Inspiration...the breath of life and fulfillment

Inspiration. From the Latin: inspiratus, to breathe into. The act of breathing pulls in life-giving, energizing oxygen, without which we cease to exist on a physical level. Over time, we have learned that we not only need to breathe in the air around us, but also the wisdom and love and support of others to live an inspired life. When I say "others," I refer to all things outside ourselves that we can pull inside ourselves to bring added joy and meaning to our work, our relationships, our very lives. We can find inspiration in the natural world as well as in the creations of other people. Of course, as human beings, we are also part of the natural world no matter how many barriers we often place between ourselves and other organic creations, flora and fauna, with which we share the Earth.

Today, I am focused on the inspiration I received from my dear Aunt Evelyn. Inspiration that overflowed itself into a poem that I recently wrote for her ninety-fifth birthday, just about a week before she passed away. Always a woman of strength, flexibility, good humor, and boundless love, Aunt Evelyn also lived life with a sense of curiosity and courage. As she began her transition from this life to the next, my cousin was witness to her mother's reporting of dreams, visions, and glimpses of the "other side." As with the rest of her life, my aunt faced her next phase with a sense of wonder and a deep foundation of faith. She was ready for the next grand adventure, knowing in her heart that other loved ones who had gone before her, especially her cherished husband, were ready to take her hand and lead her forward.

I learned from my cousin that her mother loved butterflies and that her favorite color was blue. Blue. The color of her beautiful eyes and that Carolina Blue sky beneath which she was born. And so, with Aunt Evelyn's spirit breathing life into my words, I wrote the following poem, shared here with my cousin's blessing. It is, perhaps, more "heart" than "art" but, I hope you may find a bit of inspiration from it as well.

Butterfly Soul

by Kathryn Louise Wood

A small butterfly came fluttering by

and caught the blue of Evelyn's eye. 

She softly raised her gentle hand,

offering haven for it to land.

Its tiny feet then tickled her palm,

sapphire wings folding down in calm.

She nearly felt its thrumming heart

and knew it played some larger part,

bigger than self in God's great plan.

"Please tell me now, however you can."

A shimmering voice now entered her mind,

more thought than words of any kind,

"Lean closer with your heart's own ear.

I'll tell you why God placed me here:

To remind you of things you already know,

down deep in your soul where all truths grow—

"Caterpillaring on, you do your best,

then cocoon for a moment of briefest rest.

And just when you think all of life is done,

you discover your wings, reflecting the sun.

Look in a mirror, and know what you see

veils your Butterfly Soul of Eternity."

Thanks for stopping by. Ya'll come back, now (and feel free to leave your own inspirations in the comments below.)

Kate

-photos from Pixabay.com-

Snowfall...winter wonder

 
Here, in northeastern North Carolina, a hefty snowfall is a rare thing. And, so, we tend to celebrate with wide-eyed wonder and clicking cameras and bowls of snow cream, and some of us even wax poetic. Here is my poem inspired by snow and some photos of our most recent seasonal wonderment this past week, as well as a couple shots from winters past.

Snowfall

by Kathryn Louise Wood

Feathering through the ink of night,

Seeping into unseen cracks,

Swirling in mad circling eddies,

Drifting into slippery slopes,

Sweeping free across the open,

Deviling into sudden whirlwinds,

Clinging to eyelashes and to feet,

Smoothing over the rough and sharp,

Sparkling beneath sun and moonlight,

Melting into reflective glimmer,

Dripping silent, drop by drop,

Soaking darkly into earth,

Vaporing back to shimmering sky.

Is it snow...or memory?

Thanks for stopping by. Ya'll come back!

Kate

Ghost Stories...'tis the season

"Buttercup Cottage Halloween" photo by K.L. Wood

 Anyone who has followed my writing is well aware that I often incorporate a ghostly element into my stories. For example, my Middle Grade novel, Zephyr Stone and the Moon Mist Ghost will be published by Blue Ink Press https://www.blueinkpress.com/in 2021. As you may surmise, I also enjoy reading ghost stories and watching television programs and movies that center on otherworldly action and characters. Especially if they are based in true events. I am alone in this within my household of two, in which my husband has no such interest. Although he humors me from time to time, he mostly just finds something else to do while I watch or read my ghost stories. Strangely, enough, between the two of us, he is the one who has had more actual ghostly encounters. Encounters of which he is the first to acknowledge their validity and truly supernatural qualities. I wrote a poem about my proclivity towards ghost stories which was selected to appear in the 2017 edition of the College of the Albemarle's annual visual arts and literary journal, Estuaries, and present it, here, as my October offering. Enjoy! (As you learn a bit more about me and my obsession...I mean my interest.)

