Veneta Donaldson: "Moment Exquisite"

Veneta's husband, Clyde Donaldson, 1956
photo by Steve Caylor
This is a winter poem that Veneta wrote for the love of her life, Clyde. It's another that I found in her little box of special things.


Moment Exquisite
by Veneta Donaldson

Close the door gently; come, beside me rest,
And pillow your dark head upon my breast,
While twilight shadows steal across the room.
Outside the hands of Winter will resume
Their cherished task of silvering the night,
To fill our hearts with rapturous delight.
Dear One, Time may not bring this hour again;
Let no word's cadence mar the haunting strain
Of music, exquisitely sweet and low,
The melody of night, caroled in snow.


The next poem in this series can be found here: Little Old Lady in Blue.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

WIP Wednesday: A New Rug

It's Work-In-Progress Wednesday, and I have started a new tarn (t-shirt yarn) rug for the test phase of my pattern, Tarnation Rectangle Rug. I'm using a regular store-boughten crochet hook instead of my grandmother's handmade wooden hook, to be sure I've got the size right on the pattern.

The pattern test is in full swing now, and if you'd like to be a tester, just let me know and I'll email a .pdf of the pattern to you. Instructions for making tarn are included.

For more WIP Wednesday posts on other blogs, check here.

Veneta Donaldson: "Impasse"

One of Veneta Donaldson's marked-up pages
It's always encouraging to read about an excellent writer who has those moments when nothing comes together right. Here's one of Veneta's.


Impasse
by Veneta Donaldson

I cannot write tonight; elusive words
Have taunted me until my weary mind
Bows low before its conqueror, nor girds
Its strength for one last thrust, however blind.

I needed words of truth and purpose clear
To frame the thought that near my heart has lain —
That each resolve to hold Truth's concept dear —
But though defeated now, I'll write again!


The next poem in this series can be found here: Moment Exquisite.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "In Memoriam"

Veneta Donaldson's father, c. 1952
This is another poem I found folded up in my aunt's little box of special things. She wrote it when her father died. I must admit that I have edited it a bit. Veneta had a habit of avoiding the trappings of grief, and I believe that she would have made the sorts of editorial changes I did here, if this poem had not been such a strong reminder of the loss of her father.

In Memoriam
by Veneta Donaldson

Our tears are yours, our grief,
This haunting, calendared day
When one we loved so earnestly
So quietly passed away.

The dearness of your smile,
Cherished throughout our memory;
The strength and beauty of your hands
Will live with us in constancy.

Your step, so eager and so quick
Across the threshold of our time
Brought joy to all our hearts
When we beheld you in your prime.

The firmness of your will,
The self-inflicted discipline,
Were tempered with a gentleness
So rarely found among men.

Our tears are yours, our grief,
For you who left us sad but wise;
A loving memory is ours
It never, never, ever dies.


The next poem in this series can be found here: Impasse.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "They Told Me — "

Veneta Donaldson with her husband, Clyde, c. 1950
Here's another anti-war poem. Veneta's experience with both World Wars comes into play in this one.


They Told Me —
by Veneta Donaldson

They told me of the strife at sea
When ships were tossed in maelstrom wide;
They told me of Victory's fee
And depth of scars men cannot hide.
They told me never would our sons
Again feel hatred in their breast;
They told me all death-waging guns
Had been discarded, laid to rest.

They told me all men should be free,
United brothers of One World.
They never mentioned sophistry
Nor darkness that may be unfurled,
Chaotic, worse than twice before
When Peace was thought predominant.
They should have told me one thing more —
That war stalks men intolerant.


A note about gender: As was the custom for most of the 20th century, Veneta used masculine words like "men" and "brothers" when indicating both genders. So she meant "all humans should be free, united siblings of One World." I prefer the way she wrote it, because it comes across as less technical and more poetic.

The next poem in this series can be found here: In Memoriam.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "The Darkened Hours"

Veneta Donaldson, 1909
More darkness. Veneta had some very sad events in her life: her mother died when she was three years old, her first love exited leaving her unrequited for decades, and her husband died 17 years before she passed away herself. This poem was written during the unrequited years, and as she noted on her typewritten page, in the style of a Shakespeare sonnet.


The Darkened Hours
by Veneta Donaldson

Tonight the years' hypnotic eyes are bright,
They mesmerize my spirit and my mind;
They will not let me turn toward the light
But torture me with visions of the blind
And crippled hours that haunt my spirit's shore,
Hours nurtured by despair and vain regret
That Fate once barred contentment's golden door
And placed upon my heart eternal debt.

