Poetry ~ 2003 Export

I am in tears this afternoon listening to the folk Songs of the 60s on PBS with all the original songsters - Judy Collins, The Kingston Trio songs like 'I'll Try to Remember...' 'Tom Dooley' - the tears are that as much as there was a strong radical group and pot was rampant it was still a simpler time as compared to today - when even these pot smoking free spirits had a belief in wholesome values and the ability for the individual to make a difference...

Found this poem written in 1966 that I have to share

LOST IN WAR

BY Ben Siragusa

What stench drives farther into field,
the fruits of war I fear,
score kept in bodybags, and tears,
men reduced to boys, then back again.
Nameless and faceless dead, the fodder of war,
discolor in hues of red and tan, all they touch,
I wonder if the night is becoming colder.

Hours of life ending battle, theirs for now,
soon mine, as I lie prostrate, cryptic by design,
feigned death my stalking horse, but fear has a scent.

How vulgar, desolate, and sad
the burned land punished with shell, the loss suffered
by mother and child in untold agony, in the stilled clock of
war,
I wonder if the nights are getting longer.

The air, noxious with decay moves closer,
silent patter of prayer, bestows but moments of comfort,
in the midst of waste and paralyzing fear,
I hear the "beach boys", playing off in the distance,
can this be, my mind is numb,
I smell burgers and fries, I hear laughter ring out,
I wonder if the nights are getting to me.

The slow chain-like clink and grind of tank tread, wakes me
to terror,
accompanied by pounding feet, and language of the enemy,
I smell fuel, I'm in the throes of death,
I'm numb, save for being so very cold, and afraid,
my shroud will be army green, how ugly a thought,
what a sad passage, I wish I could hug my Mom and Dad,
I wish I could say goodbye, what will they imagine of my
death,
Lord, don't let them suffer, I wonder if death will hurt,
I need wonder no more.

Hello Anna and all your wonderful companions in poetry .. our summer here in New Zealand is drawing to a close .. it was officially the first day of Autumn Fall on the first day of March .. but it is still summer weather. I think that the seasons present themselves more precisely in the South Island of NZ. The Liquid Amber trees turn their leaves into a burnished gold colour in the Autumn .. the Spring flowers seem to show off in more abundance and of course they do have snow down in the south, whereas we up here in the North hardly feel a frost. BUT we do have rain!

I did enjoy Ella Wheeler Wilcox. I have her 'Yesterdays' printed in 1910. Poems from her young days when she was Ella Wheeler. I shall enjoy sending through some of her interesting remarks about her early writing and of course poems from those earlier years.

Those kites! I do remember making them .. we didn't have sticky tape (cellotape we call it) or access to a stapler in those days so we used flour and water paste which didn't always stand up to the rigorous wind.

Dear Barbara .. I have given myself time to reflect on Ben Siragusa's"LOST IN WAR" .. the losers are the innocent only the guilty are winners. There is a poem which I have tremendous feeling for. I am at the age of remembrance of World War 2 which was very close to home in England. The poem 'PICARDIE' was written by the mother of a young man Lieutenant A.N. Trotter who was killed in Bethune,France duringthe first World War . In it she recalls a holiday they had spent as a family in the same district when her son was just a lad of fourteen.

There's a pathway through the forest in the Picardie I know,

A port where girls haul up the boats with men and fish in tow,

And the hills run down to the market town where the country women go.

......

And behind it is the village, and the coast line lies below,

And down the road, the dusty road, the carts ply to and fro

By the stately frieze of forest trees beyond the old Chateau.

......

There were three of us on bicycles upon the road that day;

Your wore your coat of hunting green, and vanished down the way.

"Le petit Chasseur, la mere et soeur," we heard the women say.

......

You vanished as a speck of green among the shadows blue,

And children trudging up the hill stood still and called to you,

"Le petit Chasseur, qui n'a pas peur," they laughed and called to you.

......

O boys you wield the bayonet now and lift the soldier's load!

O girls, you've learnt to drive the plough and use the bullock-goad!

But the hunter's lain, still unafraid, near the trodden Bethune road.

......

There's a pathway through the forest in the Picardie I know,

And O I'll dream and wander there; and poppy fields will glow;

And I'll watch the glare of the dusty air where the market wagons go.

ALYS FANE TROTTER

They are so hard to read, every death other than natural seems to trigger my memories of losses, personal and public.

I was young when WWII started and was dating at its end. And each war after has left so much pain. And on both sides of any battle there are losses that bring sorrow that is never forgotten regardless of how long ago it was. We need to be reminded of the cost of war always.

Barbara and Marjorie thank you for exceptional poems about mankinds greatest failure ..to learn to live in peace. anna

This will surprise me to see what I copied to share. I hope it is still in edit but it seems some days are so full of things to do I forget where I am.

First though Marjorie ..flour and water was the only paste I used for years...was so surprised you could buy paste...it was so easy to make it at home.

Now for whatever poem I copied for you ...anna

The Wind

I saw you toss the kites on high And blow the birds about the sky; And all around I heard you pass, Like ladies' skirts across the grass— O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did, But always you yourself you hid. I felt you push, I heard you call, I could not see yourself at all— O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so strong and cold, O blower, are you young or old? Are you a beast of field and tree, Or just a stronger child than me? O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!

Robert Louis Stevenson

It seems I was thinking of MARCH winds!

Here is a poem I found ..anna

Spring Night

by Sara Teasdale

The park is filled with night and fog, The veils are drawn about the world, The drowsy lights along the paths Are dim and pearled.

Gold and gleaming the empty streets, Gold and gleaming the misty lake, The mirrored lights like sunken swords, Glimmer and shake.

Oh, is it not enough to be Here with this beauty over me? My throat should ache with praise, and I Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. O beauty, are you not enough? Why am I crying after love With youth, a singing voice, and eyes To take earth's wonder with surprise?

Why have I put off my pride, Why am I unsatisfied,--- I, for whom the pensive night Binds her cloudy hair with light,--- I, for whom all beauty burns Like incense in a million urns? O beauty, are you not enough? Why am I crying after love?

Seems funny to think we are longing for spring and Marjorie and Trevor are awaiting autumn. When I was trying to find a poem about spring I realized many people have mixed feelings about spring. My oldest daughter has spring allergies and although she yearns for the greening and return of her bluebirds she also knows her allergies will play havoc with her enjoyment. So here is a poem for those who view spring with some reluctance...anna

Lynne McMahon's poem "Spring."

