Guess Who's Killing My Fern?

The Finches, that's who! Yes, Mr. & Mrs. House Finch, of the Long Island Finches, have set up housekeeping in one of our hanging ferns and are starting a family. Last season, they summered in a different location on our property and had a sad encounter with a King snake. The resulting death of their little ones has made them a bit wary, and consequently, we don't have the heart to interfere with their little home this season . . . and as the mother-to-be gets very upset if we touch the fern that houses her nest we've been neglecting it as evidenced by its lackluster appearance!

It looks like all will end well this year, however, as the happy couple now have five eggs and are eagerly awaiting the arrivals.

And by the way, if you live in the eastern half of the US and have house finches in your neighborhood, they are also part of the Long Island clan. Did you know that seventy years ago there were no house finches in the eastern part of the country? In 1940, some from California were released on Long Island and within fifty years they had spread across the eastern US and southern Canada - with their numbers in the millions. If you'd like to read more about the House Finch and how its spread affected other birds, check out this article.

So, stay tuned for progress updates over the next few weeks. And since we'll be watching these little birds, you might like this poem about bird watching from Robert Service:

The Bird Watcher

In Wall Street once a potent power,
    And now a multi-millionaire
Alone within a shady bower
    In clothes his valet would not wear,
He watches bird wings bright the air.

The man who mighty mergers planned,
    And oil and coal kinglike controlled,
With field-glasses in failing hand
    Spies downy nestlings five days old,
With joy he could not buy for gold.

Aye, even childlike is his glee;
    But how he crisps with hate and dread
And shakes a clawlike fist to see
    A kestrel hover overhead:
Though he would never shoot it dead.

Although his cook afar doth forage
    For food to woo his appetite,
The old man lives on milk and porridge
    And now it is his last delight
At eve if one lone linnet lingers.
    To pick crushed almonds from his fingers.

The Rabbit Has a Charming Face, but . . .

The rabbit has a charming face,

Its private life is a disgrace.
I really dare not name to you
The awful things that rabbits do.

The Rabbit (1925), Anonymous

Isn't this a charming little poem? Although it's unclear to this modern reader how the rabbit disgraces himself, or herself, as the case may be. What comes promptly to mind, though, is the way rabbits hop around at dusk and nibble their way through the tastiest young leaves. Disgraceful! Did you know that rabbits eat up to one pound of greens each day?


What I'd like to find is a civilized rabbit like Br'er Rabbit or the White Rabbit - one dressed in formal wear who has more pressing issues than sneaking around mooching our plants.

What we actually have, though, is a pretty smart rabbit - one might even say he's no Dumb Bunny! This year he's only eating plants we don't want - like this volunteer violet. Do you have a problem with violets? They pop up in one little corner of our yard, both in the grass and in the beds - and even though some might not consider them a weed, they are a weed to me. (Doesn't that have a bit of a Godfather sound? Kind of like "you're dead to me", except that "you're a weed to me" isn't quite as ominous - or is it if you're the violet? If someone said that to you, would that make you shrink?)

So here's hoping our bunny sticks to the violets and hollyhocks (also volunteers, but that's an interesting story for another day)! This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship . . . and I might even re-write The Rabbit poem:

Our bunny has a charming face
He hops around with joy and grace.
You won't believe what he can do,
The weeds are gone when he is through.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good May . . .

. . . without celebrating National Poetry Month, that is. That's right, there are only a few days left in April and I couldn't let the month pass without mentioning National Poetry Month. My intention was to blog about it on the first, but like an April Fool, I neglected to . . .

But, there's still time to focus on your favorite poems - or maybe discover a new favorite! I love the official NPM poster, seen above. The lines from Wallace Stevens' Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour were slightly familiar, so the poster led me to find the whole poem which is delightful. You can read it in its entirety here. The Academy of American Poets sponsors the celebration and you will find lots of interesting poems and activities on their website: poets.org.

And for those who find poetry out-dated and boring, this modern twist on William Blake's Jerusalem might change your mind:




I think Blake would approve of the portrayal of the 'satanic mills', and if you saw the movie Calendar Girls you'll appreciate the snippet of the ladies from the Women's Institute. If you like this rendition of the famous poem-as-hymn, check out the YouTuber's other videos - he has some fabulous performances of other classic poems (like Marlowe's Come Live With Me and the darkly comic Tim Turpin).

There is always room in a busy day for a little poetry, so set aside a few minutes before the month ends to enjoy a great poem - as for me, I'm off to check out the Poems on the Range!

