Sunday Snippet

The opening of Edith Wharton's Short Story 'Expiation' which sets the scene admirably.

"I can never,"said Mrs. Fetherel, "hear the bell ring without a shudder."

Her unruffled aspect - she was the kind of woman whose emotions never communicate themselves to her clothes - and the conventional background of the New York drawing room, with its pervading implication of an imminent tea tray and of an atmosphere in which the social functions have become purely reflex, lent to her declaration a relief not lost on her cousin Mrs. Clinch, who, from the other side of the fireplace, agreed, with a glance at the clock, that it was the hour for bores.

Briefly, Mrs. Fetherel thinks that she has written a 'racy' first novel and is concerned, upon its publication, about its reception.

Sky Watch Friday

I have merged two skies here, for a purpose ....

Blackbird

Stripped, stark fingers of a February tree
Scratch the morning sky,
reach out and up;
eager to draw.

Caught midway in its branches,
as an abandoned black glove,
fingers fanned out and down,
held limp in stillness; a silhouette.

To this, a sudden rush of energy lends
full-bodied quiver of life;
vibrant third dimension against
a silent tree-etched sky.

The blackbird rises
on a trebled note of song,
to herald incoming spring.

Wordless Wednesday

'A Word Is Dead'

'A Word Is Dead'

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

Emily Dickinson

El Día de San Valentino

Did Not

'Twas a new feeling - something more
Than we had dared to own before,
Which then we hid not;
We saw it in each other's eye,
And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,
To speak, but did not.

She felt my lips' impasssioned touch -
'Twas the first time I dared so much,
And yet she chid not;
But whispered o'er my burning brow,
"Oh, do you doubt I love you now?"
Sweet soul! I did not.

Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I pressed it closer, closer still,
Though gently bid not;
Till - oh! the world hath seldom heard
Of lovers, who so nearly erred,
And yet, who did not.

Thomas Moore 1779-1852

From 'Victoria's Words of Love' volume one

Sunday Snippet

For all writers of any poetry, prose, non-fiction, drama, blogs, notes on pieces of paper, collected musings and ideas .... and for words themselves, from wherever they come .... I found this:

'Why isn't the author's written word enough? Why must she follow her book out into the world like an anxious mother, to hold its hand and vouch for its character? Why, for that matter, is a book more desirable when it has the author's signature on the flyleaf? .......... Celebritization of authors rivets the nation's attention on a handful of books each year, shutting out diversity, leaving poets and first novelists to huddle in the cold with masses of nonfiction scholars whose subject matter is more vital than it is sexy.'

From 'Postcards from the Imaginary Mom' p163
'High Tide in Tucson' by Barbara Kingsolver

Sky Watch Friday

I love silhouettes against the skyline - and here is one by which to dream ........ on into the weekend ..... and beyond

Wordless Wednesday

Sunday Snippet

I just have to post this. It is a whole rather than a snippet (a snippet of my grandson's imagination though) as it is a song - and I don't have the tune, only the words.



Here is 'the man himself'. He is aged 7 and Spanish is his first language, so it was a delight when he turned up one day and announced his song, asking my husband to accompany him on the guitar.

Just For You

The sun is in the sky
like a very shiny light
The rain is coming
The sun is going

And all the same
a-a-a-a-all the same

The sun is yellow
The sky is blue
and all the time I'm thinking of you

The rainbow gets all colours
j-j-j-just for you

Sky Watch Friday

Sky and sea; tranquil on still winter evenings, reflecting the setting of the sun as they bask in its ebbing rays.

I wish you tranquility this coming weekend.

Wordless Wednesday

February Flock

Shadow-shoal crossing, eclipsing my own
in wing-beat timing - as the leaf-flutter
of the whole flock skimming the lane
passed as an idea, a dream
too momentary to encapsulate - catch,
in mirror-bright sunlight, pre-empting
this February mid-morning into eternity.