aftermath

we dream, we create, we change, we love

Posts Tagged ‘books

philobibliologue

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1563I have finished reading Undine, a notable fairy tale by Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué, my own copy being one included within Famous Stories Every Child Should Know, edited by Hamilton Wright Mabie. Undine comes “recommended” by Little Women‘s Jo, it being one she wished to get for Christmas, and it adds a certain charm to think of reading it to her. Thanks, Jo.

In my current reading of Little Women itself, I’ve just passed through the chapters following the letters sent to Mother in Washington, among which Beth’s foresaw the pending shadows, writing “I can’t sing ‘LAND OF THE LEAL’ now, it makes me cry.” Which reminds me of hearing the song during a certain fateful drive home from Nashville that I had about four years ago. Which these days has me playing a fair bit of Silly Wizard, such as —

 
Thanks, Beth.

In my current reading of A Walk through the Dark, I’m up to chapter 20, about halfway through. Eva Piper has just been describing how keeping a personal journal helped her through some of the most difficult times of her caregiving for her husband Don. Me, I’m now rather partial to WordPress, although I too have fill many a handwritten journal through the years. But yes, I quite agree: journaling is a powerful friend. Thanks, Eva.

Having a soft spot for the sestina, my poetry reading for the day has picked up a few gleaned from the pages of the poetry books I received this Christmas —

Thanks, Sara.

Meanwhile, I’m continuing to make progress through Finnegans Wake and Tarantula. Thanks, James. And thanks, Bob.

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Written by macheide

27 December 2015 at 7:58 am

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Stretch Far Away

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ShelleyAlmost exactly 50 years ago, I memorized my first serious poem. More than likely, I’d earlier learned the words of many a childhood poem. But the first serious poem I recited from memory was a classic sonnet (yes, Turco, it is one) by one of our classic poets: Ozymandias, by Percy Bysshe Shelley. By now I can’t even recall where I was able to dig that poem up back then — perhaps one of my father’s books, although he was partial to Robert Browning; possibly a book from our school, although I recall only our high schools having libraries. Wherever I managed to find it, memorizing Ozymandias represented a threshold for me: crossing that threshold was when I became a lover of poetry. And now, less than 3 years shy of the 200th anniversary of the initial publication of Ozymandias, my poetry bookshelves finally gain a volume of Shelley poetry.

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Written by macheide

15 April 2015 at 6:30 pm

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Practically Up There

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The Practical AstronomerSince two full moons ago, only one night in seven has been clear enough for us to see the moon. Yet I always know where the moon is relative to the sun and the stars and our horizons, and I always know whether our moon ascends or descends and when it stands still and when it crosses over, and I always know whether it has come closer to us or is farther away, and I don’t need to see it to know. Even so, the moon is always a welcome sight, even when it is so close and full that its light makes nearby stars as invisible as on a cloudy night.

And since Jupiter went retrograde back in early December, we’ve had little opportunity to watch the majestic giant back away from Regulus. Yet from the rare evening clear enough to catch the planet rising to the morning clear enough to watch it fade to the sunrise, I can tell the hour of day by its path across our winter night, and I can tell how far we’ve gone into the season by how far the planet leads Leo. Still, Jupiter is always beautiful to witness so bright overhead, and this winter on clear nights it has become the first wanderer I turn to see.

And we’ve had mostly clouds and rain through the past dozen cycles of Algol. Yet as easily as knowing dawn and dusk I can tell when the demon winks, and I know where Medusa’s head floats even during winter’s daytime when it crosses over the other side of our earth, and I know it’s a glimpse of Algol I’m catching even if it’s the only star peeking through a passing break in our clouds. Nevertheless I love having skies open enough to trace the path I love to trace from Saiph through Bellatrix all the way over to Cassiopeia, then back to this fave.

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Written by macheide

13 January 2015 at 6:12 am

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Up Close and Intimate

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An Intimate Look at the Night SkyLike a love that never grows distant life after life after life, but grows only closer, more and more intimate, so is my friendship with the stars.

