Doesn't everybody name their hats?

It comes as no surprise that I like hats. I wear them year round, but it's especially fun to wear them in winter. With the approaching Polar Vortex 2, little brother of Polar Vortex, I will most likely be wearing a woolly hat indoors. It's good to have a proper cold winter. I've enjoyed Edna, my vintage poodle hat, named after my dear friend, Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Not many wear them in my neck of the woods, so I get pleasant looks of surprise when I show up around town in wild vintage hats. It's no fun to dress without accessories. In 1950s rural Indiana, a woman dared not show up to church without her best hat, pocketbook, and gloves. My favorite thing to do in church, besides eating Grandpa's butterscotch Lifesavers, was to look for Margaret Mabbit, the woman with the feathered hat and bright red lipstick. When we rose to sing the doxology, she looked like a lovely Sendakian parrot, happily singing on her perch.

“What the hell is that?" I laughed.
"It's my fox hat."
"Your fox hat?"
"Yeah, Pudge. My fox hat."
"Why are you wearing your fox hat?" I asked.
"Because no one can catch the motherfucking fox.” 

 ― John Green, Looking for Alaska 

weeds, and so on, and so forth

The Large Turf, Albrecht Durer, 1503

The Hawkweed


Between the red top and the rye,
Between the buckwheat and the corn,
The ploughman sees with sullen eye
The hawkweed licking at the sky:

Three level acres all forlorn,
Unfertile, sour, outrun, outworn,
Free as the day that they were born.

Southward and northward, west and east,
The sulphate and the lime are spread;
Harrowed and sweetened, urged, increased,
The furrow sprouts for man and beast:

While of the hawkweed's radiant head
No stanchion reeks, no stock is fed.

Triumphant up the taken field
The tractor and the plough advance;
Blest be the healthy germ concealed
In the rich earth, and blest the yield:

And blest be Beauty, that enchants
The frail, the solitary lance.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Buck in the Snow and Other Poems

1928

The hawkweed is certainly licking at the sky at Willow Manor, along with the Virginia creeper.  Two new pairs of garden gloves are here, dormant on my desk, as we speak.  Putting dishes away and washing linens proved to be therapeutic this week, but I simply can't get motivated to tackle weeds.  For one thing, it's too damn hot.  Obviously, Durer thought them lovely enough to paint, and Millay considered them a thing of beauty.  I think I shall follow their lead, at least until it cools down a bit. 

ms. st. vee and me

Edna's House

Out back, Edna

hangs pillowcases,

fresh as a line of sonnets.

Her rogue image, 

candid in a nightie and tramp-coat,

displays robust charm,
to match her savage beauty. 

We chat over wet laundry ― 
I trust her with my tough secrets, 

my edged tools.

It's easy; like having another drink, 

when you know you’ve had enough.

She tosses words like clothespins,

exhales slow, stamps a cigarette

in the grass, with a twist

of her Pulitzer shoe.

“Your heart is true”, she winks.

“You may pass”.

Tess Kincaid

February, 2010

Whenever I pass this little green house, I like to imagine my muse, Edna St. Vincent Millay, living here. It's far from Steepletop, but I see her, soft in her easy chair, scribbling sonnets late at night, before the fire.

No hawk hangs over in this air:
The urgent snow is everywhere.
The wing adroiter than a sail
Must lean away from such a gale,
Abandoning its straight intent,
Or else expose tough ligament
And tender flesh to what before
Meant dampened feathers, nothing more.
Forceless upon our backs there fall
Infrequent flakes hexagonal,
Devised in many a curious style
To charm our safety for a while,
Where close to earth like mice we go
Under the horizontal snow.


Edna St. Vincent Millay

photos:  Willow Manor, December 12, 2010

unbearable beauty

Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,—no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies,—I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.

Like him who day by day unto his draught
Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed
Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men.


Edna St. Vincent Millay
Sonnet I from Renascence and Other Poems, 1917







Can anything be as unbearably beautiful as fresh cut lilacs from the manor, paired with my dearest Edna St. Vee? Well, maybe, but I can't think of anything today. Drink up, my friends. ~xx

magnolia, taxes and ms. st. vee

Every spring, when our old magnolia tree blooms, I am reminded of this photo of one of my favorite poets, my dear friend, as I like to call her, Edna St. Vincent Millay. It looks as if it could have been taken right here at the manor. I can't let National Poetry Month go by without posting just a bit of Ms. St. Vee. I adore her elegant sonnets. Even though they are a centuries old art form, hers are so masterfully written, they stand up well against today's modern poetry. Since it happens to be tax season, as well as the season of spring fever, I thought this particularly romantic piece so apropos.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

We talk of taxes, and I call you friend;

Well, such you are, --but well enough we know

How thick about us root, how rankly grow

Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend,

Though flourish through neglect, and soon must send

Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow

Our steady senses; how such matters go

We are aware, and how such matters end.

