So long New Hampshire (and Vermont and Maine) ...

So long New Hampshire (and Vermont and Maine), it's been a fun week or so. Here's a little farewell from Robert Frost:

She's one of the two best states in the Union.
Vermont's the other. And the two have been
Yokefellows in the sap yoke from of old
In many Marches. And they lie like wedges,
Thick end to thin end and thin end to thick end,
And are a figure of the way the strong
Of mind and strong of arm should fit together,
One thick where one is thin and vice versa.
- From "New Hampshire" by Robert Frost (from the classic 1923 collection, New Hampshire)

To feel the wind, sea-scented, on my cheek, / To catch the sound of dusky flapping sail - Celia Thaxter

To feel the wind, sea-scented, on my cheek,
To catch the sound of dusky flapping sail
And dip of oars, and voices on the gale
Afar off, calling low, -- my name they speak!

O Earth! Thy summer song of joy may soar
Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave
The sad, caressing murmur of the wave
That breaks in tender music on the shore.
-- From "Land-Locked"

Celia Laighton Thaxter (June 29, 1835 – August 25, 1894) was an American writer of poetry and stories born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Thaxter grew up in the Isles of Shoals, first on White Island, where her father, Thomas Laighton, was a lighthouse keeper, and then on Smuttynose and Appledore Islands. (Wikipedia)

Across the lonely beach we flit, / One little sandpiper and I - Celia Thaxter

Across the lonely beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I,
And fast I gather, but by bit,
The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I.
- From "The Sandpiper"

(NOTE: the bird at the right is not a sandpiper)

Celia Laighton Thaxter (June 29, 1835 – August 25, 1894) was an American writer of poetry and stories born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Thaxter grew up in the Isles of Shoals, first on White Island, where her father, Thomas Laighton, was a lighthouse keeper, and then on Smuttynose and Appledore Islands. (Wikipedia)

Sweet sounds on rocky shores the distant rote; / O could we float forever, little boat, / Under the blissful sky drifting alone! - C Thaxter

"Off Shore"

Rock, little boat, beneath the quiet sky,
Only the stars behold us where we lie, -
Only the stars and yonder brightening moon



On the wide sea to-night alone are we;
The sweet, bright summer day dies silently,
Its glowing sunset will have faded soon.

Rock softly, little boat, the while I mark
The far off gliding sails, distinct and dark,
Across the west pass steadily and slow.

But on the eastern waters sad, they change
And vanish, dream-like, gray, and cold, and strange
And no one knoweth whither they may go.

We care not, we, drifting with wind and tide,
While glad waves darken upon either side,
Save where the moon sends silver sparkles down

And yonder slender stream of changing light,
Now white, now crimson, tremulously bright,
Where dark the lighthouse stands, with fiery crown.

Thick falls the dew, soundless on sea and shore:
It shines on little boat and idle oar,
Wherever moonbeams touch with tranquil glow.

The waves are full of whispers wild and sweet;
They call to me, - incessantly they beat
Along the boat from stern to curvéd prow

Comes the careering wind, blows back my hair,
All damp with dew, to kiss me unaware,
Murmuring "Thee I love," and passes on.

Sweet sounds on rocky shores the distant rote;
O could we float forever, little boat,
Under the blissful sky drifting alone!
-- "Off Shore"

Celia Laighton Thaxter (June 29, 1835 – August 25, 1894) was an American writer of poetry and stories born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Thaxter grew up in the Isles of Shoals, first on White Island, where her father, Thomas Laighton, was a lighthouse keeper, and then on Smuttynose and Appledore Islands. (Wikipedia)

Sarah Orne Jewett's "On Star Island" ... and being on Star Island (Isles of Shoals)

I'd read Jewett's Country of the Pointed Firs (often considered her best work) a number of years ago. A significant figure in American regionalist literature, she lived and worked in Maine, just across the water from Portsmouth, NH where I'm spending some summer vacation.



Sarah Orne Jewett (September 3, 1849 – June 24, 1909) was an American novelist, short story writer and poet, best known for her local color works set along or near the southern seacoast of Maine. (Wikipedia).