O hours that pass as lightly as a sigh
And leave no trace of triumph or defeat
Where is the Joy the egoists decry?
The ecstasy in which their days are steeped?
The darkened hours that are my legacy
Mordaciously flaunt their supremacy.


The next poem in this series can be found here: They Told Me — .

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "Within the Night"

Veneta Donaldson, 1949
"Did Veneta have a dark side?" you ask. Well, apparently she did. As her niece, I never knew about it, but some of her poems are brooding, and this one is so upsetting, it made me cry. I have included "Within the Night" in this series because it is so very powerful.


Within the Night
by Veneta Donaldson

A crash splinters the dark of night,
Disturbing as remembered fright
That fringes one's distorted dream;
As piercing as malignant gleam
Of saber drawn in bloody fray,
Forever curtaining the day.

A crash splinters the dark of night —
God help the boy who longs for sight.


The next poem in this series can be found here: The Darkened Hours.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "Haven"

Veneta in her own cottage, 1960
Here she is in her kitchen, looking very Julia Child-y. On the back of this photo, Veneta wrote, "Evening, Dec. 23, '60." This is her eventide poem.

Haven
by Veneta Donaldson

A small white cottage on a quiet street
For me holds loveliness complete;
For within its walls such beauty lies
As makes the heart more richly wise.

And as I gaze from my window ledge
Across an intervening hedge
Well my heart knows by their crimsoned leaves
The sun again has kissed the trees.

Now as the deepening shadows fall
Crickets sing by the garden wall;
The birds' muted chirp betokens rest
Within the shelter of their nest.

Soon now, Dear God, may Thy peace abide
Within all hearts at eventide;
May small white cottages on quiet streets
Harbor those whom peace sweetly greets.


The next poem in this series can be found here: Within the Night.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Sneak Peek... Tarnation Rectangle Rug

My work-in-progress for today is the pattern for this rug made out of tarn (t-shirt yarn)! I've just finished the first draft of the .pdf, and it's ready to be tested. When the test is over, the final version will be offered as a free download here and on Ravelry.

If you'd like to be a tester, please let me know and I'll email you the pattern. It's easy to make, and it takes about 5-10 t-shirts. Directions for making tarn are included in the pattern.

For more WIP Wednesday posts on other blogs, check here.

Veneta Donaldson: "Summer's Child"

Veneta Donaldson with niece, June 1958
Since today is the Summer Solstice, it's a good day for this poem. The photo shows Veneta with me, taken around the time of Summer Solstice in 1958. I happen to have been born in the summer, but she wrote this poem many years before my time.


Summer's Child
by Veneta Donaldson

Sweet Summer's child I saw today,
Whose piquant features were designed
By playful breeze and ocean spray
Upon a shore with seashells lined.

Sweet Summer's child I saw today,
A child so gravely young and fair;
I watched her joyfully at play
With sunbeams glistening in her hair.

Oh child of breeze and ocean mist
The world is lovelier for you;
A creature whom the sun has kissed,
Yet left as fresh as morning dew.


The next poem in this series can be found here: Haven.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Happy Solstice!

This is a picture of the water near our house at dusk, opposite the setting Sun.

Veneta Donaldson: "Old Houses"

Veneta Donaldson at home, c. 1960
My aunt lived with her husband in a pretty little house that was dove gray with white trim. She always had flowers blooming in the front yard. This picture shows her on the front porch in a glamour-girl pose, a far cry from the houses she describes below.


Old Houses
by Veneta Donaldson

The somber, apathetic mien
Of houses old, untenanted;
The haunting look of wistfulness
As though their grief had ferreted
Each memory of lovely days
When joy and laughter were their own
Invariably bruise my heart
When I behold them, mute, alone.


The next poem in this series can be found here: Summer's Child.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "The Answer"

Veneta's husband, Clyde Donaldson, 1940s
Clyde was the great love of Veneta's life, but he appeared after many years of sadness on her part. As a young woman, she fell in love with a beau who for an unknown reason, left her, breaking her heart. Carrying on, she managed her grief while building a career for herself. Then in walked Clyde--one of the sweetest men on the planet. By the time they married, Veneta was 40 years old. Choosing not to have children, she and Clyde had a wonderful, devoted marriage for 30 years until he passed away.

The Answer
by Veneta Donaldson

Last night you said, "Darling, do you love me?"
And I could only nod my cradled head;
The lovely words were not upon my lips –
They were engraved upon my heart instead.