The Obligatory Daffodil Post & Poem

Finally all my daffodils are blooming and I feel compelled to blog about them - I promise this is the last time this spring! They're just so cheery, though, aren't they? And when you pass a large display of them like this one . . .

. . . you must think of William Wordsworth's famous poem, "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" (or I should say I always think of it and then can only recall the first few lines). If you've also been trying to remember this classic spring poem, here goes:

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud ~ William Wordsworth, 1802

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Thanks for stopping by today, I'm off to lie on the couch and dream of golden, dancing daffodils! Hope you'll join in the reverie . . .

Please note: the giant daffodil is not real; do not be alarmed! It's actually a beautiful sculpture at nearby Fearrington Village.

The March Star

Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat --
You must have walked --
How out of breath you are!

Emily Dickinson captured my thoughts exactly with her whimsical poem about March! I am so glad March finally came and I was looking for it for weeks . . .

And, when it came, it brought blooms for our Star Magnolia (Magnolia stellata).

For the first time in several years the blooms were not damaged by late ice or frost - and so they are perfectly white and really lovely in the stark winter landscape.

If you're looking for a small ornamental tree (zones 4-9), consider this graceful early bloomer. It's easy to grow and, according to a neighbor, easy to propagate . . . I'll be trying this myself in a few weeks and will let you know!

In the meantime, I'm off to read Emily's poem in its entirety (click here).

Rainy Day Blahs

I've been thinking too much about the weather lately as fun snow days turned into cold, rainy, yucky days and, now, nights. It's only 34°, but as the ground is saturated with leftover snow and ice and more rain is falling, it seems bitterly cold and you just want to pack a bag for warmer climes. And that's the problem, weather should be like your washing machine - it's just there and you don't have to think about it!

Instead, the weather seems to be on everyone's mind, which is nothing new. In 1918 it was on Carl Sandburg's mind and the result is this lovely poem:

Horses and Men in Rain by Carl Sandburg

Let us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter’s day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.

Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches—and talk about mail carriers and messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the Holy Grail and men called “knights” riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved.

A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.
Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Launcelot, the hero, and Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.

When one considers the options of being a milk wagon driver or roustabout with icicles on his hat, it doesn't seem so bad to run from the car to the grocery store and back with umbrella in hand . . . but, I plan to spend the rest of the weekend nudging the radiator with my slippers.

In short, I'm hoping for a weekend free from:

Hope you stay warm and dry the next few days!

'Nevermore' Forevermore?

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Don't you love the opening stanza of Edgar Allen Poe's 'The Raven'? In fact, once I read the beginning I'm compelled to read the rest - if you're the same, click here to see the whole poem and discover a great site devoted to All Things Poe. Why talk about Poe today, January 19? It's his birthday and something rather shocking has happened - or rather, not happened!

Since 1949, a mysterious stranger has visited Poe's grave in Baltimore between midnight and dawn on January 19 - leaving three roses and a half-full (or perhaps half-empty is the way Poe would see it) bottle of cognac. This year . . . no roses, no cognac, no note. As the identity of the 'Poe Toaster' is not known, we can only guess at the reason. Perhaps last year was the intentional finale - it was the 200th anniversary of Poe's birth and a nice, round number on which to end. Perhaps the Poe Toaster is in poor health this year? We may never know - or perhaps the tradition will continue next year . . . let's wait and see.

In the meantime, enjoy a Poe poem or take the Baltimore Sun's Poe Quiz or rent the creepy '60s adaptation of the Fall of the House of Usher, starring the King of B-thrillers, Vincent Price.

As for me, I'm off to check around my chamber doors, purple curtains, and window lattices to ensure no craven, ghastly grim and ancient ravens are lurking . . .

Happy Midwinter (aka The Longest Night of the Year)

As you know, today is the Solstice - the shortest day in the year for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere and the longest day for those of you in the Southern Hemisphere. Officially occurring at 12:47 - we're now almost four hours into Winter. And what better time to revisit Robert Frost's fabulous poem that takes place on this day:

Photograph from 1916, part of the Frank and Frances Carpenter collection, Library of Congress.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Photograph by Sergei Mikhailovich Prokudin-Gorskii, circa 1915, Library of Congress.

I hope you enjoy the longest (or shortest!) night of 2009!

Woodprint (c. 1838) by Hiroshige Ando (1797-1858), Library of Congress.

