He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
~William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Instead of a photo, today’s poem has a video, featuring the poem read by none other than Tom Hiddleston. Amusingly enough, someone set the voice track against footage from the first “Thor” film, which doesn’t really fit with it, but it’s the only recording I could find. I recommend headphones for this one. Enjoy!

The Scattering
~ Penelope Shuttle

I cast you into the waters.
Be lake, or random moon.

Be first light,
lifting up its beggar’s cup.

I scatter your ashes.
Be the gale teaching autumn
to mend its ways,
or leopard so proud of his spotted coat.

Be the mentor of cherry trees.

I cast your dust far and wide,
a sower broadcasting seed:
Be wild rose or hellebore or all-heal.

Descend as a vein of silver,
never to be seen,
deep in the lynx-eyed earth.

Rise as barn owl white as dusk;
dove or raven marvelling at his flight.
Know different delights.

Scattered Light – Jim Campbell – Perth 2013

Dejeuner Sur l’Herbe
~ Tu Fu, China, 8th Century
Translated from Chinese by Carolyn Kizer
(I somehow doubt this was the original title of the piece, but the reference to Manet’s painting is an interesting choice.)

It’s pleasant to board the ferry in the sunscape
As the late light slants into the afternoon;
The faint wind ruffles the river, rimmed with foam.
We move through the aisles of bamboo
Towards the cool water lilies.

The young dandies drop ice into the drinks,
While the girls slice the succulent lotus root.
Above us, a patch of cloud spreads, darkening
Like a water-stain on silk.

Write this down quickly, before the rain!

Don’t sit there! The cushions were soaked by the shower.
Already the girls have drenched their crimson skirts.
Beauties, their powder streaked with mascara,
lament their ruined faces.

The wind batters our boat, the mooring-line
Has rubbed a wound in the willow bark.
The edges of the curtains are embroidered by the river foam,
Like a knife in a melon. Autumn slices Summer.

It will be cold, going back.

Antique Chinese Postcard

In search of metal candleholder inserts, I found myself at Afikomen Judaica in Claremont yesterday. Sure, I could buy them cheap from Amazon, but I’d rather not give Jeff Bezos the money. And I would have missed out on an amazing experience. How can you not love a place that has the slogan “Live. Shop. Shmooze.”?

Miriam greeted me as I entered the store, and showed me where the desired objects were to be found. But—off to the side—were BOOKS. SO.MANY.BOOKS.

I managed to exercise some amount of self-control, and came away with only four books—one on domestic rituals of the Israelite women, and three on grief and mourning (for personal use as well as preparation for hospice work).

And a set of lovely little glass oil holders and a box of tiny wicks to burn olive oil for light. (I checked to make sure I wasn’t appropriating a Shabbat item for mundane deco.)

And the aforementioned candleholder inserts.

A young woman was there with some family members to choose a Tallit for her bat mitzvah. She was trying on different ones and contemplating herself in the mirror, with the encouragement of parents and elders. It was a lovely and heartwarming thing to see.

I’ve made myself a deal that I have to read the books I bought today before I can go back to buy more.

But, really, go to this store. Even if you think there’s nothing there you want. Go. If nothing else, enjoy the welcoming atmosphere and the cheerful peace of the place.

But I guarantee that you will walk out with *something*.

Afikomen Judaica

Reply to a Marriage Proposal
~ Irihapeti Rangi te Apakura
Translated from Maori by Roger Oppenheim and Allen Curnow

Don’t hand me over with a word, Toihau,
don’t give me to Te Keepa!
Isn’t it enough that people are talking
as far as the quicksands of Karewa?
I am a canoe cast up and broken in the big surf,
I am getting old, my love play days are done,
it will not be long before I dig my grave.

That is my path as it was yours, Paoa,
my ancestral path across Te Whakaurunga,
unbroken view of he burning island
Whaakari, the demon’s flames.
Here on the mainland, Hinehore’s lover—
She can forget her jealousy!
She shall have her husband,
I embrace him only for a while.

The lips are made to taste with
but the body is firmly held.

Image credit: BuzzerG.Com