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In: 2008, 2020, about Japan, Foreign friends, IT, Kamakura, Study, Temples

June 30th was David Joly’s birthday, I don’t know how old he is. I sent a birthday message to him via FB with a phrase of “I miss you!” David quickly reacted and said “I miss you, too.” We met about 12 to 15 years ago in Kamakura/ He stayed at our then Kamakura house in Hase for three days. It was such a fond memory, as he and other guy from XX were young, smart and funny. They were so nice in nature.

I found a photo taken at Kosokuji!!
https://www.facebook.com/djoly7/posts/10157805065973303
He is talking about how to plant squash in soft sweet voice, though I cannot understand any words in French, except “plastic!” and Gabriella’s “Merci beaucoup.”
I don’t know why he wore this on his birthday, but maybe protect himself from bugs in the field and from Covid 19!

The funniest conversation I remember was that he said his Japanese was MINUS 10 to 20, when I said my English was not good (or poor).

Latest photo of David: July 17,2020

昔の写真がでてきました・・・2008年でした。

長谷寺です。

2021/July

2021年の写真、美しい小鳥たち　from FB　音楽ビデオを作るとき（無断で）使っている。

同じ日に５か国の友人と会った日(１)

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A meadow
John Keats, by Joseph Severn, 1819

Twitterはおもしろい、楽しい。数日前、音楽家のT君ともTwitterが役に立つし楽しいということで意見が合った。Ian Bostridge さんとのやり取りができるなど、Twitterならでは、のことだ。その中でも好きなのが”Literary InterestさんのTweet, 今回はジョン・キーツの秋の作品。

ODE TO AUTUMN / JOHN KEATS

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind,
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, –
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

September 2019 marks 200 years since ‘Ode to Autumn’ was written by John Keats, the tragic Romantic genius who died of tuberculosis at the age of 25
It’s the 200th anniversary of John Keats writing his famous ‘Ode to Autumn’

Geoff WardFollow　Sep 16 · 7 min read

Keats (1795–1821) had come to Winchester in the late summer from the Isle of Wight where he had gone to work on poems and his verse play Otho. He was attracted by the city’s medieval ambience — and the need for a reference library.
Walks to the countryside, ‘an hour before dinner’, from his lodging house near Winchester Cathedral (the building where he stayed is long gone), became his evening custom.
‘How beautiful the season is now — How fine the air,’ he wrote. ‘A temperate sharpness about it … I never lik’d stubble fields so much as now … Somehow a stubble plain looks warm — in the same way that some pictures look warm — this struck me so much in my Sunday’s walk that I composed upon it.’
‘To Autumn’, drafted that evening, was included, after some revisions, in Keats’s 1820 collection entitled Lamia, Isabella, the Eve of St Agnes and Other Poems. It was the last in a series of six great odes that Keats produced during 1819 and, indeed, the last major poem he wrote in his short life, effectively ending his career.
Marking the writing of ‘To Autumn’ focuses our attention on the odes, in this their anniversary year, and I discuss them in a follow-up essay (‘Celebrating the bicentenary of the great odes…’) for they assured Keats of his place in the pantheon of English poetry.
“Ode to Autumn” a poem by John Keats, read by Janet Harris.

英語で聞いてそのまま鑑賞できるようなレベルになりたい。目標だ。

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In: 2013, Flowers, IT, MyFavorite, Study, things, trees

大船植物園は好き。花や樹木にネームプレートが付いているから。1年ほど前、鎌倉の家に咲いたカンパニューラの名前がわからずにFaceBookにアップしたらオランダのモニクから「あら、それってどこにでもあるカンパニューラじゃない！」と言われてうれしかった、そんなこともあるけど、スマホのアプリで1秒も経たないうちに、瞬時に（同じことか）名前がわかるのスッバラシイ！9/6の大発見だった。大学の構内、帰り道、家の周り、室内、全部撮ってみた。

でも、その前に私の大好きな樹の画像を！
Yohtaが小さいころ、私に「ヒメムカシヨモギ」について知らせてくれたことがあった。思い出した
　　　　　　ボクが大好きな花（2012年）
Appli (課金あり、2900円/y)