We begin now our interior life, the life of the mind, I'm tempted to say, but really we're driven in by the flowering plum, the lilac,

the early April greens sending their brilliant toxins to flame and stagger over the delicate sclera of the eye, to sheet like tearing silk down the throat

swanned in an arch to clear a breathing space, now that breathing's a conscious thing. We swell and dwindle on a histamine tide,

the bone bowl around a sea that hesitates to finally overtake us, though it drives out or subsumes nearly everything, obligations and errands,

the small spiny creatures of the day. Not that we're ungrateful for these walled-in glooms and filtering machines, the pharmacopeia

of everyday life that allows us some measure of perception. We can see in fact that our debility is minor, perhaps even a privilege,

a god's eye warding off tubercles and metastasis- a seasonal and temporary strangulation whose recurrence we can count on

as on little else in the world, a little luck choking and stinging its way into our heads where the welcome lies disguised as tears.

Hi All,

Annafair,

I remember that poem by Robert Louis Stevenson. I remember my mother buying me a copy of A Child's Garden of Verses. I especially loved the poem about the sick little boy with all the toys on his counterpane. I can't remember the name of the poem and don't know how to find it now. I hope it is familiar to one of you.

Welcome...we have a lot in common. My husband came from Llanrch near Ardmore outside of Philadelphia. AND we lived in Tennessee for 12 years in what was then Davidson County...on the Murfeesboro Rd and Thompson Lane. We enjoyed every minute of our life there and many friends there still.

A Child's Garden of Verses is a favorite of mine and I believe the poem you mentioned is "The Land of Counterpane" and here it is for you ..anna

The Land of Counterpane

From Child's Garden of Verses Robert Louis Stevenson

When I was sick and lay a-bed, I had two pillows at my head, And all my toys beside me lay, To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so I watched my leaden soldiers go, With different uniforms and drills, Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets All up and down among the sheets; Or brought my trees and houses out, And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still That sits upon the pillow-hill, And sees before him, dale and plain, The pleasant land of counterpane.

Hi Anna,

Thank you for the kind welcome. I love that poem. Thank you for printing it. I am going to print it out. We do have much in common. I am go glad to meet you.

Anna,

Reading that poem just sends chills through me. I would like to read a book about Robert Louis Stevenson's life. For now, I am going to read back over the poems here.

Welcome from me too Hats. I share a love of RLS. J.M. Barrie once said that RLS were the best beloved initials in recent literature. There have been a great many books written about him and so should be easy to locate. One that I have is "Teller of Tales" by Hunter Davies. ANNA reading 'The Land of the Counterpane' from 'A Child's Garden of Verses' (always delightful to read) drew me to this following poem by D.H. Lawrence.

PIANO

Softly in the dusk, a woman is singing to me,

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

......

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside

And hymns in the cozy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

......

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour

With the great black piano appasionato. The glamour

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

(D.H. Lawrence)

Tailpiece .. The 'glamour' here is the magic revived by Sir Walter Scott not the later cosmetic downing of the word.

Much love Marjorie

THE HOUSE OF MEMORIES

There's a little house in a little street,
A little way from the sea,
And, O, when I am weary of all the world
It's there that I fain would be !

For all the world is full of sorrow and care,
And the darkness lies before;
And the little house is full of the dreams
That were ours, but are ours no more.

In the little street, in the long ago,
In the little house by the sea,
We dreamed of the days that have had no dawn,
Of the years that shall never be.

But you were young, and I was young,
And we dreamed and had no care,
And dearer and better than life has been
Were the dreams that came to us there.

And so when I am weary of all the world,
And of its sordid hopes and its pain
I think of the little house that was ours,
And sigh to be there again.

Written by Mr. St. John Adcock

He was dreaming perhaps, in later years, of early married life. I get to feeling something like that in nostalgic moments..==Trevor

Hats there are many books about RLS and I know you will enjoy reading them. What surprised me later in life was to find he was the same author who wrote Treasure Island and Kidnapped etc. His poetry was what I first knew and it seemed odd to me then he could or would write stories.

Majorie and Trevor OH my remembering the special times in our life and those poems were both good for that. It is a blessing of sorts to have a good memory which allows you to wander back in time and recall the special times then. It is also a bit of a curse at least for me...for I find myself wishing I had known how special they were then instead of all these years later. Thanks .anna

In leafing through one of my many books of poetry I came across one that remebered youth too...anna

William Blake : The Echoing Green

The sun does arise, And make happy the skies. The merry bells ring To welcome the spring. The skylark and thrush, The birds of the bush, Sing louder around, To the bells’ cheerful sound, While our sports shall be seen On the echoing green.

Old John with white hair Does laugh away care, Sitting under the oak, Among the old folk. They laugh at our play, And soon they all say: ‘Such, such were the joys When we all, girls and boys, In our youth-time were seen On the echoing green.’

Till the little ones weary No more can be merry; The sun does descend, And our sports have an end. Round the laps of their mother Many sisters and brothers, Like birds in their nest, Are ready for rest; And sport no more seen On the darkening green.

Hi Anna and Marjorie,

I agree Anna. There is that fit of feeling sad because those times went past too quickly, too unappreciated and can't be drawn back. Well, we can come back to them through our memories and literature.

Anna, I am glad the Poetry Corner is here. It is like a refreshing spring from which I can drink daily. Thank you.

Marjorie, I am glad to meet you. I love the poem you posted. I can't sing or play an instrument but always love poems that involve music. This is the first poem that I have read written by D.H. Lawrence. I can hear the piano playing in my mind.

Auckland, I enjoyed your poem too. Poems speak to us in such a personal and beautiful way.

Thank you for your observation, poetry is a refreshing spring and we are so fortunate to have a place to share. Regardlesss of what I need, a laugh, a tear, joy, love found or love lost, patriotism, all the emotions that most want to hide poetry allows you to bring them forth.

In an anthology of poems edited by the former Poet Laureate of the United States I found a poem I keep going back to..hope every one finds something in it too. anna

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

-- William Butler Yeats

Annafair.

And loved the sorrows of your changing face

There is something about that line that has always gripped my attention. It always evokes in my mind's eye, the vision of a lovely blond woman. It is the face of someone I have never met, and yet I feel that I have. Strange..... == Trevor

Not strange at all. Many poems I have read over the years invoke visions or thoughts of places I have never been or people I have never known. I too have no idea why but I know it does not make me fearful or unhappy. Being fanciful sometimes I think perhaps in another life and another time these were people I knew and places I have been.......anna

By the way I love this poem and the two lines But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

For me that seems ultimate love.

Hi Anna and Trevor,

Anna, that is my favorite line too. The one with the words "pilgrim soul." I am not sure what Yeats meant by "pilgrim soul." Yet, those two words speak to me. Did Yeats mean a wandering soul? Help!!