"Edinburgh Ghost Tour" re: Pixabay

Ghostwriter

by Kathryn Louise Wood

Why are you always reading about ghosts,

or watching their hunters on reality TV,

or searching for clues on the internet,

or writing them into your stories and books?

These are the questions my husband asked me,

forehead creased in spousal concern.

Well that’s a good question, I’ve given it thought,

and wondered, myself, at this strange fascination.

So, after some probing and inner reflection,

I think I’ve discovered the root of my quest.

Two things have always stirred deep in my psyche:

the spellbinding thought of a magical world,

and life after death where lives never end.

I’ve seen too much, and heard even more,

to dismiss the existence of bodiless souls,

spirits so free of earthly constraints,

they pass through walls and visit the living.

That non-corporeal realm seems magic made real.

When days are numbered—some many, some few—

the promise that all that we are is not lost

lends comfort, but also a thrill of intrigue

to think we are all so much more than we seem.

I salute those who find their Belief is sufficient

in resting assured of eternal existence.

I find that the Faith of My Fathers is bolstered,

renewed, and strengthened, and greatly supported

when the stardust of supra-natural beings

reminds us, all, we are made of the same.

Thanks for stopping by. Y'all come back, now! 

(And Happy Halloween!)

Kate

And, Still, the Birds Sing...in feathered hope.

"A Perch of Birds" Watercolor by Hector Giacomelli, 1822-1904
(My husband gave me a print of this beautiful painting for my April 6 birthday.)

Little did I know how much the world would change since my last post on March 8, 2020. Sure, I knew there was a new virus let loose in the world and there were about 500 cases in the United States, but it still felt like it was "out there" somewhere. Today, April 8, there are over 400,000 cases and over 14,000 related deaths in our country, alone. The United States, which had appeared to be so impervious in the beginning, is now the Covid 19 virus epicenter of the world. Oh, "how the mighty are fallen." The virus has insinuated itself into every human life on earth. I dare say there is nowhere you can go that has not been touched by it, directly or indirectly—physically, economically, emotionally, or mentally. 

I present two poems in response. The first, is one I wrote this morning as I sat at my kitchen table, reading the sad news on my laptop while I heard birdsong wafting through my screen door on a warm, spring breeze. And the second, is one of my favorite poems of all time.

And, Still, the Birds Sing

  by 

Kate Louise Wood

I question and dread,

I cry, and I rage.

I say it’s all fine

as I lie through my teeth.

I tremble and quail,

I fret and I doubt.

I seek where to hide,

shutting down, shutting in.

But the world doesn’t stop,

though it feels like it must.

A breeze strokes my cheek

and ruffles the trees.

The sun warms my skin

and sparkles the bay.

And life presses on,

and, still, the birds sing.

"Carolina Wren" by contemporary N.C. artist, E. M. Corsa
(An original watercolor I gave my husband for his birthday)

Hope is the Thing With Feathers

            

by

Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

Thanks for stopping by. Y'all come back, now. (And wash your hands!)

Kate

It's May!...finally

"Raindrops On Our May Blossoms" photo by KL Wood

Although the calendar promises that Spring begins in March each year, most of us residing in the northern hemisphere realize Spring does not comfortably and reliably breathe among us until sometime in the month of May. And now at long last, May, in all its soft beauty, has arrived. Even my daughter living way up in New York state near the Canadian border has some flowers blooming, now. And so, in celebration of sweet May and in the sighting of a migrating rose-breasted grosbeak, who stopped at our kitchen window bird feeder on his way north to my daughter, I am happy to share some photographs from our spring garden (and bird feeder) as well as a lovely poem by John Burroughs. 