And like one can never study too many math books, like one can never lose oneself in too many chess books, like one can never fly too far on too many poetry books, likewise I can never have too many books about the skies around me. So yet another book purchased with the Christmas gift card given to me by Natalie: An Intimate Look at the Night Sky, by Chet Raymo.

When flipping through it while at the bookstore, what persuaded me to add it to my shelves: finding myself reading more than a few pages into Chapter 2 — “Dark: Why the Night Is Dark.” Start a discussion of darkness with a fave poem by Yeats and quickly hit escape velocity from there, and I’m caught as easily as a particle veering too close to the event horizon of a black hole.

Thank you again, Nat, for a Christmas gift that will last in my heart as long as the stars.

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Aftermath Afterlife:

 
 
 
 

Written by macheide

12 January 2015 at 6:16 am

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Sonnets Honestly Made

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The Making of a SonnetBecause she was adept at formal verse, a friend once had her poetry scorned as “less honest” than that of someone with no discipline at all to his scribbling. Her talent with sonnets was specifically targeted for unkind mocking. As for me, I always liked how she compared the fourteen lines of a sonnet to the natural cycles of the waxing and waning moon, the patterns of rhyme to the symmetry in a flower, the volta to the turning of the wind. Seriously, can anyone so crudely reject the sonnet, except by being ignorant to the making of a sonnet, let alone the true making of any art?

As many hundreds of sonnets as I already have in my private poetry library, and as many thousands as I have available through my local library, and as many tens of thousands as are available online, I still gladly welcome to my home shelves this new volume, courtesy of the gift card I received from Natalie for Christmas: The Making of a Sonnet, edited by Edward Hirsch and Eavan Boland.

Thank you, Nat, for the Christmas gift. Although I myself don’t write sonnets, I have always appreciated the honesty in a good sonnet. This book will be read many times cover to cover.

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Aftermath Afterlife:

 
 
 
 

Written by macheide

9 January 2015 at 5:41 am

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Library Returns

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Hollis DedicationSuch things only happen in the movies, right? Actually, something like this did hit the big screen: think Serendipity, when Jonathan Trager’s bride-not-to-be hands him a copy of Love in the Time of Cholera and he opens the cover to find the name he’d been searching five years for.

About 44 years ago, William Hollis wrote Letters and Voices From the Steppes, a book of poems in which his friend and colleague Bernie — to whom the book is partly dedicated, and one of whose sculptures adorns the book’s cover — figures prominently throughout. Bernie’s children also put in appearances.

One of those children was Becky, who during that same year was beginning to take an interest in the poetry student who was editor of her high school’s poetry magazine: me. Influenced heavily by Becky and Bernie, I eventually doubled up on my math major during my closing years of college so as to have the opportunity for my major in English to be highlighted by some very delightful poetry studies with Bill. Upon college graduation, Becky and I married in a ceremony at Bernie’s home, surrounded by Bernie’s sculptures and the legend in which the Steppes poems were steeped. At which point Bill gave Becky and me a copy of Steppes, recognizing not only her own familiarity with the subject matter, but as much for me as a student of his. Ah, but when Becky and I divorced a decade later, in an effort to avoid any bitter arguments over division of joint property I asked only for Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited (and one other item, meant more as a symbolic gesture the significance of which was lost on her). So Steppes went off with her, although she had by that time demonstrated quite well that, as Leonard Cohen put it, “You don’t really care for music, do ya.”

Several lives later (quite literally so) I am finally rebuilding my own poetry library, so quite obviously needed to add Steppes back to my own shelves. Suzi had just recently introduced me to the online wonderworld of one of my favorite local hang-outs — second-hand book dealer Half-Price Books — where a few weeks ago she guided me through my first foray: four Hollis poetry books, led by Steppes. Coming from various book dealers with whom HPB works, shipping info indicated I would be receiving three separate packages from three separate sources.

