Saturday, April 12, 2008

This sunny afternoon

A warm, languid day at the Chapel, colorful afternoon sunlight through the west facing stained glass windows.

"Gavin and Friends" was pretty good.
The highlight was Hope Wechkin singing settings of Stevie Smith (who I'm going to look up as soon as I finish this)'s poetry
I will risk the wrath of the copyright god and print one;

O Happy Dogs of England

O Happy Dogs of England
Bark well as well you may
If you lived anywhere else
You would not be so gay

O Happy Dogs of England
Bark well at errand boys
If you lived anywhere else
You would not be allowed to make such an infernal noise

The settings (by Gavin Borchert) were lively, humorous and entirely appropriate to the text.
Hope sang beautifully.

After the intermission the stained glass windows were opened and breezes fluttered programs and raw sun rebounded, all equally-angled as is it's wont, off the bright yellow socks of an internationally recognized clarinetist.

After the show M and I repaired to the Moon Temple for lemon chicken and other Asian delights.
I don't know what the yellow socks (actually one of them was orange)had to to with anything.
You know? We also ordered orange chicken.

Freud might have had something going for him after all.

Here's a picture of Stevie Smith (Florence Margaret Smith)

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6 Comments:

Blogger Lane Savant said...

wow, 49,200 hits for Stevie Smith.
And I'd never heard of her.
Meredith had, though.

8:15 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Orange dogs of (capital)England
............Mr Strunk & Mr White

11:00 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

the Stevie Smith stuff WAS a hightlight but the trio with Eisenbrey and co. was pretty sweet too. I'd have a hard time makin' judge...

6:30 PM  
Blogger Lane Savant said...

Yeah, the trio was good.
I was impressed with Julian's playing and Keith's work playing and directing the tricky piece.
I think that it was that Hope made the difference for me.
She was impressive in her "Charisma"
preview too. Sorry that I missed that show.
Nice to know that some of these comments aren't Butch's

7:12 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hallo, nochmals, Lane!
Emily is not only a better poetess than "Stevie"; she's also prettier.
Glad the sun shined in Seattle and it isn't July, the only month the sun seems to have office hours in Seattle.
I hope the LL makes it again to Seattle in June or July; for now, she and I send regards to you, Meredith, and Keth.
Tschüß,
Anonomann

2:56 AM  
Blogger Glenn Buttkus said...

Gosh, that last Savant comment was a bit terse, almost a slam. Not that that would deter my enthusiasm for blog commenting, or my insatiable need to express my opinions--but gosh, it kind of hits me in the feel bads, enit?

Stevie Smith (September 20, 1902 – March 7, 1971) was a British poet and novelist

Born Florence Margaret Smith in Kingston upon Hull, the second daughter of Ethel and Charles Smith, she acquired the name Stevie as a young woman when she was riding in the park with a friend who said that she reminded him of the jockey, Steve Donaghue. She was always called Peggy within her family. When three years old she moved with her mother and sister to Palmers Green in North London, after her father left home (his business as a shipping agent, which he had inherited from his father, was failing and so was his marriage, and he ran away to sea, becoming a ship's purser). Stevie saw very little of her father as a child – he appeared seldom and sent very brief postcards ("Off to Valparaiso, Love Daddy"). She resented the fact that he had abandoned his family. Later, when her mother became ill, her aunt Madge (whom Stevie called "Lion") came to live with them. It was Madge Spear who raised Stevie and her older sister Molly, and who became the most important person in Stevie's life. Miss Spear was a feminist who claimed to have "no patience" with men (as Stevie wrote, "she also had 'no patience' with Hitler"). Stevie and Molly were raised without men and thus became attached to their own independence, rather than what Stevie described as the typical Victorian family atmosphere of "father knows best". When Stevie was five she developed tuberculous peritonitis and was sent to a sanatorium near Broadstairs, Kent, where she remained off and on for several years. She related that her preoccupation with death began when she was seven, at a time when she was very distressed at being sent away from her mother. Death fascinated her and is the subject of many of her poems. When suffering from the depression to which she was subject all her life, she was so consoled by the thought of death as a release that as she put it, she did not have to commit suicide. (She wrote in several poems that death was "the only god who must come when he is called".)

She was educated at Palmers Green High School and North London Collegiate School for Girls. She spent the remainder of her life with her aunt, and worked as private secretary to Sir Neville Pearson with Sir George Newnes at Newnes Publishing Company in London from 1923 to 1953. Despite her secluded life, she corresponded and socialized widely with other writers and creative artists, including Elisabeth Lutyens, Sally Chilver, Inez Holden, Naomi Mitchison, and Anna Kallin. She was described by her friends as being naive and selfish in some ways and formidably intelligent in others, having been raised by her aunt as both a spoiled child and a resolutely autonomous woman. Likewise, her political views vacillated between her aunt's Toryism and her friends' left-wing tendencies.

After she retired from Sir Neville Pearson's service, following a nervous breakdown, she gave poetry readings and broadcasts on the BBC that gained her new friends and readers among a younger generation. (Sylvia Plath became a fan of her poetry—"a desperate Smith-addict"—and made an appointment to meet her, but died before the meeting could occur.)

She died of a brain tumour on March 7, 1971. After Smith's death, her last collection, Scorpion and other Poems was published posthumously in 1972, and the Collected Poems in 1975. Three novels were republished, and there was a successful play based on her life, Stevie, written by Hugh Whitemore. It was filmed in 1978 by Robert Enders and starred Glenda Jackson and Mona Washbourne. She never married.

Stevie is a 1977 play by Hugh Whitemore, about the life of poet Stevie Smith. The play was filmed in 1978 by Robert Enders, with Glenda Jackson, Mona Washbourne, Alec McCowen and Trevor Howard.


[edit] Plot
British poet/author Stevie Smith lives with her beloved aunt. Her life story is told through direct dialogue with the audience by Stevie, as well as flashbacks, and narration by a friend known as "The Man". The main focus is on her relationship with her aunt, romantic relationships of the past, including her boyfriend Freddie, and the fame she received late in her life. Stevie escapes her dull middle-class existence through her poetry. Though she takes many spiritual flights of fancy, she never truly leaves the small apartment wherein all the action takes place.

This movie portrays British poet/author Stevie Smith (Glenda Jackson) and her life with her beloved aunt (Mona Washbourne) through direct dialogue with the audience by Stevie, as well as flashbacks, and narration by a friend (Trevor Howard). The movie mainly focuses on her relationship with her aunt, romantic relationships of the past, and the fame she received late in her life.

Gosh, I had not thought about Stevie for decades. Nice of you to shake out the literary cobwebs, sir. Of course, Meredith would have known about her. In some ways, Stevie had a lot in common with Emily. Check that out.

After the intermission,
the stained glass windows
were opened,
and breezes fluttered
programs,
and raw sun rebounded,
all equally angled,
as is its wont,
off the bright yellow socks
of an internationally recognized
clarinetist.

I slipped the poem into FFTR under the title, CHAPEL MOMENTS.

I noticed your note on how to get pics on the blogsite, but my dashboard for posting still does not allow me to do so. Maybe you, as the initiator and blogmaster is the only one with those privledges. I, as merely a person "authorized" to post, may not have access to the tool bar.

Glenn

Wow, what wordsmithing, sir! Sometimes you take my breath away; you really do. This blogging has put you in fine writing mettle.

7:01 AM  

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