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In: 2019, books, Englsih, IT, MyFavorite, Study

Twitterで好きなアカウントのひとつが”Literature Interest” たぶん英国の人（会社）のサイト。時々しかツイートはないけど珠玉のツイートがある。そのうちのひとつが季節の詩。

August 28, 2019 3:00 pm

This is the latest in our monthly posts celebrating some of the best poems about each of the months of the year. This time, of course, it’s September’s turn: that point where summer may still linger on, but autumn is beginning to rear its head. The harvest is being gathered, and that ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’ is upon us, in John Keats’s immortal words. Here’s our pick of the best poems about the month of September.

William Wordsworth, ‘September, 1819’. ‘Departing summer hath assumed / An aspect tenderly illumed, / The gentlest look of spring; / That calls from yonder leafy shade / Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, / A timely carolling.’ So begins this Romantic meditation on the arrival of autumn, in which Wordsworth detects an echo of spring in the mellowing nature of everything.

September, 1819
Departing summer hath assumed 
An aspect tenderly illumed, 
The gentlest look of spring; 
That calls from yonder leafy shade 
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 
A timely carolling. 

No faint and hesitating trill, 
Such tribute as to winter chill 
The lonely redbreast pays! 
Clear, loud, and lively is the din, 
From social warblers gathering in 
Their harvest of sweet lays. 

Nor doth the example fail to cheer 
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, 
And yellow on the bough:— 
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head! 
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 
Around a younger brow! 

Yet will I temperately rejoice; 
Wide is the range, and free the choice 
Of undiscordant themes; 
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 
Not less than vernal ecstasies, 
And passion’s feverish dreams. 

For deathless powers to verse belong, 
And they like Demi-gods are strong 
On whom the Muses smile; 
But some their function have disclaimed, 
Best pleased with what is aptliest framed 
To enervate and defile. 

Not such the initiatory strains 
Committed to the silent plains 
In Britain’s earliest dawn: 
Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, 
While all-too-daringly the veil 
Of nature was withdrawn! 

Nor such the spirit-stirring note 
When the live chords Alcæus smote, 
Inflamed by sense of wrong; 
Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre 
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire 
Of fierce vindictive song. 

And not unhallowed was the page 
By wingèd Love inscribed, to assuage 
The pangs of vain pursuit; 
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid 
With finest touch of passion swayed
Her own Æolian lute. 

O ye, who patiently explore 
The wreck of Herculanean lore, 
What rapture! could ye seize 
Some Theban fragment, or unroll 
One precious, tender-hearted scroll 
Of pure Simonides. 

That were, indeed, a genuine birth 
Of poesy; a bursting forth 
Of genius from the dust: 
What Horace gloried to behold,
What Maro loved, shall we enfold? 
Can haughty Time be just! 

Helen Hunt Jackson, ‘September’. Jackson (1830-85) was an exact contemporary of Emily Dickinson – she was born the same year and died just one year before her more famous fellow American poet – but she’s far less well-known. As well as being a poet, Jackson was also a novelist as well as an activist who campaigned on behalf of Native Americans. Her Calendar of Sonnetsoffered a sonnet for every month of the year, accompanied by related illustrations. In ‘September’, however, Jackson writes not a sonnet but a poem of quatrains, in which she muses upon ‘the secret / Which makes September fair.’

SEPTEMBER
by: Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)
HE golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.
 
The gentian’s bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.
 
The sedges flaunt their harvest,
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook.
 
From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes’ sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.
 
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer’s best of weather,
And autumn’s best of cheer.
 
But none of all this beauty
Which floods the earth and air
Is unto me the secret
Which makes September fair.
 
‘T is a thing which I remember;
To name it thrills me yet:
One day of one September
I never can forget.

Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/j/september.html#GTU9uyYvlYJgXKc8.99

W. B. Yeats, ‘September 1913’. A slightly different meditation on September, this, from arguably Ireland’s most famous poet, W. B. Yeats (1865-1939). Meditating on the situation in Ireland in September 1913, Yeats laments a lost past for his home country, concluding that ‘Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, / It’s with O’Leary in the grave.’

