, on those sighing woods, The chilling autumn wind. Hear not the wind — view not the woods; Look out o’er vale and hill — In spring, the sky encircled them — The sky is round them still. Come autumn’s scathe — come winter’s cold — Come change — and human fate! Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound, Can ne’er be desolate.                                                              Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1833)

The first snow arrived yesterday ❤

The ripe breath of autumn

When I Heard at the Close of the Day

When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv’d with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow’d; And else, when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d, still I was not happy; But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn, When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light, When I wander’d alone over the beach, and undressing, bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise, And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way coming, O then I was happy; O then each breath tasted sweeter—and all that day my food nourish’d me more—and the beautiful day pass’d well, And the next came with equal joy—and with the next, at evening, came my friend; And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores, I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to me, whispering, to congratulate me, For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night, In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined toward me, And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was happy.  Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass, first published in 1867 edition)

A flight of migrating geese and beautiful colours are certain autumn signs

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

Between

Somewhere between

asleep and

awake

between

years ago and

forever

between

my

memories and my

dreams

I miss you

by Charles Kerr 

                                                                   at DeviantArt.com

I do.

The Butterfly Ball

...and the Grasshopper's Feast

Alluring colours and shapes!

This is a children's book that is all about rhyme. It tells the story of different insects and critters with curious names that gathers for a ball. They are all quite dressed up in their finest - and whether it is elegant, pretty or scary, they all have a role to play.

This might come across as a girl's book, but rest assured - there are quite a few of these mysterious creatures that are just as fitting for a little boy. The rhymes are witty and rolls off the tongue with ease. You might even say they are marching away of their own accord!

You want an invitation?

Here you go!
"The pleasure of your company is requested"

The teaser I am giving you today comes from the first page:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"As night turns to dimness and draws back its curtain, 

Stars, those bright sequins, now all disappear,           

As dimness grows radiant, dawn makes it certain      

That butterfly weather, quite perfect, is here;"               

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Look at Mr. Grasshopper with his top hat and cane - dashing, indeed!

If you want to know the rest of the story - and how the party goes - run and get a copy for yourself. This book, written by Alan Aldridge and William Plomer, is a peculiar and most wonderful addition to your collection!


More teasers?
Flukten fra virkeligheten
Should Be Reading

Thorough forest, thorough meadow...

A Fairy Song

Over hill, over dale, 

   Thorough bush, thorough brier, 

   Over park, over pale, 

   Thorough flood, thorough fire, 

   I do wander every where, 

   Swifter than the moon's sphere; 

   And I serve the fairy queen, 

   To dew her orbs upon the green. 

   The cowslips tall her pensioners be; 

   In their gold coats spots you see; 

   Those be rubies, fairy favours, 

   In those freckles live their savours: 

   I must go seek some dew-drops here, 

And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 

by William Shakespeare

                                               ~ A Midsummer-Night's Dream, Act II

The stolen branch

THE STOLEN BRANCH (La Rama Robada) – Pablo Neruda 

We shall go into the night 

to steal 

a flowering branch. 

We shall climb over the wall 

in the darkness of someone’s garden, 

two shadows in the shadow. 

Winter is still not past 

and the apple tree appears 

suddenly transformed into 

a cascade of perfumed stars. 

We shall go into the night 

right up to its trembling firmament, 

and your little hands and mine 

will steal the stars. 

And then secretly, 

in our home, 

in the night and the dark, 

there will enter with your steps 

the silent tread of your perfume, 

and with starry feet 

the shining body of Spring. 

(trans. Brian Cole)

Not apple blossoms, perhaps, but these are lovely, too ❤

I Opened A Book..

“I opened a book and in I strode.
Now nobody can find me.
I’ve left my chair, my house, my road,
My town and my world behind me.
I’m wearing the cloak, I’ve slipped on the ring,
I’ve swallowed the magic potion.
I’ve fought with a dragon, dined with a king
And dived in a bottomless ocean.
I opened a book and made some friends.
I shared their tears and laughter
And followed their road with its bumps and bends
To the happily ever after.
I finished my book and out I came.
The cloak can no longer hide me.
My chair and my house are just the same,
But I have a book inside me.”

– Julia Donaldson (Crazy Mayonnaisy Mum Anthology)

Source

Song of the Boat

This felt fitting today. All around me there is nothing but sea - it is quite breathtaking - and the sea and the sky were all blue today with hardly a cloud in sight. The water really did sing blue, as it says in the poem.

Picture source

The poem is taken from the book Water sings blue by Kate Coombs

A teaser --- well, a short story, actually.

Today I was a bit lost for what to present to you. I have been visiting family and friends and generally enjoying a short holiday the last couple of weeks, so I did not really find much time to read.