And then again you said, "Do you love me?"
Do I love you, who gave my heart a song,
Who recognized the sorrows of the years
And gently marshaled them where they belong.

Do I love you? If only I could tell
In glowing phrases what you've meant to me
Since first I glimpsed the beauty of this love
You could not then doubt my sincerity.


The next poem in this series can be found here: Old Houses.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "The Clock"

Veneta Donaldson on a cruise, c. 1980
Here she is, 30 years later, on a cruise--no more "hither and thither," but she's still having fun.


The Clock
by Veneta Donaldson

The clock controls my busy day
And slowly ticks my life away.
It hangs upon my study wall
Not caring for my plight at all.

Inexorable tyranny
That sways the hours' destiny –
And yet without that pallid face
Time still would ply its ruthless pace.


The next poem in this series can be found here The Answer.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

FO Friday: Tarn Rug!

It's FO Friday, and I finished the rug while it's still Friday! This used almost 5 shirts for the tarn, and it measures 22" x 32". It looks way better than I expected, with the colors pooling in a very nice pattern.

I'm about to produce a free pattern for this rug--anybody wanna be a tester? Just let me know and I'll email a .pdf to you as soon as it's ready.

For more FO Friday finished objects on other blogs, check here.

Veneta Donaldson: "I Often Wonder"

Veneta Donaldson at work, c. 1950
Veneta wrote a few humorous poems. This one is about another secretary in her office, the "dark one." I think she meant this young woman was a brunette, rather than Satan.


I Often Wonder
by Veneta Donaldson

I often wonder how the dark one
Gets by without a bit of work done.
Perhaps the dreamy eyes and sweet-girl stare
Compensate for desk that's neatly bare.
At times my mind is in a dither,
My thoughts race from here to thither.
I could slap her in the kisser
But with my luck I'd only miss her!

(My style certainly isn't Ogden Nash-y,
I just feel mean and sort of nasty!)


The next poem in this sereies can be found here: The Clock.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

WIP Wednesday: Turned Tarn Rug

This rug is still a work-in-progress. I'm now far enough along to realize that if I use all of my shirts in this fabric for this rug, it will come out square, and I prefer rectangular rugs. So I turned it (conceptually) 90 degrees, and I'll add maybe 1-1/2 more shirts: the rest of the white, plus a navy blue shirt. Then I'll have 4 more shirts left to make a little oval rug out of: pink, red, gray, white. Okay, I can live with that.

You can download a free pattern for this rug from here:
Tarnation Rectangle Rug.

For more WIP Wednesday posts on other blogs, check here.

Veneta Donaldson: "I Saw Her Standing There"

Veneta Donaldson with niece, 1957
Veneta had no children. She was 20 years old when my mother was born, so she was like a second mother to her. The photo above shows my aunt holding me as a baby. She and her husband were very strongly present in my life, and after my mother passed away, Veneta was a second mother to me, too.


I Saw Her Standing There
by Veneta Donaldson

I saw her standing there,
A quiet child with eyes of brown
And countenance so dear. I knew
Her from a long-remembered prayer.

I saw her standing there,
This child born of my reverie
Then suddenly she was no more –
A vision sweet beyond compare.


The next poem in this series can be found here: I Often Wonder.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "To N.J.D. and P.C. McC."

Veneta Donaldson, 1909
I found this poem in my aunt's little box of special things. It appears to be a prayer written to be given to my mother, N.J.D., when she was pregnant and someone else--probably a friend who was also with child.

To N.J.D. and P.C. McC.
by Veneta Donaldson

Give unto him a joyous heart,
And lift him high above the crowd;
Yet may he know that he's a part
Of all of life, from dust to shroud.

Give unto him a fervent will
To rise above a heart's despair;
But if he fails, there is still
Compassionate beauty to share.

Give unto him the need to dream,
Fulfilled by word, or sound or form;
And when the hours are not what they seem,
Release him from contingent harm.

Give unto him a spirit deep
Enveloping the human race,
Instill in him the wish to keep
The true formalities of grace.

Mold him by Thy divinity,
This child that is yet to be.


The next poem in this series can be found here: I Saw Her Standing There.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "Surely They Remember"

Veneta Donaldson, c. 1919
This photo shows Veneta as a girl, several years after her mother passed away. She was no stranger to sadness and tears. The following is one of her anti-war poems.

Surely They Remember
by Veneta Donaldson

At times when life has lost its vibrant charm
And weighted hours suspend themselves from days
Whose timing caters wholly to alarm,
Hysteria, and man's unlawful ways.
My heart is saddened and I vainly grope
For recollection of those happy years
When one knew nothing of the frenzied hope
Of peoples destitute, nor of their tears.