September 1913
What need you, being come to sense, 
But fumble in a greasy till 
And add the halfpence to the pence 
And prayer to shivering prayer, until 
You have dried the marrow from the bone; 
For men were born to pray and save: 
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, 
It’s with O’Leary in the grave. 

Yet they were of a different kind, 
The names that stilled your childish play, 
They have gone about the world like wind, 
But little time had they to pray 
For whom the hangman’s rope was spun, 
And what, God help us, could they save? 
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, 
It’s with O’Leary in the grave. 

Was it for this the wild geese spread 
The grey wing upon every tide; 
For this that all that blood was shed, 
For this Edward Fitzgerald died, 
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, 
All that delirium of the brave? 
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, 
It’s with O’Leary in the grave. 

Yet could we turn the years again, 
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain, 
You’d cry, ‘Some woman’s yellow hair 
Has maddened every mother’s son’: 
They weighed so lightly what they gave. 
But let them be, they’re dead and gone, 
They’re with O’Leary in the grave.

Lucy Maud Montgomery, ‘September’. Montgomery (1874-1942) is best-known for her classic novel for children, Anne of Green Gables, set in Montgomery’s own country of Canada (on Prince Edward Island). But Montgomery was also a poet, and in this short poem about September she pays tribute to the ‘late delight / Atoning in its splendor for the flight / Of summer blooms and joys – / This is September.’

September
Lo! a ripe sheaf of many golden days
Gleaned by the year in autumn’s harvest ways,
With here and there, blood-tinted as an ember,
Some crimson poppy of a late delight
Atoning in its splendor for the flight
Of summer blooms and joys­
This is September.

Sara Teasdale, ‘September Midnight’. Listening to the chirruping and clicking insects at midnight on a warm late summer’s night – for this is an ‘Indian Summer’, and the warm summer weather has lasted into early autumn – Teasdale (1884-1933) hopes to remember the ‘voices’ of the little insects as summer fades: ‘Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, / Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, / Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, / Ceaseless, insistent.’

September Midnight
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, 
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, 
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, 
Ceaseless, insistent. 

The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples, 
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence 
Under a moon waning and worn, broken, 
Tired with summer. 

Let me remember you, voices of little insects, 
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters, 
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us, 
Snow-hushed and heavy. 

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction, 
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest, 
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to, 
Lest they forget them.
Sara Teasdale was born in St. Louis, Missouri to a wealthy family. As a young woman she traveled to Chicago and grew acquainted with Harriet Monroe and the literary circle around Poetry. Teasdale wrote seven
books of poetry in her lifetime and received public admiration for her well-crafted lyrical poetry which centered on a woman’s changing perspectives on beauty, love, and death. 

Geoffrey Hill, ‘September Song’. Another different take on September: beginning with the birth and death dates of a child who, we are told, was ‘deported’ in September 1942, ‘September Song’ addresses one of the most difficult subjects for a poet to write about: the Holocaust. As we read on, we realise that ‘deported’ is a military euphemism, and the child was in fact killed in 1942, aged just ten years old, presumably in one of Nazi Germany’s concentration camps. The reference to September ‘fatten[ing] on vines’ draws upon the natural imagery of early autumn to reflect on the horrors and atrocities of the Second World War.

September Song
Undesirable you may have been,
untouchable
you were not. Not forgotten
or passed over at the proper time.

As estimated, you died. Things
marched,
sufficient, to that end.
Just so much Zyklon and leather,
patented
terror, so many routine cries.

(I have made
an elegy for myself it
is true)

September fattens on vines. Roses
flake from the wall. The smoke
of harmless fires drifts to my eyes.

This is plenty. This is more than
enough. 		Known as one of the greatest
poets of his generation writing
in English, and one of the
most important poets of
the 20th century, Geoffrey
Hill lived a life dedicated to
poetry and scholarship,
morality and faith.
He was born in 1932 in
Worcestershire, England
to a working-class family. 
He attended Oxford University,
where his work was first
published by the U.S. poet 
Donald Hall.
These poems later collected in 
For the Unfallen: Poems 1952-1958 
marked an astonishing debut.

