Category Archives: Arts

April Wish

A favorite poem for the month, for spring, for the day-by-day

During his years as U.S. Poet Laureate, Robert Pinsky set up one of my favorite initiatives – The Favorite Poem Project. In community readings and audio files and online readings citizens were asked to choose and recite or read aloud a favorite poem, one that stayed with them, whispered encouragement, or understanding, or solace…whatever the times. For a while poems appeared spontaneously, sometimes in odd places, unexpected against the daily din, or amid the billboards of announcement.

Though I never committed it to tape or YouTube, I carried with me a favorite poem, a sort of poem in your pocket, or, in my case, poem in your wallet. And I read this poem often, as reminder, as map to the day really. Here, with a thought or two to follow, and then a request, it is:

Mary Oliver’s Going to Walden

It isn’t very far as highways lie.
I might be back by nightfall, having seen
The rough pines, and the stones, and the clear water.
Friends argue that I might be wiser for it.
They do not hear that far-off Yankee whisper:
How dull we grow from hurrying here and there!

Many have gone, and think me half a fool
To miss a day away in the cool country.
Maybe. But in a book I read and cherish,
Going to Walden is not so easy a thing
As a green visit. It is the slow and difficult
Trick of living, and finding it where you are.

Once, while waiting for a speech to begin, I talked with Oliver about this poem, and she pointed out a feature I hadn’t noticed before – the two stanzas appear like tablets, stone on which is written a meditation on life and a route to it. The stanzas are stolid in appearance, even as their language is not; they will endure, as stone does. A reader, this reader, may return to them, even as s/he engages in “the slow and difficult/Trick of living, and finding it where you are.”

The slow, difficult trick.

The slow, difficult trick.

I am glad to return to this favorite poem as spring appears, hesitates, vanishes, reappears. Spring too is on more than a “green visit”; perhaps the going is “slow and difficult,” but I hope you are “finding it where you are.”

Send on yours, if you wish.

A few links to the Favorite Poem Project:

https://www.youtube.com/user/FavoritePoem

http://robertpinskypoet.com/favorite-poem-project/

A Long-Ago Auction

By Corinne H. Smith

Thoreau Farm and The Thoreau Society recently held their annual online fundraising auction. Coincidentally, news of a long-ago auction with Thoreau ties came my way at the same time.

In my job at a used bookstore, I handled an auction catalogue from April 14, 1920. It was a nondescript tan paperback that was missing its cover. The title page described the auction collection as “The Complete Writings of Distinguished American, English and French Authors in Finely Bound Library Editions: The Magnificent Library of Colonel Jacob Ruppert of New York City.” As I turned a few pages, I saw 175 listings of classic books and large book sets by many famous authors: Dickens, Shakespeare, and Trollope, to name just a few. Some entries included staged photographs that showed off the leather bindings, lavish gilt decorations on the covers and the inside flyleaves. This did indeed look like a magnificent library, and one where the books had hardly been handled. They may never have been read.

I was intrigued. Who was Jacob Ruppert, and how had he amassed this collection? After searching for more information, I learned that he was probably the American businessman and National Guard colonel who was also the owner of the New York Yankees from 1915 until his death in 1939. Ruppert therefore had the money to buy such fine volumes. Why had he decided to auction them off in 1920? This was a question left unanswered. Maybe he was merely downsizing to gain some ready cash.

The lots were listed in alphabetical order by author name. Automatically I turned to the Ts and looked for Thoreau. Bingo! Ruppert had owned a manuscript edition copy of “The Writings of Henry David Thoreau,” the 20-volume set published by Houghton Mifflin and Company in 1906. This meant that an original piece of handwritten manuscript was also included. Only 600 of these numbered manuscript sets were released. Ruppert’s was #319.

ruppertthoreau

The person who had once owned this catalogue must have gone to the auction. He or she wrote the winning bid prices in the margins. This Thoreau set sold for $425. My next questions were: Who had bought it? And where was it now?

ruppertthoreau2

I contacted Elizabeth Witherell, editor-in-chief of the Princeton editions project that continues to update the Writings volumes. Beth is based at the University of California, Santa Barbara. I figured if anyone had a list of the whereabouts of the 600 manuscript editions, she would. She did. And her most current list contained no entry for #319. The Ruppert auction item was new information.

The manuscript edition list that Beth sent me included details of the libraries, private collectors, and booksellers who have been known to own these special copies of the 1906 set. It even quoted the text from the original manuscript pages, when it was known. It included details of archives where some of the handwritten pages are now found. Sadly, some have been lost or destroyed. One of Beth’s questions for me was if the Ruppert auction catalogue described exactly which Thoreau manuscript page accompanied the set. I had to tell her that unfortunately, it did not. This remains another mystery.

I sent messages to a few other special libraries that own copies of Ruppert’s 1920 auction catalogue. None of them had further annotations or details on who bought the items at the sale. All we know is that the new owner paid $425. The books could be anywhere now.

Several sets of the 1906 Writings manuscript edition are on the market today. Asking prices range from $12,000 to $19,000. More than a century after their publication, we have to wonder: What would Jacob Ruppert think? And, what would Henry Thoreau think?

[If you own one of the manuscript sets or know the location of one, and you would like to make sure it is informally registered on the master list, please e-mail Corinne at corinnehsmith@gmail.com.]

Fuel for the Fool

The prevailing color of the woods at present, excepting the evergreens, is russet, a little more red or grayish, as the case may be, than the earth, for those are the colors of the withered leaves, and the branches; the earth has the lighter hue of withered grass. Let me see how soon the woods will have acquired a new color. Thoreau, Journal, 4/1/52

Spring, even in this year’s halting version, makes me giddy. There’s a certain silliness that sometimes opens in my mind, like the first crocus, purple, outlandish against the dun leaves. That suggests today as a second first day of spring, the day the fool in me, in us, breaks ground.

Did they have April Fool’s Day when Henry Thoreau was alive? Two searches say…maybe: the first, predictably, is via everyone’s uncle, Google:

There I found lots of hits for the day, but little to say of it in America 1850. I did learn that my ancestors found pleasure in “hunting the gowk,” Scottish for the cuckoo, symbol of the fool. That day of sending people on phony errands was followed by Tailie Day, which was full of butt jokes – pinning a kick-me sign there, etc. And I found that celebration of spring’s pranks is worldwide…and of uncertain origin…appropriate for pranksters, for sure – most humor is of uncertain origin.

And so on to Henry Thoreau’s journals. I paged through 8 or 9 April firsts, scanning each entry for a hint of humor, the glint of a pun. But, counter to the clown spirit of our 4/1s, these entries are downright sober, the 4/1s of Thoreau’s 1850s full of precise observations and clear language; they are not so much purple against brown as rills of clear water after the season of ice. Spring’s rise also favors long entries and all manner of sightings brought in from long, afternoon walks. I took my cue.

Along an April way, and on an April day.

Along an April way, and on an April day.

And so to a walk: some 20 minutes in, laughter breaks out in a tree to my right. Though long used, as a teacher, to providing comic relief without intending to, I’m only ambling along under a grayish sky, not even humming or talking to myself. So, what’s so funny? And where is the laugher? But I know that laugh; it belongs to one of my favorite birds, a top five among the feathered tribe. It’s a pileated woodpecker, and even as I can’t find him amid the branches, he peels off another laugh. It’s not you (or maybe it is), he seems to say. It’s just, up here in the tree or out in the air, that kind of day.

And put that way, I guess it is. I walk on, leave the laugher behind…except that he stays in my mind.

And later, along a field’s edge, I see the 1st bluebird of spring, chip of sky, season’s new color blue against the tan grasses. No fooling!