Hats the dictionary meaning is a wanderer but it when I read this it spoke to me of someone brave enough to be a seeker. A traveler to far places, independent..and while the person may have never strayed from where they were born and grew up ...it was their soul and their heart that traveled and sought new places and new ideas. To see that in a person and love them for it and not feel they should not dream their dreams and who loved the sorrows in their face ...that is ultimate love to me...To love someone truly in my mind is to give them the freedom to be who they are and to love the character time and age gives to them...It was what I had for over 40 years and it was what I gave and what I recieved ...anna

In searching for a poem to share I give myself the freedom to share old familiar poems and ones I have missed. Here is today's...I loved the poems of Robert Service. He made Alaska alive for me and it is a place I have longed to visit. This poem of his is one I missed. anna

Second Childhood

Some deem I'm gentle, some I'm kind: It may be so,--I cannot say. I know I have a simple mind And see things in a simple way; And like a child I love to play. I love to toy with pretty words And syllable them into rhyme; To make them sing like sunny birds In happy droves with silver chime, In dulcet groves in summer time.

I pray, with hair more white than grey, And second childhood coming on, That yet with wonderment I may See life as in its lucent dawn, And be by beauty so beguiled I'll sing as sings a child.

--- Robert Service

Wow, Anna!! Your answer made the line more meaningful for me. Thank you.

Hello to you Annafair, Hats and Trevor on this lovely day .. I do love the poetry of Robert Service .. he was a favourite too of the late Queen Mother.

We do constantly look back on our childhood, the remembrances of which are so precious to us in our older years or , as Robert Service so tenderly says 'our second childhood coming on'. I like to think that we can once again experience the feelings of innocent simplicity as we once did in those young years .

Not too many years ago .. perhaps four, Jenny Joseph wrote her "WARNING" .. it won for her the Poem of the Year in Britain. She was somewhat disappointed that it had been chosen above some of her other poetry which she felt had more merit. But what 'Warning' very light heratedly said for many was something they would love to say themselves. Think about doing things that would lift the eyebrows of the more conventional perhaps .. be a little more daring perhaps .. but here is 'Warning' and I do rather love it.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people's gardens

And learn to spit.

......

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And horde pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

......

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

......

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

.................................

I must share with you my wonderful experience of the past few days when, with a group of good friends I spent three days visiting the surrounds of the mighty Kaipara Harbour .. by boat and by 'sand 'bus along the breathtaking ninety mile beach here on the north west coast of New Zealand. Oh that I were able to put it down in verse. With the permission of my poet friend Trevoe Rowe I will bring his poem 'The Mighty Kaipara' to the site.

Hats I am glad my definition helped you...remember though it may not be others. It has always been interesting to me how different readers and viewers see things. Often we miss something and I love it when someone points out what I missed...

Marjorie ...that poem is in my kitchen so it will always remind me to stay true to ME..a local retirement home has started something called the RED HAT SOCIETY..they meet at monthly luncheons and everyone wears a red hat. Some from the appearences look very ancient, they sort of cover the decades since I was young and before.

I think you were saying you will be sharing a poem soon and we will look for it ...Yesterday I was trying to locate a poem on the net and had so much trouble. My computer kept dropping out and then our sunny spring day changed to thunderstorms and rain...so I wrote my own poem ...hopefully things will return to normal...I really rely on my computer to keep in touch. anna

The Thunderstorm

a sunny day born with perfect skies warm breezes from the south blessed the daffodils, those heralds of spring who bowed and nodded to robins bustling among them, listening as earthworms stirred from their winter's nap quietly from the west clouds advanced across the sky painting the blue with gray pregnant with rain their bellies swollen dropped lower as their time to deliver neared, lightning like a surgeon skillfully, quickly made the incision thunder applauded the birth of a million rain drops

anna alexander 3/14/03©

Hi - I read your posts - every one -

Finally have another one...

They bath among raindrops, wash their scent in wet laden streets,
seduce from open-air-markets, their splash of color for pin stripe suites.
Her Spirit comes in hurried steps - Hyacinth, Iris, fat Gerber Daisies -
She pays the loan, gathers splendor, wreathes her face in perfumed tears.

Through lacework curtains an evening sky fades into silken gray dusk.
In her lamp lit rooms there is only one to see the sun-bright blooms.
Hushed and delicate, Marsalis on horn; Spring will be late -
Peach blossoms drift un-heard, adorn her closed rain-stained gate.

Loved it ...and I understood how it is to buy flowers for yourself and see beauty and no one to tell it to. Thanks for sharing ...anna

Barbara,

I love your poem. I love the smell and sight of Hyacinths. I also love Gerber Daisies. I love the line that includes the words "perfumed tears."

I am going to reread the poem, but you do have to reread poetry, don't you?

Yes! I think you do have to re read poetry .. sometimes you miss some meaning that at first you don't find. Loved your poem Barbara .. we are just now seeing the flowers coming to their end of colour .. but so much to look forward to in our next spring and summer. I have looked for a poem I wanted to share .. I cannot come across it but I know I will. We have made mention of poetry with music and this very old favourite comes to mind .. from Ben Jonson one of our very early poets.

DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES

Drink to me only with thine eyes

And I will pledge with mine,

Or steal 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.

Ben Jonson 1572 -1637

Much love to all Marjorie

When I commented on Barbara's poem I was ready to send you St Patrick Day greetings...My ancestors came from Ireland and it was always a big day in our home...So I wanted to send an Irish Blessing ...just as I was about to finish and post my message a promised thunderstorm appeared so I had to shut my computer down. Much later I tried again and this time the computer kept tellin gme iexplore which I presume means internet exploxer was doing something out of line and would be closed down..after several tries I just turned the darn thing off and went to sleep.

Today I was out and what a change a few days have made. Daffodils were everywhere, forthyisia (SP?)shone in all the dark corners, my dogwood buds, a week ago were wrapped tight and dark grey , today I could see they were swollen and the grey had paled, the blossoms on my plum tree arent opened yet but all about was a delicate smoky shadow and I know in a day or two I will look out and it will be attired in the finest lacy dress...Spring has arrived..and I have found a poem by Thomas Hardy that speaks to me...hope you enjoy it and that you have a beautiful day wherever you are ,,regardless of your season...anna

The Year's Awakening

Thomas Hardy

How do you know that the pilgrim track Along the belting zodiac Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds Is traced by now to the Fishes' bounds And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud, And never as yet a tinct of spring Has shown in the Earth's apparelling; O vespering bird, how do you know, How do you know?

How do you know, deep underground, Hid in your bed from sight and sound, Without a turn in temperature, With weather life can scarce endure, That light has won a fraction's strength, And day put on some moments' length, Whereof in merest rote will come, Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb; O crocus root, how do you know, How do you know?

It is a question I ask frequently when I see the new leaves appearing as if from nowhere. But we are just beginning autumn here and here appearing are the new leaves of the freesias which do not flower until very early spring which here is the beginning of September. Dear little impatient freesias !!

