A Surprise Christmas Gift Named Sophie

I have a new little buddy in my life. Her name is Sophie. I had had cats in my life for 50 years when two years ago I had to put down my 19 year old Zoey, a petite fluffy gray cat with peach colored highlights in her fur. After my divorce she had become my shadow, my sole companion, my touchstone. Her passing was one more loss in a life seemingly filled with them. I decided I was done with pets - not only that, I was done with falling in love with anything or anyone ever again - except for my as yet to be born grandbabies - there would always be a place in my heart for them. I accepted my solitary life as my choice and where I would find my joy in my work. By it's very nature the work of an artist or writer requires isolation to a large degree. I have always been happy with that. I did occasionally miss the presence of a pet in my life, a greeter cat when I came home, but I had committed myself to no new loves. It was ok. Until last week when I was visiting my children and my daughter wanted me to accompany her to the pet store where she needed dog food. I said I would wait in the car, and she said I should come in and look at the kittens. I had done this before with her so I thought little of it. I went in and thought I would just wander around the kiosk of pet cubicles and leave. But as I rounded the corner of the framework of windows, I was stopped in my tracks by the sweetest little face. I was captivated! If she hadn't been gray and fluffy I would certainly have walked right on by. But she had me mesmerized. If I had collected my thoughts and walked away to think about it, I may have been strong enough to walk away. But as it was, my feet never moved. I couldn't take my eyes off her. I allowed my daughter to talk me into adopting the kitten. Generously she even offered to buy it for my Christmas present. So I left the pet store as a new pet owner! I was rather in shock for a few days. I couldn't believe I had done that. I did come to my senses and freaked out a couple of times - afraid that I had done the wrong thing. My heart felt locked up in a way it never had been before when welcoming the previous 6 kittens in my life. I didn't understand it. After several days of trying to understand my resistance to bonding with my new kitten, I realized how much I had closed my heart to love. I hadn't realized it went as far as encompassing 4 legged creatures too, as well as the 2 legged variety. I had to admit that maybe I needed the kitten even more than she needed me. That it probably wasn't the healthiest way to live to commit oneself to no new love in my life, at least the 4 legged kind. I had room for a little 1 lb. 6 oz. kitten in my life and heart. She would be my new shadow, my new greeter cat. Since bringing her back home, I am happy I have her in my life, and she's finding her place in my heart. I'm glad my daughter talked me into adopting her.

November 1968 by Adrienne Rich

Stripped
you're beginning to float free
up through the smoke of brushfires
and incinerators
the unleafed branches won't hold you
nor the radar aerials

You're what the autumn knew would happen
after the last collapse
of primary color
once the last absolutes were torn to pieces
you could begin

How you broke open, what sheathed you
until this moment
I know nothing about it
my ignorance of you amazes me
now that I watch you
starting to give yourself away
to the wind

                                     Adrienne Rich 

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

Letter in November by Sylvia Plath

Love, the world
Suddenly turns, turns color. The streetlight
Splits through the rat's tail
Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.
It is the Arctic,

This little black
Circle, with its tawn silk grasses - babies hair.
There is a green in the air,
Soft, delectable.
It cushions me lovingly.

I am flushed and warm.
I think I may be enormous,
I am so stupidly happy,
My Wellingtons
Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.

This is my property.
Two times a day
I pace it, sniffing
The barbarous holly with its viridian
Scallops, pure iron,

And the wall of the odd corpses.
I love them.
I love them like history.
The apples are golden,
Imagine it ----

My seventy trees
Holding their gold-ruddy balls
In a thick gray death-soup,
Their million
Gold leaves metal and breathless.

O love, O celibate.
Nobody but me
Walks the waist high wet.
The irreplaceable
Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.

                                Sylvia Plath 1932-1963

Cleo de Merode, Beauty of le Belle Epoque

She was born Cleopatra Diane de Merode in Bordeaux, Paris, France in 1874. She was the daughter of Karl von Merode, an Austrian landscape painter belonging to a famous Belgian noble family de Merode. Nicknamed "Cleo", she was selected for the Opera School of Dance when she was only 8 years old, at 11 she was dancing professionally, and at 13 she was chosen to dance in the prestigious ballet, Choryhee. It was then that she started to wear her hair pulled back in the chignon style with the hair covering her ears which became the talk of Paris and a popular style for many women. Her image was captured on post cards and playing cards which were widely collected.

She quickly became a favorite of many artists of the time including Toulouse-Lautrec, Gustav Klimt, Edgar Degas and Alexandre Falguiere. The ballerina performed in many major cities including St. Petersburg, New York and London but was probably more famous for her beauty than her dancing.

In 1896, King Leopold II of Belgium attended the ballet and it is recounted how he became enamored with the 23 year old dancer. At the time the king was 61. Ballerinas were regarded almost as courtesans in Paris at the time. The Paris Opera was said to have been called a "national harem". Gossip spread among Parisians about de Merode being the king's new mistress, so much so that the king became dubbed King Cleopold. Such accusations were strongly denied by de Merode but the scandal followed her throughout her life. Outraged, Cleo de Merode left Paris to dance internationally in such cities as Hamburg, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Budapest and New York. In the Russian Ballet she became the first ballerina to dance with a male partner.

At the peak of her ballet career, Cleo elected to perform with the Folies Bergere, something no other ballet elite would do. The risk she took gained her a whole new following. At age 42, Cleo returned to her birthplace of Biarritz, never to return to Paris. She still continued to dance, performing through the Red Cross for the wounded soldiers during WWI.

She is reported to have had only two relationships with men in her life, both long term. The first, an aristocrat lasted ten years until he died of  typhoid fever; the second, a Spanish diplomat and sculptor  eventually left her for another woman. Cleo de Merode died in 1966 at the age of 91 and is interred in the Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris.

Another young beauty from le Belle Epoque!

Who was she? She was born in Paris in 1874 of Austrian descent.

She became famous for this chignon hair style with the hair covering her ears - it became the rage of Paris!

Burning Leaves

Burning Leaves, November  

THESE are the folios of April, 

All the library of spring, 

Missals gilt and rubricated 

With the frost's illumining.

Ruthless, we destroy these treasures, 

Set the torch with hand profane-- 

Gone, like Alexandrian vellums, 

Like the books of burnt Louvain!

Yet these classics are immortal: 

O collectors, have no fear, 

For the publisher will issue 

New editions every year. 

                                         Christopher Morley

November Night

LISTEN . . . 

With faint dry sound, 

Like steps of passing ghosts, 

The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees 

And fall. 

                                   Adelaide Crapsey

Home, A new Melange Team ETSY challenge

It's been a while since I did one of these challenges. It is certainly quicker and easier if you can do it in Photoshop. This week's challenge is on the word "home". This is my submission piece.

November by Walter de la Mare

There is wind where the rose was, 
Cold rain where sweet grass was, 
And clouds like sheep 
Stream o'er the steep 
Grey skies where the lark was. 

Nought warm where your hand was, 
Nought gold where your hair was, 
But phantom, forlorn, 
Beneath the thorn, 
Your ghost where your face was. 

Cold wind where your voice was, 
Tears, tears where my heart was, 
And ever with me, 
Child, ever with me, 
Silence where hope was. 

                                       Walter de la Mare