The Lover’s Almanac 17 August – Still Risin’ – Cosi – Death of Da Ponte – verse by Ted Hughes

Dear Zazie,  Hope you are havin’ a good day.  Mac Tag says hey and thanks for the shout out in the note you left.  Here is today’s Lover’s Almanac from Mac Tag to his muse.  Follow us on twitter @cowboycoleridge.  Do you watch over someone?  Does someone watch over you?  Have your ever been cozy with cosi?  Rhett

The Lover’s Almanac

Dear Muse,

no accountin’
for where the mind wanders
for the random songs
or memories that appear
ever wonder where
they come from

today for example
why did I start thinkin’
about Jake and Lady Brett
not Hemingway’s birthday
nor death day, so why

s’pose i just needed
to take my inner Jake
out for a little walk
see if i can find
my Lady Brett

perhaps I needed
to make sure
the sun was still risin’

© copyright 2017 mac tag/cowboy Coleridge all rights reserved

Lorenzo_da_PonteToday marks the anniversary of the death of Venetian opera librettist, Lorenzo Da Ponte in 1838.  He composed the libretto for Mozart’s opera Così fan tutte, ossia La scuola degli amanti (Thus Do They All, or The School For Lovers).  Of course, I am overwhelmed with the memory of the night I gave you an opera.  A memory once so complete, now turned bittersweet.  The night I arranged for you and I to attend the dress rehearsal of Cosi.  We were in our own little world, enveloped in the sights and the sounds of the production and the feel of each other as we sat so close and I pleaded with time to wait and let us stay in that moment.  I will never forget the smell of you and the feel of you as we pressed together to whisper comments about the performance.  One of my favorite memories.

Of course…
Overwhelmed with the memory;
the night I gave you an opera
A memory so complete,
now turned bittersweet
We were cozy with Cosi,
in our own little world;
enveloped in the sights
and sounds, the feel
of each other as we
sat so close and pleaded
with time to wait and let
us stay in that moment
I will never forget
the smell of you and the
feel of you as we pressed
together to whisper
comments about the performance
One of my favorite memories of all

© copyright 2016 mac Tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

In tribute to that memory and you, here is the first song of the day:

Song of the day – Cecilia Bartoli – “Una donna a quindici anni

On this day in 1959;  Kind of Blue by Miles Davis, the much acclaimed and highly influential best selling jazz recording of all time, is released.

Also, Ira Gershwin died on this day in 1983.  My favorite Gershwin song is “Someone to Watch over Me”.  So, here is the second song of the day:

Song of the day – Amy Winehouse – “Someone to Watch over Me”

I wanted to watch over you.

Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes.jpeg

Hughes in later life

Today is the birthday of Edward JamesTedHughes, OM (Mytholmroyd, Yorkshire; 17 August 1930 – 28 October 1998 London); English poet and children’s writer.  Perhaps one of the best poets of his generation, and one of the twentieth century’s greatest writers.  He served as Poet Laureate from 1984 until his death.

Hughes was married to American poet Sylvia Plath from 1956 until her suicide in 1963 at the age of 30.  His part in the relationship became controversial to some feminists and some American admirers of Plath.  His last poetic work, Birthday Letters (1998), explored their complex relationship.  These poems make reference to Plath’s suicide, but none addresses directly the circumstances of her death.  A poem discovered in October 2010, Last letter, describes what happened during the three days before her death.

In the summer of 1962 Hughes began an affair with Assia Wevill.  Under a cloud of his affair, Hughes and Plath separated in the autumn of 1962.  On 25 March 1969, six years after Plath’s suicide by asphyxiation from a gas stove, Assia Wevill committed suicide in the same way.  Wevill also killed her child, Alexandra Tatiana Elise (nicknamed Shura), the four-year-old daughter of Hughes.  In August 1970 Hughes married Carol Orchard, a nurse, and they remained together until his death

“The inmost spirit of poetry, in other words, is at bottom, in every recorded case, the voice of pain — and the physical body, so to speak, of poetry, is the treatment by which the poet tries to reconcile that pain with the world.”  Amen.

Verse

The Hawk in the Rain (1957)

  • Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
    A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
    Two eyes serve a movement, that now
    And again now, and now, and now
    Sets neat prints into the snow.

    • “The Thought-Fox”, line 10
  • With a sudden sharp hot stink of fox,
    It enters the dark hole of the head.
    The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
    The page is printed.

    • “The Thought-Fox”, line 21
  • This house has been far out at sea all night,
    The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
    Winds stampeding the fields under the window
    Floundering black astride and blinding wetTill day rose; then under an orange sky
    The hills had new places, and wind wielded
    Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
    Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.

    • “Wind”
  • The world rolls under the long thrust of his heel.
    Over the cage floor the horizons come.

    • “The Jaguar”

Lupercal (1960)

  • Pike, three inches long, perfect
    Pike in all parts, green tigering the gold.
    Killers from the egg: the malevolent aged grin.

    • “Pike”, line 1
  • The jaws’ hooked clamp and fangs
    Not to be changed at this date;
    A life subdued to its instrument.

    • “Pike”, line 13
  • Stilled legendary depth:
    It was as deep as England. It held
    Pike too immense to stir, so immense and old
    That past nightfall I dared not cast.

    • “Pike”, line 33
  • I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
    Inaction, no falsifying dream
    Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
    Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

    • “Hawk Roosting”, line 1
  • It took the whole of Creation
    To produce my foot, my each feather:
    Now I hold Creation in my foot.
    Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly –
    I kill where I please because it is all mine.
    There is no sophistry in my body:
    My manners are tearing off heads –
    The allotment of death.

    • “Hawk Roosting”, line 10
  • Nothing has changed since I began.
    My eye has permitted no change.
    I am going to keep things like this.

    • “Hawk Roosting”, line 22
  • The gash in its throat was shocking, but not pathetic.
    • “View of a Pig”
  • The deeps are cold:
    In that darkness camaraderie does not hold:
    Nothing touches but, clutching, devours.

    • “Relic”

Wodwo (1967)

  • The brassy wood-pigeons
    Bubble their colourful voices, and the sun
    Rises upon a world well-tried and old.

    • “Stealing Trout on a May Morning”
  • No, the serpent did not
    Seduce Eve to the apple.
    All that’s simply
    Corruption of the facts.Adam ate the apple.
    Eve ate Adam.
    The serpent ate Eve.
    This is the dark intestine.The serpent, meanwhile,
    Sleeps his meal off in Paradise—
    Smiling to hear
    God’s querulous calling.

    • “Theology”

Mac Tag

With my hands, I can play music, make tattoos, draw drawings, write, design – all with intentional Love.Kat Von D

Every wound has a rhythm you can hum. – James Bertolino

Well, making a poem is like having a love affair with yourself. – John Hall Wheelock

Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.  – Voltaire

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