I took a short day trip out to Star Island and Jewett pretty much captured the experience, from the little chapel, the little graveyard, the clusters of people on holiday,

Here's Jewett's poem, "On Star Island":

 High on the lichened ledges, like
    A lonely sea-fowl on its perch,
Blown by the cold sea winds, it stands,
    Old Gosport's quaint, forsaken church.

No sign is left of all the town
    Except a few forgotten graves;
But to and fro the white sails go
    Slowly across the glittering waves.



And summer idlers stray about
    With curious questions of the lost
And vanished village, and its men,
    Whose boats by these same waves were tossed.

I wonder if the old church dreams
    About its parish, and the days
The fisher people came to hear
    The preaching and the songs of praise!

Rough-handed, browned by sun and wind,
    Heedless of fashion or of creed,
They listened to the parson's words --
    Their pilot heavenward indeed.



Their eyes on week-days sought the church,
    Their surest landmark, and the guide
That led them in from far at sea,
    Until they anchored safe beside

The harbor-wall that braved the storm
    With its resistless strength of stone.
Those busy fishers all are gone --
    The church is standing here alone.

But still I hear their voices strange,
    And still I see the people go
Over the ledges to their homes:
    The bent old women's footsteps slow;

The faithful parson stop to give
    Some timely word to one astray;
The little children hurrying on
    Together, chattering of their play.

I know the blue sea covered some,
    And others in the rocky ground
Found narrow lodgings for their bones --
    God grant their rest is sweet and sound!

I saw the worn rope idle hang
    Beside me in the belfry brown.
I gave the bell a solemn toll --
    I rang the knell for Gosport town.

One cannot finish the seventh bowl, but feels only a light breeze spring up under the arms. -Lu Tong #QotD

"Song of Seven Cups" from
"Taking Up the Pen to Thank Mèng Jiànyì for Sending New Tea"

One bowl moistens the lips and throat;
Two bowls shatters loneliness and melancholy;
Three bowls, thinking hard, one produces five thousand volumes;
Four bowls, lightly sweating, the iniquities of a lifetime disperse towards the pores.
Five bowls cleanses muscles and tendons;
Six bowls accesses the realm of spirit;
One cannot finish the seventh bowl, but feels only a light breeze spring up under the arms.
- by Lú Tóng of the Táng Dynasty

Mr. Sun

The cup of tea above was just what I needed after a long ride from Shanghai to Zhujiajiao (and some hotel check in troubles that were later resolved), oh, and some bad directions on my map, and swarms of crowds at the entrance to the Old Town ... but then, I turned a small corner and saw a sign for "tea, coffee, beer". Who could resist. I went in and was greeted by Mr. Sun and asked what I wanted. Tea, green tea. Ah, please sit down here with the fan.

I sat in a cane chair with a tea table made from a printing block. Mr. Sun brought a fine green tea and tended to other customers. He is also an artist and all the paintings in "The Old House" (which dates from the 1820's) are by him. He also likes to take you picture and poses you with various books that are around the tea house. As I finished up my tea, he took me on a tour of the house; we took some more pictures and then I was back on my way ...

As posed and shot by Mr. Sun

While in my dream, I forget I am a guest, / And covet pleasure! - Li Yu #QotD

Outside the Curtains the Rain is Murmuring (Ripples Sifting Sand)

Outside the curtains the rain is murmuring,
And spring is waning,
Silk bedding cannot resist the fifth watch cold.
While in my dream, I forget I am a guest,
And covet pleasure!
I should not lean alone on these railings,
The land is unlimited;
It's easy to part- to meet again is hard.
Spring's gone like blossom fallen on flowing water,
My paradise too!

* * * * *
Li Yu was an early writer of Song dynasty lyrics, (ci in Chinese), a much more fluid form than those used by the great Tang poets. His works often express strong romantic or nostalgic feelings; they bear the title only of the tune to which they were sung. Here they are identified by their first line in English. (from the website)

* * * * *
Book at right is from the Ancient Chinese Book collection, Shanghai Library and note related to the poem

My idle dreams roam far, / To the southern land where spring is fragrant. - Li Yu #QotD

My Idle Dreams Roam Far (Gazing at the South)

My idle dreams roam far,
To the southern land where spring is fragrant.
Wind and strings play on a boat on the river's clear surface,
The city is full of catkins flying like light dust.
People are occupied admiring the flowers.
My idle dreams roam far,
To the southern land where autumn is clear.
For a thousand li over rivers and hills cold colours stretch far,
Deep in flowering reeds, a solitary boat is moored.
Beneath the bright moon, a flute plays in the tower.

