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buehl

New To Kitchens? Posting Pics? Read Me! [Help keep on Page 1]

Buehl
11 years ago

Welcome! If you are new to the Kitchens Forum, you may find the following information and links helpful.

The Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ)/Articles pages contain helpful information about how to navigate this site as well as the world of kitchen renovations.

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The Appliances Forum is very useful when you have questions specific to appliances.

To start off the kitchen remodel process...take the Sweeby Test. Then, move on to Beginning a Kitchen Plan.

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Comments (144)

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    tea4all: Oh, goodness, no I don't have a file. Honestly, I have just been googling whatever strikes my fancy. (I have hit most of my favorite authors already, so now I am finding new ones to learn about!)


    Clown in the Moon
    by Dylan Thomas

    My tears are like the quiet drift
    Of petals from some magic rose;
    And all my grief flows from the rift
    Of unremembered skies and snows.

    I think, that if I touched the earth,
    It would crumble;
    It is so sad and beautiful,
    So tremulously like a dream.

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Bump for the night.

    Oh my, Angie, earlier today I almost posted Dylan Thomas's poem Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night but then decided to go in the opposite direction with the nonsensical Nose on you face poem. ;-)

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    Tea: Oh, that is a funny coincidence.

    I have noticed what has been pointed out earlier: A large fraction of poems are real downers! Death is way too common a theme! I have been trying to post uplifting ones, but don't always succeed. So many that are not grim are sappy.

    At least love provides a reliable theme that does not (necessarily) involve grief. Here is one:

    Between Us Now
    Thomas Hardy

    Between us now and here -
    Two thrown together
    Who are not wont to wear
    Life's flushest feather -
    Who see the scenes slide past,
    The daytimes dimming fast,
    Let there be truth at last,
    Even if despair.

    So thoroughly and long
    Have you now known me,
    So real in faith and strong
    Have I now shown me,
    That nothing needs disguise
    Further in any wise,
    Or asks or justifies
    A guarded tongue.

    Face unto face, then, say,
    Eyes mine own meeting,
    Is your heart far away,
    Or with mine beating?
    When false things are brought low,
    And swift things have grown slow,
    Feigning like froth shall go,
    Faith be for aye.

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Love it Angie! Thanks.

    Birds of Passage
    Flight the Second.
    A Day of Sunshine by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


    O GIFT of God! O perfect day:
    Whereon shall no man work, but play;
    Whereon it is enough for me,
    Not to be doing, but to be!

    Through every fibre of my brain,
    Through every nerve, through every vein,
    I feel the electric thrill, the touch
    Of life, that seems almost too much.

    I hear the wind among the trees
    Playing celestial symphonies;
    I see the branches downward bent,
    Like keys of some great instrument.

    And over me unrolls on high
    The splendid scenery of the sky,
    Where through a sapphire sea the sun
    Sails like a golden galleon,

    Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
    Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
    Whose steep sierra far uplifts
    Its craggy summits white with drifts.

    Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms
    The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!
    Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
    The fiery blossoms of the peach!

    O Life and Love! O happy throng
    Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
    O heart of man! canst thou not be
    Blithe as the air is, and as free?

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    Tea: Longfellow was such an inspired choice. He did not occur to me! Nice one.

    Now for something different. Here is a little ditty I wrote some time ago in a thread honoring Boxerpup's manifold contributions to the GW Kitchen Forum. I wrote it in terza rima, as I find that doggerel looks least like doggerel if done in terza rima! ;-)

    Ode to Boxerpups
    Angie_DIY

    Here is an ode to boxerpups
    who delights us all with her pix
    that serve as kitchen pick-me-ups

    when our inspiration needs a fix.
    Slack-jawed, we read and wonder
    how she conjures from her bag of tricks:

    The desired image comes quick as thunder
    after the blinding lighting flash.
    Before I'd know what tag to look under

    she has posted a relevant cache
    of shots with ranges by Bosch, coffee by Krupps,
    with counters of soapstone and cabinets of ash!

    So let us all raise our cups
    and join in the ode to boxerpups.

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Glad you liked Longfellow's poem Angie. It is the way I feel when I'm at the farm where my dad was born.

    I love your Ode to Boxerpups!! It is a perfect delight! Yes, yes to boxerpups!

    You are quite talented Angie. Nice job!

  • crl_
    11 years ago

    I hope you all will forgive the children's rhyme to bump:

    One, two, buckle my shoe
    three, four, out the door.
    Five, six, pick up sticks.
    Seven, eight, don't be late.
    Nine, ten, do it again.