Robert Herrick wrote about the daffodils .. so brief their life .. so much longer we would like them to stay with us.

To Daffodils

Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;

As yet the early rising sun

Has not attained his noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day

Has run

But to the evensong,

And, having prayed together, we

Will go with you along.

......

We have short time to stay, as you,

We have as short a spring,

As quick a growth to meet decay,

As you, or anything.

We die,

As your hours do, and dry

Away.

Like to the summer's rain,

Or as the pearls of morning's dew

Ne'er to be found again.

Robert Herrick 1591 - 1674

The next poem by William Henry Davies is one which most of us have heard .. one which I am particularly fond of .. so true!

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

......

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

......

No time to see when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

......

No time to see in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars like skies at night.

......

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

......

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

......

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

Anna,

I enjoyed the Thomas Hardy poem. Thomas Hardy became a friend to all of us by asking a question that is universal.

Mancunian,

I enjoyed your Robert Herrick poem. I like the line, "We have as short a spring,"

Anna,

I would like to wish you a belated but HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY.

Hats it is never to late to wish an Irish person HAPPY ST PATRICK'S DAY..thank you ...and Marjorie oh you posted a poem from one of favorite poets Robert Herrick ...I am posting one of his poems that inspired me to write a poem. I will have to look mine up but will give his here...anna

Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

Upon Julia's Clothes

Whenas in 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!

An Irish poem...

A Grafted Tongue
by Johm Montgue

(Dumb,

bloodied, the severed
head now chokes to
speak another tongue -

As in

a long suppressed dream,
some stuttering garb -
led ordeal of my own)

An Irish

child weeps at school
repeating its English.
After each mistake

The master

gouges another mark
on the tally stick
hung about its neck

Like a bell

on a cow, a hobble
on a straying goat.
To slur and stumble

In shame

the altered syllables
of your own name:
to stray sadly home

And find

the turf-cured width
of your parents' hearth
growing slowly alien:

In cabin
and field, they still
speak the old tongue.
You may greet no one.

To grow

a second tongue, as
harsh a humiliation
as twice to be born.

Decades later

that child's grandchild's
speech stumbles over lost
syllables of an old order.

Yes Anna .. Robert is a favourite with me too. I used to wonder about Julia in his life but apparently he had several imagined mistresses, among them Julia, Anthea and Corinna. ( "The Night-Piece to Julia" and "Corinna's Going a-Maying"). Youth and love and the pagan fields were his themes at the time when the west country in England was devastated by the Civil War of which he was a victim as a Royalist, (he lost his Devon parish in Devon in 1647 .. restored in 1662 after the Restoration). His life certainly was an interesting one. Here is another poem by Robert Herrick .. dress again!

Delight in Disorder

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness.
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoestring, in whose tie
I see a wild civility;
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.

Robert Herrick

It was said that, in saluting disorder Robert Herrick practised what he preached by exhibiting modest disorder in retoric,logic, grammar, and verification.

Thank you Barbara .. the
has worked well .. truly appreciated...

Oh Barbara,

That poem leaves a lump in my throat. I must read it again and again and.......

Barbara,

You have read my mind! In Julius Ceasar, my mind wandered onto this sort of situation. This part of the poem moves me to tears.

To grow
a second tongue, as
harsh a humiliation
as twice to be born.

Decades later
that child's grandchild's
speech stumbles over lost
syllables of an old order.

I think this poem should be taught in Literature classes but also in History classes. Very, very, moving.

Barbara,

Can you write this poem up in the Julius Ceasar Discussion? That is, if you deem it appropriate.

Thank you, Anna and Mancunian.

know this is biased - cannot help it - my heart is bleeding tonight -

Shock and Awe -
Shock and Awe -
I watched it on TV
A tower is burning
two towers are burning
Shock and Awe
people running
voices screaming
People falling
Shock and Awe
A tower falls
People running
covered in ash
Shock and Awe
A second tower falls
Have you seen this man
Have you seen this mother, sister, daughter
for months we are in
Shock and Awe
Is it retribution?
Must we inflict
the excitement of men
on the people of Iraq
And call it
Shock and Awe?
We call it liberation -
People, land and resources
are liberated
amidst
Shock and Awe
News Reporter's speak with
hightened enthusiasm
as they finally see
Shock and Awe
promised by our government.
The investment in reporters pays off -
TV owners can show the public
Shock and Awe
Do we substitute
reporter's hightened enthusiasm
for dancing in the streets
that celebrated
Shock and Awe
among those wearing strange clothes
when towers fell down
Do you remember
as we watched in
Shock and Awe
the TV all day -
We were not there
in New York
but Iraqis are there
in towns small and large
experiencing
Shock and Awe.
We do not want to destroy
bridges and roads with
Shock and Awe
We do destroy people in
Shock and Awe
Who pays for
the emotional lives lost in
Shock and Awe
Who pays for
the physical injuries limiting life,
the death of father's
leaving children who will hate;
American children who
live with a loss that never heals
Who will see the affect of
Shock and Awe
Why do we rain
Shock and Awe
on people who have a leader we financed.

Barbara,

So much pain is being experienced now. How long will this go on? Whenever it ends, many families will be in pain because of the loss of a family member or friend. No one wins in war. I know there are many war poems about WWI and WWII, and you have written one for this very moment. I understand your feelings. All of this is heartbreaking.

BARBARA Thank you for posting your poem. Many of us are feeling pangs of anguish for yet more days of Man's inhumanity to Man. As an Old Testament writer put it " Rachel weeping for her children, and could not be comforted, for they are not." 2500 years later, and she is tearful yet again. How many more years will it take....?-- Trevor

Trevor,

I never thought of that scripture in that way. I never really knew what that verse meant. I will try to find it and highlight it in my Bible. Thanks.

Today I am called Ruth - thanks Trevor...I do not know the Bible having a Catholic education where Bible reading was not encouraged. I shall look for Ruth in the Bible today and learn more of her tears...

Sorry Ruth, I did not know. I promise to be more aware in future.--- Trevor

In my mind I wrote a poem so I will search for it there

 
I have no poem to give you  
My heart is full of cries  
I hear them in my dreams  
As  the dead about me lies  
There is no joy in knowing  
There is no peace on earth 
Mothers weep and cry to heaven  
Is it for this I gave birth? 

I am sorry but this is a time to weep regardless of where you stand 
thank you Barbara for your insight and for all the comments I cant seem to find a poem that fits my feelings ....anna

Hi Anna,

I love your poem. You can't find one because your feelings fit perfectly. I can feel your emotions.

Here is a poem by Laurence Binyon .. with it comes the love from my heart for those whose young men and women will never return. It is my tribute to the courage of these young people who are ready with their lives to protect or bring freedom to this very troubled world.