My first shipment brought me two newer Hollis books. Although all these books are second-hand volumes, I found mildly intriguing and a bit disappointing that one of those first two books with a handwritten personal note from Bill to the original recipient was in almost mint condition, quite possibly never even opened before for so much as a single poem. My second shipment brought me Steppes which the HPB info had described as also being “Signed by Author.” Having recently read online a Hollis poem speaking of the memorial service for Bernie’s death some years ago (a poem in which many of the Steppes characters re-appeared in a rather sad, very distant echo of the power of the Steppes voices), and guessing that Bernie’s own copy of Steppes probably wasn’t held onto by his beneficiaries, I wondered aloud to Suzi whether I might find this copy of Steppes to have been given personally by Bill to Bernie.

And then opened the book’s cover.

To find the dedication shown here. “Ummm, even freakier than Bernie….,” I said, handing Suzi the book for her to see. “This is my book.” I am the “Richard” of “Richard and Becky.” Almost 3 decades after I forfeited Steppes to divorce, my own copy is the one that finds its way back to my shelves, to my eyes, to my reading.

“Take what you have gathered from coincidence,” Dylan sang. A huge difference between fiction’s Serendipity and my reality’s Steppes is that my coincidence is no sign, no forewarning that anything significant is about to happen. I grew up sincerely believing life made great circles such as those in Dickens’ Great Expectations, and perhaps it occasionally does so. And this nice little completion of a circle is worth a contented smile, like at least one little piece of the whole space-time continuum has actually found its rightful place for a moment. I know Bernie would smile at it, at least, almost as if his emissary from a far place had come home to stay. But past that, no message, no sign. Just that one fitting moment.

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Written by macheide

11 September 2014 at 12:46 pm

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SRBSs

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SRBSSRBS1-6Thank you so much, Suzi!! Courtesy of our fave house craftsmen, the inner wall of Suzi’s sewing room now has a handsome new workdesk area for one of her machines, aside of which she had them build a new bookshelf stretching from floor nearly to ceiling, set up for us today. Which she has reserved for me to shelve my books! This bookshelf might actually be able to hold all of my existing collection, yes. But maybe we can let it just mop up my extras, recent purchases that hadn’t yet found a good shelf, leaving intact most of my books that had already found themselves a home, then use these new spaces for a new book-buying program? Hmmmmmm?

Whatever, for making shelf assignments I’ll be numbering these shelves bottom to top, SRBS1 (Sewing Room BookShelf 1) through SRBS6, leaving the top of the bookshelf unit unnumbered. On a purely preliminary basis, I’ve started with the top three shelves. Briefly, from the top shelf down —

  • SRBS6 — Active Porch. On the left side are currently borrowed library books (except for “Century,” a book of photographs from the 20th century, which is my own). On the right side are recent copies of the tax code and pension regulations (topped by my hardcover Turco). All the items on this top shelf will be quite active, rather likely to be off the shelf any time I am doing my reading in Suzi’s sewing room.
     
  • SRBS5 — Pensions and Mathematics. I’d already begun the final emigration of my pension book collection from the Cube. With the space given by this bookshelf, I’ll now give the rest of that collection their tickets to come home. Round that out with the few math books I’ve kept (or recently bought), and this second highest shelf will soon enjoy full occupancy.
     
  • SRBS4 — Poetry. Given the height and depth of these shelves as contrasted with my other shelf spaces, I’ll be keeping my smaller-covered poetry books on my Closet Bookshelf. And at least for now, I’ll be keeping my Living Room Poetry Shelf intact. So for this upper-middle shelf on the new bookshelf, I’ll start with some of my larger-faced poetry books. Not as yet in any order, and possibly to be replaced by other of my poetry books as I reshuffle things over the next several days as I settle into these new quarters.

Again, thank you so much, Suzi!

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Written by macheide

24 July 2014 at 5:36 pm

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