Long happy days of fruitful work and peace
Should be remembered by our chosen ones
Who strive to guide the world so wars will cease
And hands will not be trained in ways of guns.
Oh, surely they remember, pledge the young
That Peace shall speak one universal tongue!


The next poem in this series can be found here: To N.J.D. and P.C. McC.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "Beauty"

Veneta Donaldson, 1960
Beauty
by Veneta Donaldson

There's beauty found in unpretentious things –
The turn of shining plow upon the earth;
The sweet, unchanging tune the cricket sings;
And dusky spirals borne from rural hearth;
The dreamy hum of kettles on the fire;
Bright crown of jonquils framed in light of gold;
A simple melody from feathered choir;
A tender smile upon a face grown old.


The next poem in this series can be found here: Surely They Remember.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "Reiteration"

Veneta Donaldson, c. 1911
Veneta wrote some anti-war poems during her early writing years. War was a major factor in her childhood and in her young adult life. She was very much against it.

Reiteration
by Veneta Donaldson

Why does reiteration sound
So blatantly upon the tongue?
Have we forgot the fresh, green mound
That houses dreams torn from the young?

Why does War's anvil strike the spark
That fires the greed of blinded souls,
Whose self-willed destinies so dark
Know only frenzied, powered goals?

Oh, surely in the hearts of men
A lasting freedom's uppermost;
And vows when Peace is ushered in
Outlive the moment's fevered boast!


The next poem in this series can be found here: Beauty.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "His Mother's Prayer"

A soldier from Veneta's family photos, early 1900s
This young man was probably Veneta's mother's brother, by the family resemblance seen in his face. My aunt was a child during World War I, and a working-girl during World War II. During that time she wrote this poem, which made me teary-eyed when I read it, reminding me of my own son of that age.

His Mother's Prayer
by Veneta Donaldson

Dear God, Thy mercy I beseech
Upon my son bestow this day;
And place within his sweet, young reach
The glory of his star-bound way.
But if he seeks Thy house for rest --
So like a lone bird's trusting flight
When by Thy mighty wisdom blessed --
O guide him home through starless night.

A note about religion: Veneta was a smart, sophisticated career woman who lived and worked in one of Texas' major cities. Having been raised in a small town in the early 20th century, religion was a "given" for her. It was like the Sun coming up every morning, a normal part of everyone's life. We in the 21st century have a rather different perspective on religion in its diverse forms and expressions--sometimes rare and special, sometimes pervasive.

The next poem in this series can be found here: Reiteration.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

WIP Wednesday: Tarn Rug

It's Work-In-Progress Wednesday, and I've been working on this t-shirt yarn rug for the past week. At the moment, it has about 3-1/2 turtleneck shirts crocheted into it, with probably 5 more to go. It's 32" wide and 13" long. I hope it doesn't turn out to be too big for frequent washing and drying. I might have to rethink the dimensions for easier washing--maybe rotate it, so the 32" is the length, and keep going until it's just 24" long. Have to think about it.

Last week I posted some notes on how I'm making it.

For more WIP Wednesday posts on other blogs, check here.

UPDATE: After looking at this photo, I realized that there was a mistake about halfway up. Most of the time, I just keep going after a mistake because it doesn't usually show. However, this one is on the edge (left edge stairstep from forgetting the ch1 at the start of the row). It would always show and always bother me, so I frogged back. Now I will be more careful. Argh.

Veneta Donaldson: "An Aquarelle"

Veneta Donaldson, c. 1915
Veneta was a lover of art, and later a lover of an artist--she married him, in fact. Many of his paintings hang in my house now, but he was not the watercolor artist of this "aquarelle."

An Aquarelle
by Veneta Donaldson

The graceful willows' mystic tracery
Reflected by a silver crescent lamp
Resembles pattern etched from memory,
Once marked indelibly with childhood's stamp.

The irised path beside the water's edge
Bears yet no touch of swift, eroding years;
Nor does the drowsy, water-lily hedge
Show sign of Time's long-unassuaged fears.

This rustic scene of fairy, winsome grace
Brings back to mind my childhood's summer dell
So vividly my mind would now erase
The blind dimensions of this aquarelle.

The next poem in this series can be found here: His Mother's Prayer.

This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "Tornado Town"

Veneta Donaldson, c. 1950
In light of the recent tornadic disaster in Joplin, I found this poem to be quite timely. My aunt lived in an area of Texas that certainly saw its share of tornadoes.