For the Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, we mothers for our children
Mourn for our dead across the sea,
Flesh of our flesh they were, spirit of our spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solumn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow,
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables at home;
They have no lot in our labour of the daytime;
They sleep beyond our countries' foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night.

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Laurence Binyon

I have replaced just three words so that this poem includes not just the young of one country but our countries who are involved. I think that Laurence Binyon would give his approval. The poem was set to music by Elgar.

Thanks so much for sharing that poem. It is a tribute to those who deserve that tribute and I join everyone praying for their safe return and honor for all. The thing that overwhelms and saddens me is the need for it all.

Please forgive me . please keep posting poems that mean something to each of you...anna

WHEN WILL THERE BE WAR NO MORE

When people realize chasing terrorism Is like a cat chasing its tail When people and nations solve conflicts In a peaceful way for the sake Of grieving mother's world over Suffering the loss of a loved one in war For demolished cities For billions spent on rebuilding For innocent citizens killed What about changing War, Just War For Peace, Just Peace Money for education, shelter, jobs, food Affordable health care, dignity Money for supplying home made fuel other then oil Cars, trucks, and buses that do not need oil or gas To get people from one place to another What about a change of mind set From War, Just War to PEACE, JUST PEACE

Barbara Smith March 24, 2003 All rights reserved

I am a British by birth New Zealander .. my love for people extends over many lands. Poetry is a wonderful medium for the expression of feeling and beliefs. I send this poem in the hope that we can at least understand the burdens carried by some of us including Prime Ministers, Presidents and yes .. parents.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT

Age and Death

It is portentious and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town,
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,
Near the old court house pacing up and down.

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards,
He lingers where his children used to play,
Or through the market, on the well worn stones,
He stalks until the dawn stars burn away.

A bronzed lank man! His suit of ancient black,
A famous top hat and plain worn shawl
Make him the quaint great figure that men love,
The prairie lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.
He is among us: -as in times before!
And we who toss and lie awake for long
Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.
Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?
Too many peasants fight, they know not why,
Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war lords burn his heart.
He sees the dreadnoughts scouring every main.
He carries on his shawl wrapped shoulders now
The bitternes, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit dawn
Shall come: - the shining hope of Europe free:
The league of sober folk, the worker's earth,
Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,
That all his hours of travail here for men
Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace
That he may sleep upon his hill again?

Vachel Lindsay. American poet .. 1879 - 1931

Chrysanthemum is a dear friend and a local poet who writes strong poems about subjects that mean a lot to her. Her name is one I gave via a poem I wrote about her. Usually her hair is kept prim but when she loosens it it looks like a football mum and so I called her a chrysanthemum. Welcome to this poetry site.

Marjorie, Vachel Lindsey is a poet I have read and enjoyed but this is a poem of his I have not read before.It too is a powerful poem and I thank you for sharing that with us. Here in Virginia I live amid many of the battlefields of our Civil War and have written several poems about them ...when I return from some necessary errands I will post one.

Wherever you are I pray you have a wonderful day. anna

Thank you Anna .. and what a lovely description of Chrysanthemum to whom I say 'hello there' and thank you for sharing your precious gift of words. I too hope you enjoy today.

The pictures of this war are searing - I alternate between a broken heart and rage. Rage that we are there loosing our precious children because of what someone might do in the future. Rage that a nation is being torn apart because of the politics of leadership past and present. Every close-up is either a frightened face or a blank face. My heart hurts but the tears won't come.

First I promised to find the poem I wrote referring to Robert Herricks poem and spent several hours checking all of my discs..the problem is I DONT KNOW WHAT I CALLED IT...then I wanted to share the poem about how Chrysanthemum became a flower and I cant find that either..so I will post the poem I wrote about THe Battle of the Wilderness ..which I might have posted before...It is about our Civil War ..please keep posting your favorite poems..and thanks for sharing all you have..anna

Battle of the Wilderness

One hundred thirty-three years, Since cannons belched smoke, Hurled iron balls against Flesh and bones of men. Not aliens, from some foreign land, These men who fought their brothers; Who peered through darkened skies; Through misted, blood tinged clouds; Seeing fear in each man's eye.

Today, concrete sashes mark the edge Where they fought and died. Boxed it, to contain the spirits there. Even on sunlit days when fields, Serene, rest, their chores done; A darker shadow hovers just above The earth where horses neighed. Forelimbs lifted high to avoid The broken bodies, of those who Came to defend their right to decide, Whether we would be whole, or parts Of a fledgling country's pride!

A chill shivers through the visitor, Creeps along the living flesh, Feels the weight of past Battles lost, and the men who Paid the ultimate price. Each right, according to his belief.

Years of rains have come and gone, Sun has warmed the land. Blood of heros, composted here, Feed the grass and trees we see. Scarred, and bruised, the land now Rests, and keeps watch for US.

anna alexander 9/27/97 all rights reserved

MARJORIE I note in your posting of the Laurence Binyon poem 'For the Fallen' you have written the 13th line as

They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old.

That's how I remember learning it at school. Of recent years there has been some debate that Binyon wrote the line as

They shall grow not old as we that .....

I have often wondered how the original was written. After hearing much arguement I do not know which is correct. Do you or anyone here have any ideas ?-- Trevor

Hello Trevor .. in a biography of Binyon he is referred to as the poet affecting melancholy and imaginative reflection. He is forever himself commemorated in his elegy 'For the Fallen', extracts from which adorn war memorials throughout the British Commonwealth. I would believe that the famous lines which you quote do come from that poem. I can't think of any reason why they would be included in the poem if they didn't truly belong. Very kind regards to you and Wisia .. Marjorie

Anna,

Your poem is perfect for this time in our lives. There is so much blood being shed, so much death. The last stanza of your poem is unforgettable. To think that everyday we walk over grassy paths where blood has been shed. It's incredibly sad. So many lives sacrificed. All we can do is remember them. Your poem helps me to remember. Thanks.

We have had severe thunderstorm alerts and I have kept my computer off. While the thunderstorms ignored us the rain has caused my plum tree's blossoms to fall and cover the grass with its snowy bloom. My daughter in Northern Virginia has 3 inches of snow and more is expected. I remember March came in like a lamb and now it looks to be leaving like a lion. My grandmother and my mother would just shake their heads for they KNEW that wasnt an old wives tale but the result of years of observation.

Today I found a poem by Robert Penn Warren who was our first national poet laureate....for you...anna

LULLABY: SMILE IN SLEEP
Sleep, my son, and smile in sleep. You will dream the world anew. Watching you now sleep, I feel the world's depleted force renew, Feel the nerve expand and knit, Feel a rustle in the blood, Feel wink of warmth and stir of spirit, As though spring woke in the heart's cold Underwood. The vernal work is now begun. Sleep, my son. Sleep, son.

