med_cat: (Hourglass)

Ничего никогда не вернуть,
Как на солнце не вытравить пятна.
И в обратный отправившись путь,
Всё равно не вернёшься обратно.

Эта истина очень проста
И она, словно смерть, непреложна.
Можно в те же вернуться места,
Но вернуться назад невозможно.

[translation here--and yes, the original is rhymed]

Nothing can ever be brought back,
Just as the sunspots cannot be removed from the sun.
And setting out on the road back,
One still cannot come back to the same place.

This truth is a very simple one
And, like death, it is inexorable.
One can come back to the same location,
But one cannot ever go back.

(Nikolai Novikov)


Sep. 29th, 2017 01:18 pm
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [ profile] prettygoodword at fumitory
Theme week: flower fairies.

fumitory (FYOO-mi-tawr-ee, FYOO-mi-tohr-ee) - n., any of various Eurasian annual plants (genus Fumaria, esp. F. officinalis) having small, grey-green leaves and small, spurred, purplish flowers.

Also called fumewart and earthsmoke, the latter being a translation of the Latin-via-French name, fūmus, smoke + terrae, of the earth, apparently named after the color of the leaves.

Fumitory Fairy

Given me hundreds of years ago,
My name has a meaning you shall know:
It means, in the speech of the bygone folk,
“Smoke of the Earth”—a soft green smoke!

A wonderful plant to them I seemed;
Strange indeed were the dreams they dreamed,
Partly fancy and partly true,
About “Fumiter” and the way it grew.

Where men have ploughed or have dug the ground,
Still, with my rosy flowers, I’m found;
Known and prized by the bygone folk
As “Smoke of the Earth”—a soft green smoke!
—Cicely Mary Barker


You can comment here or there.
med_cat: (cat in dress)

When Blackthorn blossoms leap to sight;
They deck the hedge with starry light,
In early Spring
When rough winds blow,
Each promising
A purple sloe!

And now is Autumn here, and lo,
The Blackthorn bears the purple sloe!
But ah, how much
Too sharp these plums,
Until the touch
Of Winter comes!


Sep. 25th, 2017 07:17 am
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [ profile] prettygoodword at aconite
aconite (AK-uh-nait) - n., any of about 250 plants, many of them poisonous, belonging to the genus Aconitum (in the buttercup family) having irregular flowers usually in loose clusters; any of around eight closely related plants of the genus Eranthis, more usually called winter aconite.

Also called monkshood, wolfsbane, leopardsbane, mousebane, women's bane, devil's helmet, queen of poisons, and blue rocket. Monkshood is especially applied to A. napellus, which was cultivated for medicinal purposes (and used very carefully because poisonous. Winter aconite is among the first flowers of spring where they grow. The word is from French aconit, from Latin aconītum, from Greek akonīton, the name of the plant, of uncertain origin.

Winter Aconite Fairy

Deep in the earth
I woke, I stirred.
I said: “Was that the Spring I heard?
For something called!”
“No, no,” they said;
“Go back to sleep. Go back to bed.

Up, up, I climbed,
“You’re far too soon;
The world’s too cold
For you, so small.” So I was told.
But how could I
Go back to sleep?
I could not wait; I had to peep!

And here am I.
How wide the earth! How great the sky!
O wintry world,
See me, awake!
Spring calls, and comes; ’tis no mistake.
—Cicely Mary Barker


You can comment here or there.
med_cat: (cat in dress)
gaillardia (GAY-lahr-dee-uh) - n., any of several American composite flowers of the genus Gaillardia widely cultivated for their large red, yellow, or bicolored flower heads.

Also called blanket flower, possibly because of colors that look like Native American blankets. Named in the 1880s for Gaillard de Charentonneau, an 18th-century French amateur botanist and patron of botany.

Gaillardia Fairy

There once was a child in a garden,
Who loved all my colours of flame,
The crimson and scarlet and yellow—
But what was my name?

For Gaillardia’s hard to remember!
She looked at my yellow and red,
And thought of the gold and the glory
When the sun goes to bed;

And she troubled no more to remember,
But gave me a splendid new name;
She spoke of my flowers as Sunsets—
Then you do the same!
—Cicely Mary Barker


Originally posted by [ profile] prettygoodword at gaillardia
You can comment here or there.
med_cat: (cat in dress)

The Poppy Fairy

The green wheat's a-growing,
The lark sings on high;
In scarlet silk a-glowing,
Here stand I.

The wheat's turning yellow,
Ripening for sheaves;
I hear the little fellow
Who scares the bird-thieves.

Now the harvest's ended,
The wheat-field is bare;
But still, red and splendid,
I am there.

Flower Fairies of the Summer | Cicely Mary Barker.
med_cat: (cat in dress)
My Birthday

Susan Coolidge

Who is this who gently slips
Through my door, and stands and sighs,
Hovering in a soft eclipse,
With a finger on her lips
And a meaning in her eyes?