    My two year old just counted her five fingers for the first time for me tonight so counting is on my mind.

  • enduring
    11 years ago

    Crl, 10 cheers for the little sweety!

    This is a little song that an English friend from years ago taught me:

    "When the Boat Comes In"
    Oh, dance for your daddy, my bonny laddy
    Dance for your daddy, my bonny lad.
    For he will bring a fishy, on a little dishy.
    He will bring a fishy when the boat comes in.

    I just looked this song up on Wikipedia and they have a very long version and the lyrics are all different.

    Thanks Angie, Tea4all, and crl for these great thoughtful poems. Angie, I think I've said it before you are one talented woman. Sort of a Renaissance Woman. I loved the haiku too, that was inspired by you, on the other boxerpups thread.

    For us who don't know much (like me) here is the definition of "terza rima" from Wikipedia:
    The literal translation of terza rima from Italian is 'third rhyme'. Terza rima is a three-line stanza using chain rhyme in the pattern A-B-A, B-C-B, C-D-C, D-E-D. There is no limit to the number of lines, but poems or sections of poems written in terza rima end with either a single line or couplet repeating the rhyme of the middle line of the final tercet. The two possible endings for the example above are d-e-d, e or d-e-d, e-e. There is no set rhythm for terza rima, but in English, iambic pentameter is generally preferred.
    [edit]

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Enduring--I must admit I was clueless on the "terza rima" but didn't look it up. Thanks so much!

    Crl--Wonderful accomplishment for your little one! Thanks for sharing that with us. You have a great start with rhymes with your child. Some of the most treasured memories I have are remembering Mom reading books and poems to me and me doing the same with my boys (now young adults). Treasure that time together.

    Now here is a poem for Crl and little one.

    Rain by Robert Louis Stevenson

    The rain is falling all around,
    It falls on field and tree,
    It rains on the umbrellas here,
    And on the ships at sea.

  • Buehl
    Original Author
    11 years ago

    December 1st!

  • enduring
    11 years ago

    Bumpity bump

  • crl_
    11 years ago

    Thank you for the kind words.

    Bump.

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    Aww, pshaww, you all! Back atcha, enduring!

    Happy December everyone!

    First Fig
    Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1920


    My candle burns at both ends,
    It will not last the night,
    But ah my foes and oh my friends
    It gives a lovely light.

  • enduring
    11 years ago

    bump

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    In the Valley of Cauteretz
    Alfred Lord Tennyson

    All along the valley, stream that flashest white,
    Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night,
    All along the valley, where thy waters flow,
    I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago.
    All along the valley, while I walk'd to-day,
    The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away;
    For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed,
    Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead,
    And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree,
    The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Time to bump again. It's a windy day here today. Makes me think of the Rossetti poem.

    Who Has Seen the Wind?
    BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

    Who has seen the wind?
    Neither I nor you:
    But when the leaves hang trembling,
    The wind is passing through.

    Who has seen the wind?
    Neither you nor I:
    But when the trees bow down their heads,
    The wind is passing by.

  • enduring
    11 years ago

    lovely poems angie and tea4all.
    bump

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    I love this one.

    Nothing Gold Can Stay
    by Robert Frost

    Nature's first green is gold,
    Her hardest hue to hold.
    Her early leaf's a flower;
    But only so an hour.
    Then leaf subsides to leaf.
    So Eden sank to grief,
    So dawn goes down to day.
    Nothing gold can stay.

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    We can stay with Frost, for a seasonally pertinent poem:

    MY NOVEMBER GUEST
    Robert Frost

    My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
    Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
    Are beautiful as days can be;
    She loves the bare, the withered tree;
    She walks the sodden pasture lane.

    Her pleasure will not let me stay.
    She talks and I am fain to list:
    She's glad the birds are gone away,
    She's glad her simple worsted gray
    Is silver now with clinging mist.

    The desolate, deserted trees,
    The faded earth, the heavy sky,
    The beauties she so truly sees,
    She thinks I have no eye for these,
    And vexes me for reason why.

    Not yesterday I learned to know
    The love of bare November days
    Before the coming of the snow,
    But it were vain to tell her so,
    And they are better for her praise.

  • beekeeperswife
    11 years ago

    bump

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    Not quite a poem, but by a poet!

    "Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense." � Ralph Waldo Emerson

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Love that quote from Emerson!!

    Bump to get this up to pg 1.

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    DUST OF SNOW
    by Robert Frost

    The way a crowâ¨
    Shook down on meâ¨
    The dust of snowâ¨
    From a hemlock treeâ¨
    Has given my heartâ¨
    A change of moodâ¨
    And saved some partâ¨
    Of a day I had rued.