You will see the nestling fall. Blood flecks grass of the rabbit form. You will, of course, see all The world's brute ox-heel wrong, and shrewd hand-harm. Throats are soft to invite the blade. Truth invites the journalist's lie. Love bestowed mourns trust betrayed, But the heart most mourns its own infidelity. The greater, then, your obligation. Dream perfection. Dream, son.

When the diver leaves the board To hang at gleam-height against the sky, Trajectory is toward An image hung perfect as light in his mind's wide eye. So your dream will later serve you. So now, dreaming, you serve me, And give our hope new patent to Enfranchise human possibility. Grace undreamed is grace forgone. Dream grace, son. Sleep on.

Dream that sleep is a sunlit meadow Drowsy with a dream of bees Threading sun, and a shadow Where you may lie lulled by their sunlit industries. Let the murmurous bees of sleep Tread down honey in the honeycomb. Heart-deep now, your dream will keep Sweet in that deep comb for time to come. Dream the sweet ness coming on. Dream, sweet son. Sleep on.

What if angry vectors veer Around your sleeping head, and form? There's never need to fear Violence of the poor world's abstract storm. For now you dream Reality. Matter groans to touch your hand. Matter lifts now like the sea Toward that strong moon that is your dream's command. Dream the power coming on. Dream, strong son. Sleep on.

Robert Penn Warren

After I found the Robert Penn Warren poem I decided it would be interesting to find poems by other Poet Laureates..This one is by Louise Bogan number two. Does your country or state have a poet laureate? Virginia's is meeting with my poetry class today which I am missing for the return of winter brought on the sniffles and a cold I am sorry I missed it as I planned on reporting to you on the event. Here is Louise Bogan's poem
Louise Bogan

Portrait

She has no need to fear the fall Of harvest from the laddered reach Of orchards, nor the tide gone ebbing From the steep beach.

Nor hold to pain's effrontery Her body's bulwark, stern and savage, Nor be a glass, where to forsee Another's ravage.

What she has gathered, and what lost, She will not find to lose again. She is possessed by time, who once Was loved by men.

Karl Shapiro

Manhole Covers

The beauty of manhole covers--what of that? Like medals struck by a great savage khan, Like Mayan calendar stones, unliftable, indecipherable, Not like the old electrum, chased and scored, Mottoed and sculptured to a turn, But notched and whelked and pocked and smashed With the great company names (Gentle Bethlehem, smiling United States). This rustproof artifact of my street, Long after roads are melted away will lie Sidewise in the grave of the iron-old world, Bitten at the edges, Strong with its cryptic American, Its dated beauty.

Karl Shapiro

And lost the poem I had in edit, what did you think of the poem about Manhole covers...? Made me think about them...I always avoid walking on them .dont ask why I think perhaps I suspect they are not as sturdy as they look, His poem does make you see them in a different light.

Will have to return with it later...anna

The Louise Bogan piece is a powerful poem isn't it -

Our current Poet Laureate Brian Turner was given the award as Te Mata Estate New Zealand Poet Laureate in February this year. He is the fourth Poet Laureate since the Te Mata Winery established the award in 1996.

It is a two year term and each Poet Laureate recieves an honorarium from the winery and is presented with a tokotoko .. a ceremonial Maori carved walking stick symbolising their achievement and mana.

Turner says .. "One of my roles as poet, as I see it, is to try to convince more people that language is precious and uplifting, that poetry is written by real people with important things to say, and that as such it is indispensable, and enriches our lives."

I don't own a collection of Turner's poetry but my appetite is whetted to acquire one. The following is one that was included in Best New Zealand Poems 2001.

Semi Kiwi

by Brian Turner

The barn roof needs painting
and the spouting is ruined.
Likewise the roof of this house
in which we live, borer here,
not there. I'm neither handy
in the great Kiwi DIY tradition,
not monied, which rather leaves
us up shit creek without a shovel.
I grub to find what Stevens called
the 'plain sense of things'
and come up empty handed
more often than not, but
I'm a dab hand at recognising,
if not suppressing, self pity,
and I can back a trailer
expertly, so all is not lost.

How often do we think about the things we can't do or haven't got but take solace in the (sometimes little) things we can do.

The manhole poem quite appealed to me .. made me remember how I too always avoided stepping on one. Many had quite intricate patterns and were the object of rubbings .. a popular interest some years ago.

However I will search for some more of Turner's poetry. I enjoy your poems Anna.

You are right Barbara it is a powerful poem...perhaps I am prejudiced but all poetry speaks to me. It opens my mind, my heart and my eyes to think differently, to see things ignored ..it makes me FEEL instead of being on the edge of life and the world it takes me IN and makes me aware. The poet binds me to the poet through their poem and I feel what they felt, know thier pain, and joy ...it is a powerful expierence ...

Marjorie thanks for you post ...I love the line I am a dab hand at recognizing if not supressing self pity...makes me want to say ME TOO and if I could say I was a good hand at backing up a trailer that would make me proud as well. anna

I cant find my list of former poet laureates and I lost the one I had in edit yesterday..so I went back and typed in Robert Lovell which is what I thought was the name I wanted ..instead I found poet who wrote a poem about our Revolutionary War..and I will share that one today and find my list for tomorrow...

 
Robert Lovell (1770?-1796) 

Revolution 

The cloudy blackness gathers over the sky  
Shadowing these realms with that portentous storm  
Ere long to burst, and haply to deform  
Fair nature's face: for indignation high  
Might hurl promiscuous vengeance with wild hand,  
And fear, with fierce precipitation throw  
Blind ruin wide: while hate with scowling brow  
Feigns patriot rage.  
                              O Priestley! for thy wand,  
Or Franklin! thine, with calm expectant joy  
To tame the storm, and with mysterious force  
In viewless channel shape the lightning's course  
To purify creation, not destroy.  
So should fair order from the tempest rise  
And freedom's sun-beams gild unclouded skies.

Anna .. Robert Lovell .. sadly what a very short life he had (1770?-1796) was that his life span? .. if so we have missed out on what he would have written had he been given the time.

"So should fair order from the tempest rise
And freedom's sun-beams gild unclouded skies."

Every battle .. every war .. picking up the pieces .. mending damaged bodies and minds. Whatever the privations .. be it from guns or terrifying subjugation of rights to decent life .. there are those of us who know these things look to the fair order rising from the tempests.

It so reminds me of when I first came to New Zealand from the aftermath of WW2 .. leaving the greyness and the smoke stained ruins behind me. Coming into a country where the sun is so uninhibited .. the brightly painted houses with red and green roofs .. the fresh green pastures. And I thought to myself .. "This is coming into technicolour from black and grey and white."

