Latest Photos...

 I'm trying to keep my photos updated on Fine Art America and Pixels. Below are screenshots of the latest ones. To see them and all of the photographs that I have to share, please visit my site at veronica-batterson.pixels.com

Women's History Month

 

March is Women's History Month, so I thought I'd share a select few poems written by women about women. I've kept the last several posts simple and stress-free, which has allowed me to continue with this blog. Balancing demands and life require cutting back a bit. The direction is going forward, and not in reverse (thank goodness!) with respect to the next book, but I'm taking my time with it. In addition to painting with acrylics, I've revisited using watercolors and remember how much I loved it. Slowing the pace with everything is needed. 

As always, thanks for checking in and reading what I share.

A Suggested Campaign Song

Alice Duer Miller - 1874-1942

(“No brass bands. No speeches. Instead a still, silent, effective influence.”—Anti-suffrage speech.)

We are waging—can you doubt it?
   A campaign so calm and still
No one knows a thing about it
   And we hope they never will.
          No one knows
          What we oppose,
   And we hope they never will.

We are ladylike and quiet,
   Here a whisper—there a hint;
Never speeches, bands or riot,
   Nothing suitable for print.
          No one knows
          What we oppose,
   For we never speak for print.

Sometimes in profound seclusion,
   In some far (but homelike) spot,
We will make a dark allusion:
   “We’re opposed to you-know-what.”
          No one knows
          What we oppose,
For we call it “You-Know-What.”

Alice Paul

Katharine Rolston Fisher - 1871-1949

I watched a river of women,
Rippling purple, white and golden,
Stream toward the National Capitol.

Along its border,
Like a purple flower floating,
Moved a young woman, worn, wraithlike.
All eyes alight, keenly observing the marchers.
Out there on the curb, she looked so little, so lonely,
Few appeared even to see her;
No one saluted her.

Yet commander was she of the column, its leader;
She was the spring whence arose that irresistible river of women
Streaming steadily towards the National Capitol.

I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl (443)

Emily Dickinson - 1830-1886

I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl— 

Life's little duties do—precisely— 

As the very least  

Were infinite—to me— 

    

I put new Blossoms in the Glass— 

And throw the old—away— 

I push a petal from my gown  

That anchored there—I weigh  

The time 'twill be till six o'clock  

I have so much to do— 

And yet—Existence—some way back— 

Stopped—struck—my ticking—through— 

We cannot put Ourself away  

As a completed Man  

Or Woman—When the Errand's done  

We came to Flesh—upon— 

There may be—Miles on Miles of Nought— 

Of Action—sicker far— 

To simulate—is stinging work— 

To cover what we are  

From Science—and from Surgery— 

Too Telescopic Eyes  

To bear on us unshaded— 

For their—sake—not for Ours— 

Twould start them— 

We—could tremble— 

But since we got a Bomb— 

And held it in our Bosom— 

Nay—Hold it—it is calm— 

    

Therefore—we do life's labor— 

Though life's Reward—be done— 

With scrupulous exactness— 

To hold our Senses—on—

Oughta Be a Woman

June Jordan - 1936-2002

Washing the floors to send you to college
Staying at home so you can feel safe
What do you think is the soul of her knowledge
What do you think that makes her feel safe

Biting her lips and lowering her eyes
To make sure there's food on the table
What do you think would be her surprise
If the world was as willing as she's able

Hugging herself in an old kitchen chair
She listens to your hurt and your rage
What do you think she knows of despair
What is the aching of age

The fathers, the children, the brothers
Turn to her and everybody white turns to her
What about her turning around
Alone in the everyday light

There oughta be a woman can break
Down, sit down, break down, sit down
Like everybody else call it quits on Mondays
Blues on Tuesdays, sleep until Sunday
Down, sit down, break down, sit down

A way outa no way is flesh outa flesh
Courage that cries out at night
A way outa no way is flesh outa flesh
Bravery kept outa sight
A way outa no way is too much to ask
Too much of a task for any one woman

And a favorite, which I shared here in 2016:

After A While (Comes the Dawn)

By Veronica Shoffstall 

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises

And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open,

With the grace of a woman,
Not the grief of a child

And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine
Burns if you get too much

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers

And you learn that you really can endure…
that you really are strong
and you really do have worth,
and you learn and learn…
With every goodbye you learn.

Ireland by Megan O'Neill

 I first heard this song by Megan O'Neill three years ago on Facebook, and thought it so beautiful. The video is lovely as well. 

Take a look and listen. 

Taylor Swift

 I know this small post won't gain much attention in the big picture of things since the world's eyes and ears are on Taylor Swift's upcoming tour and her multitude of accomplishments, but I'll share it anyway. 