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Sorry about the strange way the poem lines ended above. Don't know why it did that. Will try again.

    DUST OF SNOW
    by Robert Frost

    The way a crow
    Shook down on me
    The dust of snow
    From a hemlock tree
    Has given my heart
    A change of mood
    And saved some part
    Of a day I had rued.

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day
    Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    I heard the bells on Christmas Day
    Their old familiar carols play,
    And wild and sweet the words repeat
    Of peace on earth, good will to men.

    I thought how, as the day had come,
    The belfries of all Christendom
    Had rolled along the unbroken song
    Of peace on earth, good will to men.

    And in despair I bowed my head:
    "There is no peace on earth," I said,
    "For hate is strong and mocks the song
    Of peace on earth, good will to men."

    Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
    "God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
    The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
    With peace on earth, good will to men."

    Till, ringing singing, on its way,
    The world revolved from night to day,
    A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
    Of peace on earth, good will to men!

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Perfect poem Angie!!

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    Thanks, tea. You likely have heard this poem in another form many times before. (I must admit that I did not know it was written by Longfellow until recently.) Check out the video:

    Here is a link that might be useful: I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Oh yes Angie I knew this poem as Belafonte's song. It is one of my favorite Christmas songs. Thanks for the link! It is so peaceful. (I too did not know Longfellow wrote it.)

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Bump with a quote.

    "Peace on earth will come to stay, When we live Christmas every day."
    â Helen Steiner Rice

  • enduring
    11 years ago

    pubm

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    I really dislike Ogden Nash, and, for a purported Christmas ditty, this is pretty dark, but I have to share it anyway. It's darkness is in service of higher ideals, at least.

    A Carol for Children
    Ogden Nash

    God rest you merry, Innocents,
    Let nothing you dismay,
    Let nothing wound an eager heart
    Upon this Christmas day.
    Yours be the genial holly wreaths,
    The stockings and the tree;
    An aged world to you bequeaths
    Its own forgotten glee.
    Soon, soon enough come crueler gifts,
    The anger and the tears;
    Between you now there sparsely drifts
    A handful yet of years.

    Oh, dimly, dimly glows the star
    Through the electric throng;
    The bidding in temple and bazaar
    Drowns out the silver song.

    The ancient altars smoke afresh,
    The ancient idols stir;
    Faint in the reek of burning flesh
    Sink frankincense and myrrh.

    Gaspar, Balthazar, Melchior!
    Where are your offerings now?
    What greetings to the Prince of War,
    His darkly branded brow?

    Two ultimate laws alone we know,
    The ledger and the sword --
    So far away, so long ago,
    We lost the infant Lord.

    Only the children clasp His hand;
    His voice speaks low to them,
    And still for them the shining band
    Wings over Bethlehem.

    God rest you merry, Innocents,
    While innocence endures,
    A sweeter Christmas than we to ours
    May you bequeath to yours.

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    To Celia
    Ben Jonson

    Drink to me, only, with thine eyes,
    And I will pledge with mine;
    Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
    And I'll not look for wine.
    The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
    Doth ask a drink divine:
    But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
    I would not change for thine.

    I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
    Not so much honouring thee,
    As giving it a hope, that there
    It could not withered be.
    But thou thereon didst only breathe,
    And sent'st back to me:
    Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
    Not of itself, but thee.

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    And a counterpoint to the above poem....

    Unfortunate Coincidence
    Dorothy Parker

    By the time you swear you're his,
    Shivering and sighing,
    And he vows his passion is
    Infinite, undying --
    Lady, make a note of this:
    One of you is lying.

  • kailuamom
    11 years ago

    I haven't done this bump in five years! Buuuuump

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Welcome back Kailuamom! Glad for your bump!

    A Home Song
    by Henry Van Dyke

    I read within a poet's book
    A word that starred the page:
    "Stone walls do not a prison make,
    Nor iron bars a cage!"

    Yes, that is true; and something more
    You'll find, where'er you roam,
    That marble floors and gilded walls
    Can never make a home.

    But every house where Love abides,
    And Friendship is a guest,
    Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
    For there the heart can rest.

  • enduring
    11 years ago

    Thanks Tea, I needed this, my DD left to return to Chicago after her week's visit. She is so sweet to have around, we miss her already.