Tornado Town
by Veneta Donaldson

There are no children playing in the streets
No sound of footsteps anywhere at all;
The silence mounts until it fairly beats
A mournful dirge about each splintered wall.

But as I watch, long and steadily,
Blurred faces seem to gather all around.
And then a mighty chorus shouts to me –
Never will we leave Tornado Town.

The next poem in this series can be found here: An Aquarelle.

A brief bio of Veneta Donaldson and the first poem of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.

Veneta Donaldson: "Akin to Prayer"

Veneta Donaldson, c. 1911
My aunt never talked about her hopes and dreams. So it was a lovely surprise for me to read the following poem, which describes a wish that I, too, have had.

Akin to Prayer
by Veneta Donaldson

I've longed to own a little plot of land
With boundary of maple and of oak;
A small white house with laughter in its heart,
And open arms for ordinary folk.
I've longed to gaze upon the setting sun,
To hear the plaintive note of cricket brood;
And watch the friendly yellow moon arise
And scale the sky for one that it has wooed.
I've longed to breathe the freshness of the soil
Just after plow has left its imprint there;
I've longed to own a little plot of land
So much the longing is akin to prayer.

The next poem in this series can be found here: Tornado Town.

A brief bio of Veneta Donaldson and the first poem of the series, can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family

Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family

Veneta Donaldson, early 1930s
This is my aunt--my mother's much-older sister, who lived from 1909 to 1996. She was a single working-girl in Texas from the late 1920's through the 1940's. Marrying at age 40, she continued with her secretarial career until retirement. Much like Emily Dickinson, she wrote poetry that was almost never seen by anyone. She typed the early ones and hand-wrote the later poems--most of them were on nice stationery paper. The first set was bound with a ribbon. Her poetry ranged from deeply philosophical to sentimental to whimsical: all intelligent and masterful in style.

I will be posting some of my favorites here, and I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.


Patterns
by Veneta Donaldson

Man's life is but a pattern here
That molds his own infinity
Beyond his laughter and his tear,
Deception and veracity.

Sometimes the pattern's mutable
And precious gain is lost to him;
Often opaque, insensible,
And all the hours are aimless, dim.

Perhaps but once within his soul
His life is clear as God's own star;
He sees ahead the final goal
And knows why mortal patterns are.
The following poems by Veneta Donaldson are included in this series:

- Patterns
- Akin to Prayer
- Tornado Town
- An Aquarelle
- His Mother's Prayer
- Reiteration
- Beauty
- Surely They Remember
- To N.J.D. and P.C. McC.
- I Saw Her Standing There
- I Often Wonder
- The Clock
- The Answer
- Old Houses
- Summer's Child
- Haven
- Within the Night
- The Darkened Hours
- They Told Me —
- In Memoriam
- Impasse
- Moment Exquisite
- Little Old Lady in Blue
- And Now I Keep My Promise


Additional poetry by Veneta Donaldson
- Picture of Autumn
- Time of Yule
- Faith Absolute
- God's Artistry
- The Language of Autumn
- Snow Flakes
- Glimpse of Spring
- I Watched a Star

Evolution of a Rug

Check out my grandmother's hand-hewn crochet hook, upper left.
It's Work-In-Progress Wednesday, and I'm back! In December, we bought a new house in a new town, and I have been up to my eyeballs in boxes, packing materials, and stuff. For the last few months, my time has been mostly spent unpacking and selling-off zillions of items from three households (mine, my husband's, and a friend who passed away).

We have a very old cat--adopted him from our departed friend. He is becoming incontinent, and he usually makes it to the vicinity of the catbox, but... well... let's just say the floor of the utility room is getting cleaned A LOT. I put my little t-shirt yarn rug there, and it's working well because it's so easy to wash. It grabs and holds the puddles instead of having the grout lines become little yellow rivers. So I desperately need a second tarn (t-shirt yarn) rug, to switch out with during the laundering process.

This one is made of a bunch of old turtlenecks of mine. I had a collection of many colors, all in the same style and fabric. They are out of style now, and I have others that I like way better, so it's time to crochet a rug!

For more WIP Wednesday posts on other blogs, check here.

UPDATE: Since instructions for this rug have been requested, I'm going to try to tell you how I made this... haven't created a pattern yet... maybe a free one someday soon.

ANOTHER UPDATE: The pattern has now been produced and tested, and it's available as a free download. Tarnation Rectangle Rug