Some time ago I heard of a poem used in a court case --a real tear jerker--which got the defendabt off because it influenced the jury--has anyone heard of this poem ?

Yes Marjorie and for most of us seniors we have seen enough wars and enough picking up the pieces and going on. One advantage we have who have lived through so many wars is the pieces can be picked up and we do go on. Each time we hope again that the last one will be the last one......Yet if we think about it we can see freedom has come to places where it was never before....and hard decisions were made to make it so. Well that is enough ...my sinus infection makes me feel strange with fever and the effects of medicine...always good to see you here...it is like visiting with an good friend.

Rouge there are so many poems about dogs and most being written by dog lovers do touch you heart...I have no idea what poem was used but most pet owners and lovers would be moved by most pet poems...anna

Here is the poem I had in edit and today I found it...

 
Epilogue  

Robert Lowell  

Those blessèd structures, plot and rhyme-- 
why are they no help to me now 
I want to make 
something imagined, not recalled? 
I hear the noise of my own voice: 
The painter's vision is not a lens, 
it trembles to caress the light. 
But sometimes everything I write  
with the threadbare art of my eye 
seems a snapshot, 
lurid, rapid, garish, grouped, 
heightened from life, 
yet paralyzed by fact. 
All's misalliance. 
Yet why not say what happened? 
Pray for the grace of accuracy 
Vermeer gave to the sun's illumination 
stealing like the tide across a map 
to his girl solid with yearning. 
We are poor passing facts, 
warned by that to give 
each figure in the photograph 
his living name.

Anna .. how are you feeling now .. Siinues are painful and infections are so enervating .. you wonder just when are you going to feel better don't you? Do take care.

Robert Lowell's Epilogue .. what we want to achieve does not always easily come to us. I read and re read his poem. Reminding me of frequent dissatisfactions I have with my efforts.

Rouge .. I'm quite fascinated with the poem about a dog .. as Anna says there are so many. But I would love to find what you are seeking and so perhaps you can give a little more information on what the court case was about. Meanwhile I have this poem 'about a dog'.
Mainly to cheer you up Anna.

It is light and humorous .. and perhaps will cause some recollections for those who go or have been to doggie shows.

LAMENT OF A LADY WHO'S GONE TO THE DOGS

There was a time, there really was
When I was sweet and tender,
When SHOW DOG meant a Disney Star,
And bitch was not a gender.

I went to bed at half past ten;
I went to Church on Sunday.
On Saturday I baked the beans
And did the wash on Monday.

But then I got a certain Pup,
And an erstwhile friend said, 'SHOW'.
And so I did and so I do,
Oh! What I didn't know.

I used to dress with flair and style.
That was the life, don't knock it.
But now each dress from bed to ball
\Must have a good bait pocket.

I used to have a certain air,
I wallowed in perfume,
I used to smell of Nuit D'Amour,
Now I smell like Mr Groom.

My furniture was haut decor,
My pets a tank of guppies.
Now I've furniture unstuffed,
And well adjusted puppies.

Once I spoke in pristine prose,
In dulcet tones and frail,
But now I'm using language
That would turn a sailor pale.

I was taught to be well groomed
No matter where I went.
Now all the grooming that I do
Is in the Handlers' tent.

I used to yearn for furs and jewels
And a figure classed as super,
Now the thing I yearn for most
Is a nice new Pooper Scooper.

I adored a man who murmured verse
Through intimate little dinners,
But now the words I thrill to hear,
Are just three - "Best of Winners".

I rise at dawn and pack the car
The road ahead's a long one.
The one I routed on the maps
Invariably's the wrong one.

I dearly love this doggie life
I wouldn't care to change it.
But when I get that BEST IN SHOW.
I plan to re arrange it.

When my time on earth is done
I'll go without much nudging.
Just give me three weeks closing date
And let me know who's judging'

Author Unknown

Oh that poem made me laugh out loud..And I have been to dog shows. My oldest daugther and her husband used to show their dog...He was a small dog and I cant remember the breed but once he did recieve best of breed but it was a SMALL show and if I remember correctly they only had two to choose among.

I take a great deal of pleasure watching the Westminster dog show on TV...those dogs just delight me ..THEY know they are special and seem to revel in all the attention. My dog is spoiled and she cant get enough attention either. Sometimes it is an effort to type as she knows I am ignoring her and comes and takes her nose and pushes it HARD against my hand. She is a golden retriever named KatieStar..a rescue dog that helped when my yellow lab KAtie passed away..Star was the name she was registered with but I added the Katie because she reminded me so much on the original. I think you could call her anyting as long as you gave her the required love and attention. SO thanks for that poem...

I am finally much improved..enough so I even put on make up and went to the store to replenish my supplies. I still have two doses to take but my it is wonderful to be free of fever, headache etc...Thank you so much for caring and asking and I AM GLAD TO SAY I Feel just about normal.....will post a poem later my oldest grandchild, a girl named Brittney is 10 today and Nana has to be in attendence...Wherever any of you are I hope you are having a good day. God Bless...anna

RECESSIONAL

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far flung battle line.
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

Far called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire :
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre !
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose,
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the law,
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And, guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on thy people, Lord !

R. Kipling.

Thanks so very much....I have thought about those words many times and lately quite a lot. I memorizd them because they spoke to me but some lines I couldnt recall and felt too ill to look them up. There was another Kipling poem ( I think it was a Kipling poem) would you know which about foot soldiers ...anyway I appreciate your posting a poem that has been gnawing away in my mind. Across the oceans and yet just next door....anna

It is really part of an essay ...although I have only known the familiar part but today I felt I should post it.

 
No man is an island, entire of itself;  
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.  
If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less,  
as well as if a promontory were,  
as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were:  
any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind,  
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;  
it tolls for thee. 
John Donne

ANNA No I can't think of what poem by Kipling that could be. You may find it here however

http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/kipling_ind.html

Sorry I can't be of more help=== Trevor

Hi Anna, Thank you for posting part of John Donne's essay. My favorite line is "any man's death diminishes me." During these days of war, every missing person, every POW, every death sticks in our hearts and makes us cry.

I had a hard time finding poems by Leonie. And none were familiar. It seems her books have been out of print for some time. This is the one I chose...anna

 
Never Enough of Living 
Leonie Adams 

Never, my heart, is there enough of living, 
Since only in thee is loveliness so sweet pain; 
Only for thee the willows will be giving 
Their quiet fringes to the dreaming river; 
Only for thee so the light grasses ever 
Are hollowed by the print of windy feet, 
And breathe hill weather on the misty plain; 
And were no rapture of them in thy beat, 
For every hour of sky 
Stillborn in gladness would the waters wear 
Colors of air translucently, 
And the stars sleep there. 