    This post was edited by enduring on Sun, Dec 9, 12 at 9:11

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    Love After Love
    Derek Walcott

    The time will come, when with elation,
    you will greet yourself arriving
    at your own door, in your own mirror,
    and each will smile at the other's welcome
    and say, sit here. Eat.
    You will love again the stranger who was your self.
    Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
    to itself, to the stranger who has loved you.
    all your life, whom you have ignored
    for another, who knows you by heart.
    Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
    the photographs, the desperate notes,
    peel your own image from the mirror.
    Sit. Feast on your life.

  • enduring
    11 years ago

    Love this poem Angie.

    Bump

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    It is really getting cold here now. So as I sit shivering I thought a little silliness would help me cope.

    Weather
    Author: Unknown

    Whether the weather be fine,
    Or whether the weather be not,
    Whether the weather be cold,
    Or whether the weather be hot,
    We"ll weather the weather
    Whatever the weather,
    Whether we like it or not!

  • laughablemoments
    11 years ago

    Bump

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    Don't worry, gang of bumpers. This thread won't be here much longer. I won't continue the poetry on the next "New to Kitchens" thread!

    He Ate and Drank the Precious Words
    Emily Dickenson

    He ate and drank the precious words,
    His spirit grew robust;
    He knew no more that he was poor
    Nor that his frame was dust

    He danced along the dingy days,
    And this bequest of wings
    Was but a book. What liberty
    A loosened spirit brings.

  • breezygirl
    11 years ago

    Chicken-soup-making bump!

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Bump with a quote from Eric Sevareid (an American newscaster, born 1912, died 1992):

    "Christmas is a necessity. There has to be at least one day of the year to remind us that we're here for something else besides ourselves."

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    "Blow, Bugle, Blow"
    by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

    The splendour falls on castle walls
    And snowy summits old in story:
    The long light shakes across the lakes,
    And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
    Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
    Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

    O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
    And thinner, clearer, farther going!
    O sweet and far from cliff and scar
    The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
    Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
    Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

    O love, they die in yon rich sky,
    They faint on hill or field or river:
    Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
    And grow for ever and for ever.
    Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
    And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    Praise (I)
    George Herbert (1593-1633)

    To write a verse or two is all the praise
    That I can raise:
    Mend my estate in any ways,
    Thou shalt have more.

    I go to Church; help me to wings, and I
    Will thither fly;
    Or, if I mount unto the sky,
    I will do more.

    Man is all weakness; there is no such thing
    As Prince or King:
    His arm is short; yet with a sling
    He may do more.

    An herb distill'd, and drunk, may dwell next door,
    On the same floor,
    To a brave soul: Exalt the poor,
    They can do more.

    O raise me then! poor bees, that work all day,
    Sting my delay,
    Who have a work, as well as they,
    And much, much more.

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    You probably know Robert Herrick's most famous poem, To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time. This is the one that starts out: "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may"

    Here is another of his short works:

    Upon Julia's Clothes
    Robert Herrick

    Whenas inn silks my Julia goes,
    Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
    That liquefaction of her clothes.

    Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
    That brave vibration each way free ;
    O how that glittering taketh me !

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    I trust you know what "pied" means, as in "The Pied Piper." (It means "of two or more colors in blotches.")

    Pied Beauty
    Gerard Manley Hopkins

    Glory be to God for dappled things--
    For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
    For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
    Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
    Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;
    And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

    All things counter, original, spare, strange;
    Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
    With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
    He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
    Praise him.

  • tea4all
    11 years ago

    Ohhh I like that poem Angie!

    Is there a limit of 150 entries for a thread? If so, we are almost there. I'm not a poet for sure but maybe someone can come up with an original asking Tamara to add Buehl's other links above to the STICKY GW currently has at the top.

    My feeble efforts are childish.

    A sticky, a sticky.
    We need a sticky
    For ALL the threads referenced here
    By Buehl who deserves a cheer.

  • enduring
    11 years ago

    This has become a great collection of poems. I can tell it was a labor of love for Angie and Tea. Thank you.

    Bump

  • angie_diy
    11 years ago

    Thanks, enduring! I looked it over last night (reading some of the poems to some friends) and realized we had assembled a nice collection, as you say!

    In My Craft or Sullen Art
    Dylan Thomas

    In my craft or sullen art
    Exercised in the still night
    When only the moon rages
    And the lovers lie abed
    With all their griefs in their arms,
    I labour by singing light
    Not for ambition or bread
    Or the strut and trade of charms
    On the ivory stages
    But for the common wages
    Of their most secret heart.

    Not for the proud man apart
    From the raging moon I write
    On these spindrift pages
    Nor for the towering dead
    With their nightingales and psalms
    But for the lovers, their arms
    Round the griefs of the ages,
    Who pay no praise or wages
    Nor heed my craft or art.