Once she came to visit me
In white robes with festal airs,
Glad surprises, songs of glee;
Now in silence cometh she,
And a sombre garb she wears.

Once I waited and was tired,
Chid her visits as too few;
Crownless now and undesired,
She to seek me is inspired
Oftener than she used to do.

Grave her coming is and still,
Sober her appealing mien,
Tender thoughts her glances fill;
But I shudder, as one will
When an open grave is seen.

Wherefore, friend,--for friend thou art,--
Should I wrong thee thus and grieve?
Wherefore push thee from my heart?
Of my morning thou wert part;
Be a part too of my eve.

See, I hold my hand to meet
That cool, shadowy hand of thine;
Hold it firmly, it is sweet
Thus to clasp and thus to greet,
Though no more in full sunshine.

Come and freely seek my door,
I will open willingly;
I will chide the past no more,
Looking to the things before,
Led by pathways known to thee.
med_cat: (Hourglass)
Ballad of Another Ophelia

Oh, the green glimmer of apples in the orchard,
Lamps in a wash of rain,
Oh, the wet walk of my brown hen through the stackyard,
O, tears on the window pane!

Nothing now will ripen the bright green apples,
Full of disappointment and of rain,
Brackish they will taste, of tears, when the yellow dapples
Of Autumn tell the withered tale again.

All round the yard it is cluck, my brown hen,
Cluck, and the rain-wet wings,
Cluck, my marigold bird, and again
Cluck for your yellow darlings.

For the grey rat found the gold thirteen
Huddled away in the dark,
Flutter for a moment, oh the beast is quick and keen,
Extinct one yellow-fluffy spark.

. . . . . . . . .

Once I had a lover bright like running water,
Once his face was laughing like the sky;
Open like the sky looking down in all its laughter
On the buttercups -- and buttercups was I.

What then is there hidden in the skirts of all the blossom,
What is peeping from your wings, oh mother hen?
'Tis the sun who asks the question, in a lovely haste for wisdom --
What a lovely haste for wisdom is in men?

Yea, but it is cruel when undressed is all the blossom,
And her shift is lying white upon the floor,
That a grey one, like a shadow, like a rat, a thief, a rainstorm
Creeps upon her then and gathers in his store.

Oh, the grey garner that is full of half-grown apples,
Oh, the golden sparkles laid extinct -- !
And oh, behind the cloud sheaves, like yellow autumn dapples,
Did you see the wicked sun that winked?

by D.H. Lawrence

Originally posted by [ profile] duathir at D.H. Lawrence, 'Ballad of Another Ophelia'

med_cat: (Hourglass)
If recollecting were forgetting,
Then I remember not.
And if forgetting, recollecting,
How near I had forgot.
And if to miss--were merry,
And to mourn--were gay,
How very blithe the fingers
That gathered this, Today!

(Emily Dickinson)

med_cat: (Blue writing)
Мирза-Шафи, заладил ты одно:
Всё про любовь поешь да про вино,
А людям то наскучило давно,
Всё, что чрезмерно, то надоедает.

О чём же петь, подайте мне совет.
Здесь на земле, где столько зла и бед,
Любовь и хмель--единственный просвет,
А светлое чрезмерным не бывает.

"Mirza-Shafi, you keep harping upon the same old theme:
You sing of love and of wine,
But people have grown tired of these themes long ago,
Because everything that is excessive becomes tiresome."

"What shall I sing of then, do advise me.
Here in this world, where there is so much evil and so many troubles,
Love and drunkenness are the only things that let light through the heavy clouds,
And whatever birngs in light can never be excessive."

med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [ profile] elenbarathi at Grease & Salt, by Jeanann Verlee
Grease & Salt
by Jeanann Verlee

I finish a small hot plate of grease & salt / & push
the scraped-clean plate across the counter

for someone else to scrub / this, I say I have paid for
but it doesn't fit / I see the hundred hands

it took to cultivate / the hands that milked the cow
(or built the machines that did) / the hands that harvested

the artichokes & spinach & shallots / the hands
that steamed & fried / the hands that mined

the salts (or maintained the machines that did) / the hands
that mixed the clay & the hands that baked them to ceramic

in a kiln / the hands that sliced & spiced the bread /
the hands that rolled fork & knife into napkin /

the scalded hands that pulled the dish from oven /
the hands that passed the plate to the hands that set it

before me / the hands that wring in hopes I have no
complaint & that if I do, I won't take to Yelp

with my grievances / the hands that whisk the emptied
plate from sight / the hands, too, that swipe my card

& the hands that process the accounts between /
the hands that wipe the counter, seats, floor, handles /

the hundred hands that work & ache & crack over this
one tiny indulgence I myself can't rightly afford /

& I remember my father’s hands, & my mother’s / &
too, the hands of the farmers & soldiers & steel

workers & brick layers in my bloodline / & my hands, too,
each scar & chip / each labor for paycheck or fury or love

& I praise & I praise & I praise / the work & the hands /
& I lick the salt from the corners of my oily mouth.
med_cat: (SH education never ends)
Originally posted by [ profile] duathir at Howard Mumford Jones, 'The Professor Muses'
The Professor Muses

Physics Lecture Room—before Class

I am afraid, O Lord, I am afraid!