However, seeing this story in one of my favourite bookstores the other day kind of gave it away. I love this short story/poem. The incredulity of it! The story is nothing short of spectacular. I am quite certain Neil Gaiman must have had good fun writing it.

          Check out this link as well - the images are brilliant:
          http://neverwear.net/store/images/saucers_full.jpg


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Day The Saucers Came...

That Day, the saucers landed. Hundreds of them, golden,
Silent, coming down from the sky like great snowflakes,
And the people of Earth stood and
stared as they descended,
Waiting, dry-mouthed, to find out what waited inside for us
And none of us knowing if we would be here tomorrow
But you didn’t notice because

That day, the day the saucers came, by some coincidence,
Was the day that the graves gave up their dead
And the zombies pushed up through soft earth
or erupted, shambling and dull-eyed, unstoppable,
Came towards us, the living, and we screamed and ran,
But you did not notice this because

On the saucer day, which was zombie day, it was
Ragnarok also, and the television screens showed us
A ship built of dead-men’s nails, a serpent, a wolf,
All bigger than the mind could hold,
and the cameraman could
Not get far enough away, and then the Gods came out
But you did not see them coming because

On the saucer-zombie-battling-gods
day the floodgates broke
And each of us was engulfed by genies and sprites
Offering us wishes and wonders and eternities
And charm and cleverness and true
brave hearts and pots of gold
While giants feefofummed across
the land and killer bees,
But you had no idea of any of this because

That day, the saucer day, the zombie day
The Ragnarok and fairies day,
the day the great winds came
And snows and the cities turned to crystal, the day
All plants died, plastics dissolved, the day the
Computers turned, the screens telling
us we would obey, the day
Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,
And all the bells of London were sounded, the day
Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,
The fluttering capes and arrival of
the Time Machine day,
You didn’t notice any of this because
you were sitting in your room, not doing anything
not even reading, not really, just
looking at your telephone,
wondering if I was going to call.

by Neil Gaiman

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fragile Things - One of Neil Gaiman's short story collections.

More teasers can be found:

Flukten fra virkeligheten

Should Be Reading

~A tiny touch of sadness~

                                            My Heart and I

                                   I.
                                   ENOUGH ! we’re tired, my heart and I.
                                      We sit beside the headstone thus,
                                      And wish that name were carved for us.
                                   The moss reprints more tenderly
                                      The hard types of the mason’s knife,
                                      As heaven’s sweet life renews earth’s life
                                   With which we’re tired, my heart and I. 

                                   II.
                                   You see we’re tired, my heart and I.
                                      We dealt with books, we trusted men,
                                      And in our own blood drenched the pen,
                                   As if such colours could not fly.
                                      We walked too straight for fortune’s end,
                                      We loved too true to keep a friend ;
                                   At last we’re tired, my heart and I. 

                                   III.
                                   How tired we feel, my heart and I !
                                      We seem of no use in the world ;
                                      Our fancies hang grey and uncurled
                                   About men’s eyes indifferently ;
                                      Our voice which thrilled you so, will let
                                      You sleep; our tears are only wet :
                                   What do we here, my heart and I ? 

                                   IV.
                                   So tired, so tired, my heart and I !
                                      It was not thus in that old time
                                      When Ralph sat with me ‘neath the lime
                                   To watch the sunset from the sky.
                                      ‘Dear love, you’re looking tired,’ he said;
                                      I, smiling at him, shook my head :
                                   ‘Tis now we’re tired, my heart and I. 

                                   V.
                                   So tired, so tired, my heart and I !
                                      Though now none takes me on his arm
                                      To fold me close and kiss me warm
                                   Till each quick breath end in a sigh
                                      Of happy languor. Now, alone,
                                      We lean upon this graveyard stone,
                                   Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. 

                                   VI.
                                   Tired out we are, my heart and I.
                                      Suppose the world brought diadems
                                      To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
                                   Of powers and pleasures ? Let it try.
                                      We scarcely care to look at even
                                      A pretty child, or God’s blue heaven,
                                   We feel so tired, my heart and I. 

                                   VII.
                                   Yet who complains ? My heart and I ?
                                      In this abundant earth no doubt
                                      Is little room for things worn out :
                                   Disdain them, break them, throw them by
                                      And if before the days grew rough
                                      We once were loved, used, — well enough,
                                   I think, we’ve fared, my heart and I.

                                        Elizabeth Barrett Browning

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A dream of flying - with faeries, perhaps?

“Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,

For I would ride with you upon the wind,

Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,

And dance upon the mountains like a flame.”

~ W. B. Yeats, The Land of Heart's Desire ~

Dream of flying by Artur Szygulski

Christian Watson "Glass Full of Questions" Kinetic Typography

I really had to share this poem - even though it seems like it is well known in the blog-sphere. I loved the drawings and the creativity of it, and I found it so wise.

Now, is your glass half empty or half full...? Do tell.