As a preface to the following poem, I would like to state that I am not complaining -- nor will I ever complain -- about "growing old." I think that complaining about one's age displays an unseemly ingratitude towards life. Nonetheless, it is entirely possible that I will one day become a querulous curmudgeon. (Of course, I may already be a querulous curmudgeon and simply not realize it.) All of this being said, there are certain unavoidable consequences of "growing old." (Bearing in mind that one might "grow old" at 30 as well as at 90 -- it is all in the mind, you know.) I think that the following poem by D. J. Enright recognizes some of these realities, while only sounding a bit querulous (though in a humorous fashion). Robert Kirkland Jamieson, "Early Spring" (c. 1930) Of Growing Old They tell you of the horny carapace Of age, But not of thin skin growing thinner, As if it's wearing out. They say, when something happens For the sixth or seventh time It does not touch you. Yet You find that each time's still the first. To know more isn't to forgive more, But to fear more, knowing more to fear. Memory it seems is entering its prime, Its lusty manhood. Or else Virility of too-ripe cheese -- And there's another name for that, One can mature excessively. Give me cheese-tasters for psychiatrists! Of growing old Lots of kindly things have been reported. Surprising that so few are true. Is this a matter for complaint? I don't know. D. J. Enright, Sad Ires (1975). Robert Kirkland Jamieson, "The Pool" Enright's lines "To know more isn't to forgive more,/But to fear more, knowing more to fear" are strikingly reminiscent of a line in one of my favorite poems by James Reeves (which I have posted here before). To Not Love One looked at life in the prince style, shunning pain. Now one has seen too much not to fear more. Apprehensive, it seems, for all one loves, One asks only to not love, to not love. James Reeves, Subsong (1969). Robert Kirkland Jamieson, "Snow In My Garden" (1932)

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N. C. Wyeth ~ The Scottish Chiefs by Jane Porter ~ 1921 От http://thegoldenagesite.blogspot.ru/ Country Road John Sloan - 1908 Black Head and Ynys Rocks, Cadgwith, Cornwall, England Wilfred Gabriel De Glehn - circa 1925 Barnyard Charles Mahoney Alfred Sisley - Landscape At Sevres African Evening,…

Yancy Derringer / Alle 26 im deutschen TV ausgestrahlten Folgen (Pidax Western-Klassiker) [4 DVDs] von William F. Claxton, Richard Sale, Charles Jarrott, Jock Mahoney, Kevin Hagen, Frances Bergen, Julie Adams mit Charles Jarrott, Jock Mahoney, Kevin Hagen, Frances Bergen, Julie Adams

John Mahoney, best known for his role as Martin Crane on NBC's Frasier, has died

Plastic albatross collage notecards, 4" x 5.5" with blank interior on recycled paper. Pack of 8 cards with brown kraft envelopes included, packaged in a brown paper box with no plastic. Ships in recycled packaging. Glenda Lee Mahoney is a scientific artist that creates collages out of plastic pollution that washes up from the ocean. This laysan albatross collage was created with marine debris collected at Kamilo beach, Hawaii, by Capt. Charles Moore. Seabirds like the laysan albatross are extremely vulnerable to marine pollution because they mistake small bits of plastic for food and feed it to their chicks. 20% of profits from this sale will be donated to the Surfrider Foundation. More artwork can be seen at glendamahoney.com.

Evelyn Dunbar studied at Rochester School of Art, Chelsea School of Art (1927) and the Royal College of Art (1929’33). She painted murals from 1933 -36 at Brockley School, a collaboration with her RCA tutor (and lover) Cyril Mahoney (1903’1968) and in 1937 they wrote and illustrated together Gardeners’ Choice. In 1938 she set up […]

[v.1] The mystery of Edwin Drood reprented pieces and other stories -- [v.2] Dombey and son -- [v.3] Our mutual friend -- [v.4] Little Dorrit -- [v.5] The...

Here is a hospital poem by James Reeves, one of my neglected poets. Whether this poem is light or dark or deep or shallow I have never been able to decide. (Which no doubt means that I am very slow on the uptake.) Discharged From Hospital He stands upon the steps and fronts the morning. The porter has called a taxi, and behind him The infirmary doors have swung and come to rest. Physician, surgeon, and anaesthetist Have exercised their skill and he is cured. The rabelaisian sister with the bedpan, The vigorous masseuse, the sensual nurse Who washes him modestly beneath a blanket, The dawn chorus of cleaners, the almoner, The visiting clergyman -- all proceed without him. He is alone beyond all need of them, And the saved man goes home, to die of health. James Reeves, The Questioning Tiger (1964). Charles Mahoney (1903-1968), "Still Life With Celery"

I'm on the road as I post this, headed for Berkeley, California, where our son is entering graduate school; one of my sisters just moved across the way, to San Francisco. My wife and I are driving cross country from Ohio. An adventure! We've stopped for the night in Miami, Oklahoma, which is hot and crowded with casinos. I feel at home, though, because the folks are friendly and because my Mom was from Oklahoma. This afternoon in central Missouri I knew we were getting into the West because when we stopped in the backwater of Buffalo for a soda, I noticed in the McDonald's a row of stools had real leather kids' saddles for seats. We reserved a modest vehicle for this trip, but the guy at the rental company said we'd probably be uncomfortable crossing the desert and might have difficulty getting over the mountains. In fact, he implied, we might die. So we rented, for only $20 more a day, a huge (to us) Lincoln Navigator. It is black, and terrifying. We feel like real Americans at last. But will we be safe in San Francisco ensconced in such an SUV? We look like Secret Service, or drug dealers. Or both. I'm working on a book review on the road, and meantime here is a summer roundup of stuff I've found interesting.