DUNAWAY BOOKS
MIDSUMMER NEWSLETTER
FOR THE MONTHS OF JUNE/JULY
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“Paula is digging and
shaping the loam of a salvia,
Scarlet Chinese talker of summer.
Two petals of crabapple blossom blow fallen in Paula's
hair,
And fluff of white from a cottonwood.”
“June”--Carl Sandburg
***
Greetings to you in this time of summer solstice. The days are reaching their length. The air cycles through stillness and violence, sometimes many times a day, and the sun is like hot syrup on the days no storms roll through. On those days when we float in that syrup of light the clock seems to stick and stop, giving the oft-remarked-upon effect of eternal summer. This can become a dreamlike game for the imaginative; time travel to half-forgotten youthful adventures, or even to other lives or times. People will be gathering to watch the sun rise at Cahokia Mounds on solstice morning, as it is believed that community watched it over a thousand years ago. Take the time to watch the sun rise on the 21st of June if you can. Many people all around the world will be doing the same thing: it is a good time to reflect on connections and commonalities, on our motivating forces and history.
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We would like to thank all of you who came to our May event Ancora il Piu Estinto as audience members, and we would especially like to thank those who came and shared their talent as musicians. There were so many arcane noise-producing contraptions flowing in and out our doors, daring to disrupt the everyday for a few hours. The variety was most pleasing, and it was very interesting to see how well ambient sound went with browsing through old books! They were enjoyable nights, and your attendance and appreciation made them all the more so. The crowd was stimulatingly diverse and much conversation was being made; excitement about books and music and ideas was in the air, and that is exactly why we are so happy to be in the South Grand neighborhood. Thanks for making it what we all hoped it would be.
We have been buying books and books and books, so many that we have had to turn some away! Last month’s large military history lot with a sideline of photography has overlapped with a new lot of photography and art books: some are technical, some are enjoyably kitschy, and some are collectible volumes from recognized masters of the trade. Our Art section has absorbed such a large infusion in general that we have made a small space for newly arrived art books above the Metaphysical/Occult/Folklore section, between the white columns.
Those of you who have been in the shop during the past week may have noticed our mezzanine level begin to fill back up again with a mosaic of spines. The upper level will now be housing our entire Performing Arts section. Music, Dance, Theater, Plays, Film, Television, and Humor are all making the move together, and the space left behind will be filled by our newly integrated Fiction section. This new layout should be easier and more pleasant for everyone to navigate and browse.
We have acquired a few items and groupings in the past month
that may be of some special interest. Our
front window case is currently displaying a copy of the classic botanical reference
work “The Flora of Missouri” by Julian Steyermark. J. Thomas Scharf’s two-volume “History of
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In our window facing Grand we have seen quite a bit of meteorological drama lately…it is June, bringing summer storm across the land…
The Wind didn't come
from the Orchard—today—
Further than that—
Nor stop to play with the Hay—
Nor joggle a Hat—
He's a transitive fellow—very—
Rely on that—
If He leave a Bur at the door
We know He has climbed a Fir—
But the Fir is Where—Declare—
Were you ever there?
If He brings Odors of Clovers—
And that is His business—not Ours—
Then He has been with the Mowers—
Whetting away the Hours
To sweet pauses of Hay—
His Way—of a June Day—
If He fling Sand, and Pebble—
Little Boys Hats—and Stubble—
With an occasional Steeple—
And a hoarse "Get out of the way, I say,"
Who'd be the fool to stay?
Would you—Say—
Would you be the fool to stay?
--Emily Dickinson
Even when the rain brought is cold, the earth warms it again shortly to its own close misty breath.
Irish poet Seamus Heaney, a farmer’s son raised on wet flat ancient land, knew the intuition sometimes granted by earth; that there is the earth of the land and the dark mysterious earth of the self, and that contemplation of one sometimes illuminates the contents of the other…
Quagmire, swampland, morass:
the slime kingdoms,
domains of the cold-blooded, of mud pads and dirty eggs.
But bog
meaning soft,
the fall of windless rain, pupil of amber.
Ruminant ground,
digestion of mollusk
and seed-pod, deep pollen bin.
Earth-pantry, bone-vault,
sun-bank, enbalmer
of votive goods
and sabred fugitives.
Insatiable bride.
Sword-swallower,
casket, midden,
floe of history.
Ground that will strip
its dark side,
nesting ground,
outback of my mind.
--from ‘Kinship’
Heaney’s bogs hid many stories, many mysteries; likely they
still do. Like him, we live atop the
very surface of eons of history in this
In the Mississippi Bottom summer heat the starch melts out of everything and fig-leaf paranoia retreats. The heat brings scents from the soil, half-telling its secrets. It is time to relax, to dream and be gentle so that the heat does not make things too hard. One’s bare arms may be dusted with pollen or dirt, sun-reddened or freckled. The physicality of perception increases, as does our sense of relationship with the objects around us. In these things may even our ancestors abide. To remember what has gone before may aid us as we move forward, as historians and scholars know. To imagine, even, the maybes and wherefores of the past may make our steps graceful, thoughtful, closer to wise.
***
We have grown old in
the afternoon.
Here in our orchard we are as old
As she is now, wherever dissipate
In that distant sea her gleaming dust
Flashes in the wave crest
Or stains the murex shell.
All about us the old farm subsides
Into the honey bearing chaos of high summer.
In those far islands the temples
Have fallen away, and the marble
Is the color of wild honey.
--from ‘When We With Sappho’, Kenneth Rexroth
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
--Heaney, from ‘Digging’
In summer, the song sings itself.
--William Carlos Williams
***
Cahokia Mounds’ official
website:
http://www.cahokiamounds.com/cahokia.html
A thoughtful
non-local article about the site, from the Washington Post:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/national/daily/march/12/cahokia.htm
Seamus Heaney:
http://nobelprize.org/literature/laureates/1995/heaney-bio.html
http://irena.blackmill.net/heaney/
***
May the midsummer
days be as pleasant as they are long for all of you, and the evenings
restorative; a season of long contemplative outdoor dinners, evening fireflies,
and slow time well spent.
***
“The bonny month of
June is crowned
With the sweet scarlet rose;
The groves and meadows all around
With lovely pleasure flows.
As I walked out to yonder green,
One evening so fair;
All where the fair maids may be seen
Playing at the bonfire.”
(Midsummer Bonfire Song,
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3111 S. Grand
314-771-7150
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