"Migrating Rose Breasted Grosbeak with Resident Dove"
photo by author's husband, William Ahearn

Burroughs was an American naturalist and writer who counted among his friends the likes of poet-Walt Whitman, inventor-Thomas Edison, automobile pioneer-Henry Ford, naturalist-John Muir, and American president-Theodore Roosevelt. Born in Spring, April 3, 1837, and dying in Spring, March 29, 1921, this poem, extolling the beauty of spring birds and flowers, is a fitting tribute to both him and to the month of May he so lovingly portrayed.

"John Burroughs" photo via Wikipedia (public domain)

"Rose Breasted Grosbeak Passing Through" photo by KL Wood

In May

by John Burroughs (1837-1921)

When grosbeaks show a damask rose

Amid the cherry blossoms white,

And early robins’ nests disclose

To loving eyes a joyous sight;

When columbines like living coals

Are gleaming ‘gainst the lichened rock,

And at the foot of mossy boles

Are young anemones in flocks;

When ginger-root beneath twin leaves

Conceals its dusky floral bell,

And showy orchid shyly weaves

In humid nook its fragrant spell;

When dandelion’s coin of gold

"Our Yellow Iris" photo by KL Wood

Anew is minted on the lawn,

And apple trees their buds unfold,

While warblers storm the groves at dawn;

When such delights greet eye and ear,

Then strike thy tasks and come away:

It is the joy-month of the year,

And onward sweeps the tide of May.

When farmhouse doors stand open wide

To welcome in the balmy air,

When truant boys plunge in the tide,

And school-girls knots of violets wear;

When Grapevines crimson in the shoot,

Like fin of trout in meadow stream,

And morning brings the thrush’s flute

Where dappled lilies nod and dream;

When varied tints outline the trees,

Like figures sketched upon a screen,

And all the forest shows degrees

Of tawny red and yellow-green;

When purple finches sing and soar,

Then drop to perch on open wing,

With vernal gladness running o’er

"Our Clematis in May" photo by KL Wood

The feathered lyrist of the spring:

When joys like these salute the sense,

And bloom and perfume fill the day,

Then waiting long hath recompense,

And all the world is glad with May.

Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back, now! (And Happy May!)

Kate

Edgar Allan Po-e-try...Nevermore

"Raven" photographed by the author's husband, William F. Ahearn

With Halloween just a few days away, and front porches festooned with all things spooky, my thoughts turn to that creator of creepiness, that hero of horror, that master of macabre, Edgar Allan Poe. Mr. Poe has long embodied the spirit of the season and, so, I salute him this month with one of his most enduring poems, "The Raven."

I invite you to read these lines with new eyes. It's possible that you have not read them (or, at least, not all of them) since you were forced to, back in high school. With years of life experience coloring your interpretation, you may feel a different sense of dread than you did in your younger days. I find it fascinating how his use of a single word, "Nevermore", chills us to the bone. And, so, illustrated by a raven my husband photographed as it sat upon the top of our camper trailer in Yellowstone National Park, I bow to Poe's genius, and present:

The Raven

by Edgar Allan Poe

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.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

           Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back now.  (Happy Halloween!)
        Kate 

Love is in the Air...18th Century Valentine Wishes

"Happy Lovers" (1760-1765) by Jean-Honore Fragonard

"St. Valentine Baptizing St. Lucilla" (1575) by Jacopo Bassano

"The Lupercalian Festival in Rome" by the Circle of Adam Elsheimer (1578-1610)

Ah…’tis the week of love culminating in Valentine’s Day this Friday the 14th. Many’s the modern man who looks upon this day with disdain claiming it’s just a made-up day by the greeting card companies, a pernicious ploy to part the lover from his cash, to trap his heart in ransom until he buys his love a valentine. Oh, but he would be wrong, at least as far as the origins of the day are concerned. Celebrating February 14 as a day for proclamations of love goes waaaay back to ancient Roman times. Although more than one story exists as to how the saint, for which the day is named, became associated with romantic love, there are two likely scenarios. One, is that a priest named Valentine, who lived in 3^rd century Rome, defied Emperor Claudius II’s orders and performed secret wedding ceremonies for soldiers. The emperor had outlawed the marriage of his soldiers, deeming them less useful if they had wives and children to think of. When Claudius II learned of the priest’s actions, he had him imprisoned and sentenced to death. Another story has it that while in prison, Valentine fell in love with the jailer’s daughter who was kind to him and, before his death, penned her a letter reading “From your Valentine.” 