Yet shall be told no meagre passion here,

With lovers such as we forevermore

Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere

Receives the Table's ruin through her door,

Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear,

Lets fall the coloured book upon the floor.

Magnolia in bloom at Willow Manor, April 12, 2010

warm woollies of the week

Life happens. Plans are spoiled. Things break. We all have bad
hair days. We certainly don't have to go searching for the negative
in this world of ours. So, in the spirit of considering life's simple
pleasures, and ac-cent-tchu-ating the positive, here at the manor,
these are a few of my warm woolly delights from this past week.
Hope a woolly one is in store for you, as well, my friends.

1. My daughter's operatic laugh wafting through the phone.

2. The three peaceful doe who come in the late afternoon, to nibble
the pretzels I leave on top of the snow.

3. Homemade fries with a huge puddle of ketchup. (Do you crave
them in the winter like I do?)

4. The delightful southern accent of my dear friend FireLight.

5. Wet gloves drying on the radiator.

6. The warm clean scent of a stack of freshly folded white towels.

7. Being hypnotized by flames of the fire, until the warm red coals
lull me to sleep.
.
8. The softness of my favorite brown wool shawl around my
shoulders, like the hug of an old friend.

9. The luminous pools of Omar Sharif's eyes in Doctor Zhivago.

10. Sonnet number III from Sonnets from an Ungrafted Tree, by
my good friend, Edna St. Vee. (That's Edna St. Vincent Millay, by

the way.)


She filled her arms with wood, and set her chin
Forward, to hold the highest stick in place,
No less afraid than she had always been
Of spiders up her arms and on her face,
But too impatient for a careful search
Or a less heavy loading, from the heap
Selecting hastily small sticks of birch,
For their curled bark, that instantly will leap
Into a blaze, nor thinking to return
Some day, distracted, as of old, to find
Smooth, heavy, round, green logs with a wet, gray rind
Only, and knotty chunks that will not burn,
(That day when dust is on the wood-box floor,
And some old catalogue, and a brown, shriveled apple core).



photos: my feet in woolly socks, doe at the manor, fireplace at

Willow Manor, Omar Sharif on my TV

what i've been up to

Things have quieted down at the manor, now that one of my little
ships has left port. A wonderful time was had by all. Thank you all
for your dear holiday greetings. I'll slowly be making my way down
your street in the bloggyhood this week, but right now, I'm
recuperating, in my woolly socks, in one of my favorite spots; curled
up in front of a toasty fire with my good friend, Edna St. Vee.

Here's one of my faves:

Winter Night

Pile high the hickory and the light

Log of chestnut struck by the blight.

Welcome-in the winter night.

The day has gone in hewing and felling,

Sawing and drawing wood to the dwelling

For the night of talk and story-telling.

These are the hours that give the edge

To the blunted axe and the bent wedge,

Straighten the saw and lighten the sledge.

Here are question and reply,

And the fire reflected in the thinking eye.

So peace, and let the bob-cat cry.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Summer

I know I am but summer to your heart,

And not the full four seasons of the year;

And you must welcome from another part

Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.

No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell

Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;

And I have loved you all too long and well

To carry still the high sweet breast of spring.

Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,

I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,

That you may hail anew the bird and rose

When I come back to you, as summer comes.

Else will you seek, at some not distant time,

Even your summer in another clime.

.

.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

III, from Eight Sonnets

.

Photo: Willow Manor's Eden rose

the love family

This past weekend, when we heard all about Barrie, the K9 officer,

we were also told about this beautiful swan family, who built a nest

on the grounds of our local criminal justice facility. They have been

fondly dubbed "Bonnie and Clyde Love" and their new baby, "Duke".

Did you know most swans mate for life? So romantic.

.

The word "swan" is derived from Old English swan, akin to the

German schwan and Dutch zwaan, in turn derived from Indo-

European root swen (to sound, to sing), whence Latin derives sonus

(sound). Young swans are known as cygnets, from the Latin word for

swan, cygnus. An adult male is a cob, from Middle English cobbe

(leader of a group); an adult female is a pen.

.

I love swans. To me, they symbolize not only beauty, but serenity

and purity. My auntie sometimes calls me "Swanie", after the Hans

Christian Andersen tale. My friend, Edna St. Vee, wrote a haunting

poem, which I've posted before, about swans. It evokes thoughts of

the struggle between beauty, a sense of purpose and the complexes

of reality.

.

.

I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
And what did I see I had not seen before?
Only a question less or a question more;
Nothing to match the light of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,
House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
Wild swans, come over the town, come over
The town again, trailing your legs and crying!

Wild Swans
Edna St. Vincent Millay

.