* * * * *
Li Yu was an early writer of Song dynasty lyrics, (ci in Chinese), a much more fluid form than those used by the great Tang poets. His works often express strong romantic or nostalgic feelings; they bear the title only of the tune to which they were sung. Here they are identified by their first line in English. (from the website)

* * * * *
Book at right is from the Ancient Chinese Book collection, Shanghai Library and note related to the poem

Man's affairs are like the flow of floodwater, / A life is just like floating in a dream - Li Yu #QotD

 Last Night the Wind and Rain Together Blew (Crows Crying at Night)

Last night the wind and rain together blew,
The wall-curtains rustled in their autumn song.
The candle died, the water-clock was exhausted,
I rose and sat, but could not be at peace.
Man's affairs are like the flow of floodwater,
A life is just like floating in a dream.
I should more often go drunken through the country,
For otherwise I could not bear to live.
- Li Yu

* * * * *
Li Yu was an early writer of Song dynasty lyrics, (ci in Chinese), a much more fluid form than those used by the great Tang poets. His works often express strong romantic or nostalgic feelings; they bear the title only of the tune to which they were sung. Here they are identified by their first line in English. (from the website)

* * * * *
Book at right is from the Ancient Chinese Book collection, Shanghai Library and note related to the poem

Malachi McCormick, "vox audita perit littera scripta manet" (Artist's Book Series III)

I was first drawn (May 1991) to the small, finely printed, bound and illustrated miniatures of McCormick by his title, Snores (1986).

A few months later (November 1991), I picked up my second and third McCormicks, Pangur Bán (1990) -- the small black book with the print of a cat on it was irresistible -- and Hail to Your Coming, O Herring! (1984). The fine printing, calligraphy, and print work and complimentary printing combined with the overall craftsmanship make these miniatures true jewels. 

From his website, McCormick gives a full autobiography, it begins:

"My name is Malachi McCormick, and I make handmade books. I started The Stone Street Press in 1980 and have published some 50 titles since. 2006 was the 25th Anniversary of the press, and now I’m looking forward — if my presumption doesn't offend the actuarial deities– to the next 25 years of books and book-making and small-press publishing, and book arts. " (Stone Street Press site).

Read more about McCormick and his works at his website, The Stone Street Press. 

---

Malachi McCormick

Hail to Your Coming, O Herring! (1984)
New York, The Stone Street Press
Small illustrated version of Irish poem in English and Irish; stamped herring on cover; signed and numbered 116/495
Cost: $3.00 | The Stone Street Press

 

---

Malachi McCormick
Snores: An Anonymous 17th c. Poem (1986)
New York, The Stone Street Press
“This little book was made for the Fifty Avenue Book Fair in New York City, September 14th, 1986”; translation of an anonymous 17th century poem; dual text (Irish and English); hand-tooled cover and colored illustration; signed: 310/495
Cost: $4.95 | The Stone Street Press

---

Malachi McCormick
Pangur Bán (1990)
New York, The Stone Street Press
Small illustrated version of 9th century Irish poem with stamped cat on cover
Cost: $3.00 | The Stone Street Press

QotD: "And that moment when the bird sings very close / To the music of what happens" RIP Seamus Heaney

Earlier today the Irish poet Seamus Heaney died (1939-2013). I first came across Heaney in college in a graduate seminar on Irish Poetry. Yeats was, of course, the focus, but we also covered "Irish poetry after Yeats" (which was the title of the book we used!).

Heaney also did some interesting translations (Beowulf and Greek plays), that made him one of the best selling poets of our time.

And here's more from the quote of the day:

There are mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.
- From "Song" by Seamus Heaney

Carrion Comfort: Borders Books out of business sale

Why do I have Gerard Manley Hopkins on the brain?

Carrion Comfort

NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me    

Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.