Long before Valentine, however, the Romans celebrated the festival of Lupercalia, a day in mid- February dedicated to the god of fertility, Faunus. In the 5^th century, in an effort to distract Christians from the pagan activities, the church deemed February 14 as

Saint Valentine’s Day, the day on which the saintly priest was martyred. In the middle ages, the good folk of England and France thought that February 14 was the day birds chose their mates for the season and in this mix of pagan fertility rites, loving saints, and love birds, the romantic notions of Saint Valentine’s Day came to full flower.

"Lovers in a Landscape" (1740) Pieter Jan van Reysschoot 

                    

" Helene Lambert de Thorigny" (1700) Portrait by Nicolas de Largillierre
Flowers by Jean-Baptiste Belin de Fontenay

Jumping ahead to the 18^th century, we find many poems flowing from romantic hearts and hand-written messages of love being exchanged on February 14. And if a love-struck Romeo of the late 18^th century found himself at a loss for words, he could refer to a book published in Great Britain in 1797 entitled, The Young Man’s Valentine Writer. Remember the old standard, “Roses are red, Violets are blue?” Well you will find the original is a Valentine message written in a collection of English nursery rhymes in 1784, 

Gammer Gurton’s Garland. 

Here, you see it in its original version:

The rose is red, the violet's blue,

The honey's sweet, and so are you.

Thou are my love and I am thine;

I drew thee to my Valentine:

The lot was cast and then I drew,

And Fortune said it shou'd be you.

"Mary Darby Robinson as 'Perdita' "(1782) by Joshua Reynolds 

For more adult verses, I give you a prolific female poet of the 18^th century, Mary Darby Robinson, whose life was short on years but long on romantic intrigue (including a bout with the teenaged Prince of Wales, but that’s for another day!) Here, I present one of her many poems touting the sweet pain love can inflict upon us:

“Sonnet XVII: Love Steals Unheeded”

Love steals unheeded o'er the tranquil mind,

As Summer breezes fan the sleeping main,

Slow through each fibre creeps the subtle pain,

'Till closely round the yielding bosom twin'd.

Vain is the hope the magic to unbind,

The potent mischief riots in the brain,

Grasps ev'ry thought, and burns in ev'ry vein,

'Till in the heart the Tyrant lives enshrin'd.

Oh! Victor strong! bending the vanquish'd frame;

Sweet is the thraldom that thou bid'st us prove!

And sacred is the tear thy victims claim,

For blest are those whom sighs of sorrow move!

Then nymphs beware how ye profane my name,

Nor blame my weakness, till like me ye love.

    

"Robert Burns" by Alexander Naysmith (1758-1840)

Turning to that 18^th century superstar of songs and poetry, I give you Scotland’s Robert Burns whose hundreds of verses are full of romantic notions. Here is one of his all-time favorites:

"A Red, Red Rose" 

O my Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June;

O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,

And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.

Yes, just give Robbie a lass’s name and he’ll pen her tribute. Here is a list of names I pulled from his long list of poems and songs (perhaps you’ll find your lady’s name!)

Lesley

Mary

Mary Ann

"The Swing" (1767) by Jean-Honore Fragonard

Bell

Nell

Eliza

Eppie

Nanie   

Polly

Sylvia

Bessie

Jessie

Meg

Peggy

Peg

Stella

Jean

Jeanie

Clarina

Clarinda

Ann

Anna

Phillis

Nancy

Jessie

Cholris

Philly

Leezie

Mally

Katie

"Lovers First Tiff" (1876 painting of an 18th century scene)
by Louis Haghe

A busy man was our Rrrobbie! Now, if you find a poem suitable for your love, you may want to do a little Scottish/modern English translation or you just might honor her with a line like this from one of his poetic ditties: “Johnie lad, cock up your beaver…”

Hmmm…well on that note, I think it’s time to draw this post to close!

Have a good week, dear Reader. Thanks for stopping by...Y'all come back now!  (And Happy Valentine's Day!)