I wish I could take credit for these marvelous photos, but there

were taken by officer Phillip Hetzel.

Theme Thursday = Earth

The Return


Earth does not understand her child,
Who from the loud gregarious town
Returns, depleted and defiled,
To the still woods, to fling him down.

Earth can not count the sons she bore:
The wounded lynx, the wounded man
Come trailing blood unto her door;
She shelters both as best she can.

But she is early up and out,
To trim the year or strip its bones;
She has no time to stand about
Talking of him in undertones

Who has no aim but to forget,
Be left in peace, be lying thus
For days, for years, for centuries yet,
Unshaven and anonymous;

Who, marked for failure, dulled by grief,
Has traded in his wife and friend
For this warm ledge, this alder leaf:
Comfort that does not comprehend.


Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1934
.
.


How appropriate that this Theme Thursday is "earth", this coming
Wednesday being Earth Day. Since you know I am taking full
advantage of National Poetry Month, I had to post this powerful
piece by one of my very favorite poets, Edna St. Vincent Millay,
1892 – 1950. She was an American lyrical poet and playwright, the
shining red haired heroine of bohemian fame, famous for her
insouciance and bravado. Millay was the first woman to receive the
Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923.
.
.
photo from Flickr by mikE~510

Edna St. Vee and Me

Black Swans, Wallis Lake, 1923, Margaret Preston

I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.

And what did I see I had not seen before?

Only a question less or a question more;

Nothing to match the light of wild birds flying.

Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,

House without air, I leave you and lock your door.

Wild swans, come over the town, come over

The town again, trailing your legs and crying!

Wild Swans

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Do you ever struggle with the beauty, purity and sense of purpose

of idealism and the complexes of reality? Edna and I are simpatico.

I'm getting out for some fresh air today, but not locking my door.

Not just yet.

The Dream!

Freedom from Fear, Norman Rockwell, 1943

For the dream, for the plan, for the freedom of man as

it was meant to be;

Not for the structure set up so lustily, by rule of thumb

And overnight, bound to become

Loose, lop-sided, out of plumb,

But for the dream, for the plan, for the freedom of man as

it was meant to be

By men with more vision, more wisdom, more purpose,

more brains

Than we,

(Possibly, possibly)

Men with more courage, men more unselfish, more intent

Than we, upon their dreams, upon their dream of

Freedom, Freedom not alone

For oneself, but for all, wherever the word is known,

In whatever tongue, or the longing in whatever spirit

Men with more honor. (That remains

To be seen! That we shall see!)

Possibly. Possibly.

.

And if still these truths be held to be

Self evident.

from "Not for a Nation", Mine the Harvest, 1954

Edna St. Vincent Millay

.

Faith is the substance of things hoped for,

the evidence of things not seen. Hebrews 11:1

Today was a perfectly perfect autumn day in Central Ohio! WT and
I took a little fall drive to absorb some of the wonderful colors. Here
are a few photos I took at the Oak Grove Cemetery and Arboretum.
In 1850 Oak Grove Cemetery purchased the Kilbourne farm, about
80 acres, one mile south of Delaware, OH. Cemeteries, for me, always
conjure thoughts of significance and the brevity of life. I've included
a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, in which she also conveys my
feelings on the subject.

.

.

..

Dirge Without Music

Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the

hard ground.

So, it is and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind.

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned

with lilies and with laurel they go, but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.

Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.

A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,

A formula, a phrase remains, ---but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter,

the love,---

They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses elegant and

curled

Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not

approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in

the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Willow's Eden Roses

Beauty never slumbers;

All is in her name;

But the rose remembers

The dust from which it came.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

photos by Willow

Poem for Today

But Spring is wise. Pale and with gentle eyes, one day
somewhat she advances;
The next, with a flurry of snow into flake-filled skies

retreats before the heat in our eyes, and the thing designed
By the sick and longing mind in its lonely fancies--
The sally which would force and take her.
And Spring is kind.
Should she come running headlong in a wind-whipped acre
Of daffodil skirts down the mountain into this dark
valley we would go blind.

from New England Spring, 1942, Edna St. Vincent Millay

photo, Edna St. Vincent Millay in 1914, photographed by Arnold Gente

Birthday Girl

My dear uncle just called me and happened to
mention that today was Edna St. Vincent Millay’s birthday.
Since she is one of my favorite poets, I have to squeeze in a
little blog on her tonight, while it is still her day. She was the
first woman to ever win the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1923.
Her poetry is absolutely dazzling. I read an excellent biography
on her a few years ago called Savage Beauty by Nancy Milford.
I also enjoy collecting vintage copies of her books of poetry.

Her best-known poem is probably "First Fig" from A Few Figs

From Thistles:

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!

Millay was born February 22, 1892. Happy Birthday Edna,

you were a lovely light!