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2014年のiPhone6から4年。機種変更を待ちつつ、何かいいのが出たらと待っていた。6 Plusの時は画面が大きすぎると思って買わなかったが、今回は（それより大きいとは思えないが）スケジュールや、特にこの頃導入した楽譜アプリが見やすいことを期待して！
画面がきれいで広くて感激。ファイス認証はまだ途上（朝の寝起きの顔を認証しない、というコメントもネットで見たので）。重いのはやや問題だけど、慣れれば問題ないようだ。
XS Maxと6の比較　（色調自動調節を解除した場合）
XS Maxが黄味を黄味を帯びて
いるのは、光源による画面表示
差を自動調整する機能する機能のため
My one of the vest fevorite applications

 
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In: 2017, Flowers, Foreign friends, IT, Kamakura, things
FaceBookってすてき。知らない花の名前を「即」教えてもらえる。それも遠くのうれしい友人たちから。今回はオランダ人のMoniqueとリビア・トリポリの彼から。

鎌倉の庭に去年ちょこっと顔を出し、「すみれじゃないし・・・」と思っていたら今年はたくさん花を咲かせた。ネットや本で見ても見つからない。
そこでFaceBook に
Unknown wild flowers in our Kamakura house. Does anybody know the name?　と書いたらMoniqueから「あら、そんなのヨーロッパじゃありふれた花よ」と。
Not so wild and unknown here in Europe. It is called campanula
（そうでしたか）そして勉強家さんらしくTo be precise it is named: campanula poscharskyana or blue waterfall !　　（Wow, thank you!! I checked many flower books and searched over the Internet but never found.　Campanula poscharskyana or blue waterfall (such a beautiful names!) Than you so much！
そしてさらに次の日：In the Netherlands you find them at garden centres and nurseries. Not in the wild aras..
次にリビアのデザイナーのHazimから；

 i think it is like this link :
http://www.monrovia.com/…/blue-waterfall-serbian…/

 

 

 

 

 

Serbian bellflower (Campanula poscharskyana ‘Blue Waterfall’)

kam-PAN-yew-lah posh-ar-skee-AY-nah

Genus:  Campanula

Serbian bellflowers have an easy, undemanding habit. Creating a stream of lavender blue, the 1-inch-diameter star-shaped blossoms bloom reliably from late spring to early fall. The foliage remains evergreen in mild winters and needs to be sheared only once in a while to keep its appearance tidy. ‘Blue Waterfall’ flows beautifully along bed edges and through rock gardens in full sun to partial shade.

Noteworthy Characteristics: 

Long bloom period. Low maintenance. Good ground cover.

Care: 

Grow in full sun to partial shade.

カンパニュラ・ポシャルスキアーナ
 Campanula poscharskyana キキョウ科ホタルブクロ属
アドリア海に面したクロアチアのダルマチア地方が原産です。成長が早く、地下茎で広がります。根元からよく分枝して、高さは１５～３０センチほどになります。６月から１１月ごろまで、星形をした藤色の小さな花を咲かせます。種小名は１９世紀のドイツの園芸家「グスタフ・ポシャルスキー（Gustav Poscharsky）」に因みます。写真中２・中３は、園芸品種の「アルペンブルー（cv. Alpine Blue）」。 
素敵な名前の花なのね、せっかく来たのだから大切にするね。

FaceBookの楽しみ(2)

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この数日、凝りに凝ってカバーページを更新しました。

WordPressでテーマを選んで更新しましたが、premiumを買うと画面が動くのがよさそうで、購入したもののインストールの仕方がよくわからず2日間苦労しました。

****************書いたばかりだっけど、古くなったBlog***********

ひかえ目ながら画面でSliderが自動で移動するのを見たときはかなりうれしく思いました。とりあえず「良し」としたのが、下の画面です。満足度は85％ぐらい。
　
Mobileでの見栄えと使い勝手が良いのも重要ポイントです。下はiPhoneでの画面。iPhoneとiPadではバラの画面が動きます（好きです）。満足度90％　
スライダーが入っていない、更新初期の製品。これも、色合いが捨てがたい。
　
それ以前の、約5年間使っていたMovable Typeで作った画面です。（懐かしい）
　
　
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