Bleak Midwinter Snow

Yes, this is one of those hackneyed blog entries with pictures of snow and a Christmas carol. Sorry . . . I just couldn't resist. It's not often this part of North Carolina has snow in December (or any other time) and it's pretty exciting! So here are a few snaps accompanied by Christina Rossetti's beautiful poem, In the Bleak Midwinter. (Also, of course, a popular hymn with music by Gustav Holst - and a favorite of my grandmother who introduced me to many of Rossetti's charming poems for children - and finally, in the spirit of blogosphere self-indulgence, the last verse was my part in a Christmas program many years ago . . . funny how these things stay with you - another time I'll bore you with the details of the red velvet jumper that made its debut with the poem . . .)

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day,
Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

Knit a Poem: Craft Meets Literature in a Big Way

The British Poetry Society recently sponsored a project that involved over 1,000 knitters and crocheters from around the globe. To celebrate their centenary, the Poetry Society decided to create a knitted poem - a really large knitted poem. The poem was constructed from 12-inch squares - one letter per square - with the poem itself remaining a closely guarded secret. The final poem measured approximately 10 yards by 14 yards. (Picture that on a football field to get an idea of the scope!)

Regretfully, I didn't find out about this project in time to blog about it, but I was able to contribute one tiny square. My knitting skills are really basic, but I'm a fairly advanced crocheter and the P. Society was accepting crocheted squares as well as knitted ones, so I e-mailed the person coordinating the project to ask if there was still time to join in and was excited to get my 'assignment' later that day. I was disappointed to learn that the letters were being knitted and that the crocheters were creating the blank squares used to separate words. It was a little like finding out you're going to be a Scrabble letter, dreaming of being a 'Z' or 'Q' then ending up as a blank tile. Oh well, I only had two days in which to complete my task and that included choosing a color. Despite years of crocheting baby blankets, ensuring the square was truly square and exactly 12" did require a little concentration. But, it was mailed with 10 days to make it to London and I was happy with the way it turned out - even if it was just a blank!

The Poetry Society organized sewing sessions where volunteers sewed the squares together - and still the poem was a secret. Then on October 7 it was unveiled at London's British Library - and the poem was revealed. There's no way to find out the location of my square, but I think it's under the 'I' in 'their' in the top left part of the photo below (it's bright green):

I think this was a very clever way to commemorate one hundred years. I'd love to think of my own project that could involve lots of people working together to create something fun. When I was a Junior Girl Scout in the 1970s, our troop participated in a statewide quilt - one troop from each of the 100 counties sewed a square that represented their county. These were used to make a quilt that was displayed in the Governor's Mansion or perhaps the Legislature - the details are a bit fuzzy. I had not thought about that quilt in years, but crocheting my poem square reminded me of it. Okay, so there's a project for me - find out what happened to that quilt! I'll let you know if I locate it . . .

The knitted poem will be displayed in different cities in the UK - check the Poetry Society website for details. And the big question - what was the poem? 'In My Craft or Sullen Art' by Dylan Thomas. I think you'll like it - it's especially nice to read while you're sewing or knitting or thinking about sewing or knitting . . .

In My Craft or Sullen Art by Dylan Thomas

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

Butterfly Tuesday - or Emily Dickinson in Texas

The Butterfly upon the Sky by Emily Dickinson

The Butterfly upon the Sky,

That doesn't know its Name

And hasn't any tax to pay

And hasn't any Home

Is just as high as you and I,

And higher, I believe,

So soar away and never sigh

And that's the way to grieve --

Have you seen lots of butterflies in your garden this week? We have and despite my best efforts I have only gotten photographs of them sitting. Perhaps I should abandon the camera and just enjoy them "upon the sky" like Emily Dickinson. I like her little butterfly poem, although I must confess that it's almost impossible not to read it to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas". Ever since I found out that most of her poems can be sung to this tune, it's been a real struggle . . .

But, back to the butterflies. If you're interested in participating in a Citizen Science Project, check out this Monarch Butterfly site. You can help track the Monarchs during their fall migration from Canada to Mexico. It's very simple and a great project for kids - you basically just count the number of Monarchs per hour or minute. The news this week is that Monarchs are migrating through Kansas and breeding in the South. And guess who's migrating through Iowa? Dragonflies - they often migrate with Monarchs - who knew?

A friend sent this picture of migrating Monarchs - I'm not sure where it originated. How magical would it be to see this many butterflies? (And, how easy to get a photo?) So, check the migration charts and maybe you'll be able to spot these beauties as they travel south.