Christmas at the Big Haus

We are experimenting with a new digital camera. Here is our tree. Our pagan roots are evident annually at this slavish indulgence of Wotan. And yet it seems to be overwhelmed by centuries of Christian syncretism so that our hearts are cast more on the Lord than on Wotan. Not many presents yet. I think it will be a light year for Wilson consumerism.

Old Winter Poem

Winter Play

The frost white fell upon us, heaven sent,
On landed ways, on bush and bended branch
To soften edge of nature all, intent
To wrap in cold. Enrapt at avalanche
And windrift deeps we watch from quiet window
Warmth while, in it, about, small kindred play.
Stumbling, bundled, made thus incognito
But known by voice alone, “Come out,” they say,
“Come join the roll about and chase us each!”
We shake our heads, too drunk with comfort’s peace
To leave each other, cider, cushioned seat.
We clothe ourselves in house instead of fleece,
And coat, and hat, and scarf, and boot, and glove.
We know the winter way, and cold thereof



by Evan Wilson

Amazing

May I speak with some pride? Thank you, you are very gracious. While I may be a middle-aged lumpibodied whatzit, I have me a wife. And not an overworked wife strung out on Prozac, homeschooling her cats on the sanctity of our country's founding Deists while her husband fills his noggin with patriarchal conceits and theological vanity. No, I have me an overworked wife of substance. Yowsa!

On the occasion of our 27th anniversary this year:

What? Another Poem to Leslie?

Now after twenty-seven years, what say
We end the verse to beautied leg and eyes?
You know by now your face and pace and sway
Are worth remark through word-felt metred sighs.
But other gifts tradition holds for you
Are past my purse. What for me is left? Word
Is still the currency for telling true
Devotion, and the lusts already heard.


by Evan Wilson

The Laird at Bay

I haven't decided whether such a picture is humiliating, (meaning points for me in Glory) or whether it is self-aggrandizing (meaning mere social points and perhaps a scolding in Glory). You tell me. Are you laughing as you point to the man in the skirt or are you saying, "The ponderment of a such wonder bespeaks a world I only dreamt existed. Perhaps if I crawl into every Wardrobe I chance upon..."

Better than DaVinci

Balthazar Castiglione wrote the Code of the Courtier. Raphael painted his portrait. Compared to this, the Mona Lisa is the stuff of "Art History for the Easily Impressed"
"Look Mertle, she has a slight smile. Oh, I wonder who she is? I bet she knows some secret that an ill informed writer of fiction can gull us with."
This, on the other hand, is what we of strong opinions call Art. And humanism at its best. This is someone real with a real secret. The secret is of the life and understanding of a gentleman. I can show you where the secret is kept in my library. West wall, top shelf.
The real mysteries in History are easy to get to. The mystery is in how eyes like these can look at us and tell us their name and leave behind a work of some moment which would benefit even a casual reader and not garner the slighest interest.
"Oh, have you read Dan Brown's DaVinci Code?" say the scholars of the suburbs.
It is as if one ignored a map signed by Blackbeard or Morgan in favor of following the maze map on the back of a box of Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch.
As Our Lord has said of others that did not seek aright, "They have their reward."