These instruments so curiously formed,
This dynamo and meter, that machine
Cunning to grasp and hold with delicate hands
Your unchained lightnings … Lord, I am afraid—
Here in the empty silence of my room!

This lecture hall is oddly like a mouth—
Myself the tongue in it, myself the voice,
Shrill, thin across the empty chairs—how queer,
How skeleton-like appear these empty chairs!
Blank walls, blank platform (ineffectual things)
And bleak, bare windows where the startled day
On tiptoe stands, too lovely to come in….
A mouth it seems, a maw, huge, grim, slow, sure
Some day to close and crush me!
Lord, Lord, Lord,
Am I the thing the daylight falters from,
Spinning my dusty web of dusty words
To catch the plunging star we call the world,
Hanging it so a period? Fool, twice fool,
Who spider-like weave cosmic theories
In gossamer nets to trap the universe!
Spun but to tear a thousand tattered ways
And hang on every lilac, if a girl—
A red-lipped, shallow, care-free freshman girl—
Laugh at the sallies of a boy!

Problems of sound and light, of light and sound,
Experiments, materials, theories,
The laws of motion, problems of sound and light,
Problems of sound and light….

And presently )
med_cat: (cat and books)
Sonnet to a Cat

Cat! who hast pass'd thy grand climacteric,
How many mice and rats hast in thy days
Destroy'd? - How many tit bits stolen? Gaze
With those bright languid segments green, and prick
Those velvet ears - but pr'ythee do not stick
Thy latent talons in me - and upraise
Thy gentle mew - and tell me all thy frays
Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick.
Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists -
For all the wheezy asthma, - and for all
Thy tail's tip is nick'd off - and though the fists
Of many a maid have given thee many a maul,
Still is that fur as soft as when the lists
In youth thou enter'dst on glass bottled wall.

Posthumous and fugitive Poems
[Read the biographical context.]

John Keats
med_cat: (woman reading)

Read more... )
(reposted from David Malcomson, in the Poets Illustrated FB group)

same in text format: )
med_cat: (cat in dress)

Like a gondola of green scented fruits
Drifting along the dank canals at Venice,
You, O exquisite one,
Have entered my desolate city.

The blue smoke leaps
Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing.
So my love leaps forth towards you,
Vanishes and is renewed.

A rose-yellow moon in a pale sky
When the sunset is faint vermilion
In the mist among the tree-boughs,
Art thou to me.

As a young beech-tree on the edge of a forest
Stands still in the evening,
Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light air
And seems to fear the stars—
So are you still and so tremble.

The red deer are high on the mountain,
They are beyond the last pine trees.
And my desires have run with them.

The flower which the wind has shaken
Is soon filled again with rain;
So does my mind fill slowly with misgiving
Until you return.

By Richard Aldington

Originally posted by [ profile] duathir at Richard Aldington, 'Images'

med_cat: (cat in dress)
The Eclipse of the Sun, 1820

High on her speculative tower
Stood Science waiting for the hour
When Sol was destined to endure
That darkening of his radiant face
Which Superstition strove to chase,
Erewhile, with rites impure.

By William Wordsworth

Originally posted by [ profile] duathir at William Wordsworth, 'The Eclipse of the Sun, 1820'

Also, some great photos of the eclipse here:

Stare all you want at these incredible eclipse images, from Gizmodo
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Look at home_by Lily Oakley, published in 'Sunday Reading for the Young' (1906)

Poem by Lily Oakley, published in 'Sunday Reading for the Young' (1906)

(reposted from David Malcolmson‎, in the Poets Illustrated FB group)
the poem in text format: )
med_cat: (cat in dress)

([ profile] acelightning--look ;))

There's purple jam
And purple jell
And a purple bruise
Next day will tell
Where you landed
When you fell.
The purple feeling
Is rather put-out
The purple look is a
Definite pout.
But the purple sound
Is the loveliest thing
It's a violet opening
In the spring.

Illustration by Leonard Weisgard for,
"What Is Purple?" from, "Hailstones and halibut bones" by Mary O'Neill

(from Davidson Jones' post in "Poets Illustrated" FB group)
med_cat: (cat and books)

The scholar and his cat, Pangur Bán

(from the Irish by Robin Flower)

I and Pangur Ban my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He too plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry task to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.


med_cat: (Default)

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