Taylor's song The Best Day was played for me by my daughter in 2009 as I drove her to college her freshman year. It was the first time I'd heard Swift's music. It seemed my daughter's message to me in sharing that particular track was an expression of love. For me, for our family, for her childhood years. It is a song that will always take me back to that day; one that I'll cherish forever because of my daughter's role in how I heard it. It goes without saying that the song is beautiful. 

In August of 2018, I almost lost my daughter. It is an indescribable feeling of despair; the yearly anniversary is unwelcome but it's one that I can't make myself forget. Perhaps some day it will be nothing; but for now it continues to be everything because it looms like a storm cloud, waiting to happen. Then it does.

Writing has always been a therapeutic way of healing for me. So in July of 2019 I shared a short story I'd written entitled Precipice. It is how I handled the helplessness of that time. It's fictional, yet it's not. A part that certainly isn't fictional is the way the main character heard Taylor Swift for the first time. If anyone is interested in reading or revisiting this story, it can be found here: Precipice..

Below is the Youtube video of this beautiful song, The Best Day. I'm also sharing a couple more of Taylor Swift's songs that remain favorites of mine. There are many so it's hard to choose. As always, thanks for reading this blog for the last eleven years. It is appreciated.

Merry

 Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays. Peace, light and love to all. 🕊🎄

Ireland

 October.  Pretty fall color and a long-awaited trip to Ireland. We stayed in Dublin at the beautiful Shelbourne Hotel (The Shelbourne, Autograph Collection) while enjoying sites in the city, the numerous tourist offerings, great restaurants, and took day trips to Northern Ireland, and to the western coast of the Republic of Ireland. 

The Shelbourne is so lovely, and I think it’s one of the best hotels I’ve ever stayed in and fully enjoyed. It’s truly perfect, with its traditional architecture and furnishings, and plush and comfortable rooms; the restaurants are wonderful, attentive staff, plentiful bars, and a spa that offers an expansive relaxation experience. I highly recommend this wonderful hotel.

If you’re looking to travel outside of Dublin, whether on day trips or multiple day excursions, please consider booking them with Little Gem Private Tours (littlegemtours.com). Our tour guide, Richard Ball, was highly experienced and knowledgeable. He went above and beyond in ensuring our travel itinerary was memorable, positive, flexible, full of historical anecdotes, and fun; the tour days we took with him were the highlights of our visit. 

In fact, if you aren’t making Dublin your vacation base, Richard and his wife, Barbara, offer lodging accommodations and tours via their family farm about an hour outside of the city. Known as Johnsfort House and built in the late 1700s, the property is located in the village of Clonmellon in the Boyne Valley.  For more information on lodging availability and tour offerings, check out their website at Ireland at Your Leisure.

I’m still going through photographs and probably will be doing so for quite some time. Below are just a few. Please check out my website of photographs at veronica-batterson.pixels.com.

Appalachian Hands

 "They think it's strange to see a woman carve. A woman can do most anything she wants to...puts her mind to."  ~  Polly Page, in 2013, at age 94.

Aunt Polly (in her studio) with Dolly Parton 

My aunt, Polly (Pauline) Randolph Page, passed away in 2020. She was 101 years old. She was a well-known folk artist, whose wood carvings were in the Smithsonian Museum and in Folk Art Museums around the globe. In 2013, she was awarded the Tennessee Folklife Heritage Governor's Arts Award at the age of 93. I own some of her wonderful wood carvings.

She was a pioneer...independent, talented, opinionated, and (in my opinion) a feminist for her time. She believed that women could do anything they wanted if they worked for it. 

Sharing a poem that I wrote with her in mind. As always, copyright applies. 

Appalachian Hands

By Veronica Randolph Batterson 

©2022 Veronica Batterson

The hands speak volumes

As they cradle the wood

Gnarled and misshapen

Skin chapped, stained with blood.

The wood is their infant

Molded and created

Delicately balanced

Shaped between arthritic fingers.

The knife moves swiftly

Cedar shavings cover the floor

The slightest miss

Bears testament to scars she’s worn.

As life emerges

Directly from her palms,

Fingers move as if caressing

Breath from shapes appearing.

An artist carves her creation

With tenderness, with love

Never hesitating.

The knife and wood are one

Under nimble fingers they work,

Peeling layers away, skilled

Twisting, turning until

Forms of beauty are birthed.

The life of this master

Molding wood like clay,

Deftly she moves

Never flinching or pausing.

She works until finished

And carves shavings away,

Then as if releasing, a whisper

Touches graceful artistry in Appalachian hands.