Gently, my heart, nor let one moment ever 
Be spilled from the brief fulness of thine urn. 
Plunge in its exultation star and star, 
Sea and plumed sea in turn. 
O still, my heart, nor spill this moment ever.

Trevor thanks for that link and as soon as I saw the title BOOTS I remembered the poem I was looking for. I remember once I devoured a book of poems by Kipling and this one stayed in my memory. A few lines were all I could recall and none to give me a clue to the title. Thanks, Thanks ..anna Hats I am pleased you too found that part of the essay special. Whenever there is a war or disaster it seems I recall that line...and when I awoke the other morning it was there. I had to look it up before I even started my day. anna

Anna, the poem by Leonie Adams is beautiful. I love the first and last lines. I am reminded not to waste a minute of my life or not to sleepwalk through life. For me, she is a new poet. Thanks for the introduction.

3Kings, thanks for posting the Recessional. I have sung it more times than one. I never realized it was written by Kipling.

 
Boots 
(Infantry Columns) 

We're foot--slog--slog--slog--sloggin' over Africa -- 
Foot--foot--foot--foot--sloggin' over Africa -- 
(Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up and down again!) 
		There's no discharge in the war! 

Seven--six--eleven--five--nine-an'-twenty mile to-day -- 
Four--eleven--seventeen--thirty-two the day before -- 
(Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up and down again!) 
		There's no discharge in the war! 

Don't--don't--don't--don't--look at what's in front of you. 
(Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again); 
Men--men--men--men--men go mad with watchin' em, 
		An' there's no discharge in the war! 

Try--try--try--try--to think o' something different -- 
Oh--my--God--keep--me from goin' lunatic! 
(Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again!) 
		There's no discharge in the war! 

Count--count--count--count--the bullets in the bandoliers. 
If--your--eyes--drop--they will get atop o' you! 
(Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up and down again) -- 
		There's no discharge in the war! 

We--can--stick--out--'unger, thirst, an' weariness, 
But--not--not--not--not the chronic sight of 'em -- 
Boot--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again, 
		An' there's no discharge in the war! 

'Taint--so--bad--by--day because o' company, 
But night--brings--long--strings--o' forty thousand million 
Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again. 
		There's no discharge in the war! 

I--'ave--marched--six--weeks in 'Ell an' certify 
It--is--not--fire--devils, dark, or anything, 
But boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again, 
		An' there's no discharge in the war! 

Ruyard Kipling .... 

In spite of all the advances in weapons it still takes the individual soldier who is willing to keep moving and doing his job.  

Thanks again Trevor for that link I have added it to my favorites. anna

Seems we were posting the same time. I chose the Adams poem because there have been several days in my life that I call perfect days. Those days are few and far between which is perhaps good. I am not sure I could handle too many perfect days in row. You feel so exultant to be alive, it is almost like you are flying and still on the ground. I feel they are MY DAYS and I share them with my friends..not reluctantly but joyously as I want them to know the same feeling. anna

Anna,I found the poem you were looking that you wrote for me. I don't remember how to put the poem on the site but here is the poem. Barbara on the cusp of Autumn Barbara smiled saw the summer flowers faded petals drooped and gone she survived the August heat her strong green stems intact her tight budded blossoms ready for the Fall

she tosses her chrysanthemum curls no demure bloom is this her regal head pert in cooler air her eyes mysterious onyx agates sparkle

her laughter bubbles overflows and she is rewarded as we lockstep in her trail with our smiles

anna alexander 9/28/99 all rights reserved

My dear friend emailed me and called me to tell me she had a problem posting the poem I wrote for her..so I will post it again...she is a dear lady, funny with a quick wit and full of kindness for all...here it is ...

   Barbara 

   on the cusp of Autumn Barbara smiled, 
    saw the summer flowers faded, 
     petals drooped and gone. 
    she survived the August heat 
    her strong green stems intact, 
     her tight budded blossoms 
      ready for the Fall.  

    she tosses her chrysanthemum curls, 
    no demure bloom is this. 
    her regal head pert, in cooler air. 
     her eyes mysterious, 
     onyx agates sparkle. 

     her laughter bubbles, 
    overflows, and she is rewarded 
     as we lockstep in her trail 
      with our smiles.     

      anna alexander 
             9/28/99 
      all rights reserved

Beautiful Chrysanthemums .. 'Mums' as we affectionately call them. I have no chrysanthemums in our garden up here on our 14 acres. My plan for this coming year. But so much pleasure from the Dahlias which have flowered for the past six months .. on and on and on.

I love ... 'her regal head pert, in cooler air.
Her eyes mysterious
Onyx agates sparkle.

her laughter bubbles
overflows, and she is rewarded.

So many do we meet in life who give us such cause for love.

I have a poem here by a dear friend to share.

GLORY IN THE SILENCE

Glory in the silence
Beauty in the breeze
Wonder in the quiet
Lovely the murmuring trees
Single birds sing to the sky
Soft grey cloud hangs on high
Mystery in the moment
No hint of any torment.

By Barbara Beatty .. New Zealand

How I remember as a child on a warm, still almost cloudless day, lying on the grass at home looking up into the sky and listening to the gentle noises just quietly interfering with the silence. The quiet drone of an aeroplane passing overhead and the beautiful fresh smell of newly cut grass.

Beautiful poem, Mancunian. I like the first line "Glory in the silence." It takes work to appreciate silence and not be afraid of it.

Mancunian,I love the poem by Barbara Beatty. I hope you liked the one Annafair wrote about me because that is where I got the name Chrysanthemum

Your friend caught the GLORY IN THE SILENCE...perfectly...the wonderful lazy days of my childhood when I would lay on the grass, smell its fragrance, hearing the sound of bees and whispers in the trees and see in clouds magical figures and story book castles....thanks for sharing that ...and reminding me of how simple life can be...anna

Here is another poet whose poems I have never read. I am doing these in order and I am not sure where I am in that order. I found out she went to Vassar and most of her poems are about her travels and the sights and things she saw...the ones I read were lengthy..and here is the one I chose...anna

 
At the Fishhouses  
Elizabeth Bishop  

Although it is a cold evening, 
down by one of the fishhouses 
an old man sits netting, 
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, 
a dark purple-brown, 
and his shuttle worn and polished. 
The air smells so strong of codfish 
it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water. 
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs 
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up 
to storerooms in the gables 
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on. 
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, 
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, 
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,  
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered 
among the wild jagged rocks, 
is of an apparent translucence 
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss 
growing on their shoreward walls. 
The big fish tubs are completely lined  
with layers of beautiful herring scales 
and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered  
with creamy iridescent coats of mail, 
with small iridescent flies crawling on them. 
Up on the little slope behind the houses, 
set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass, 
is an ancient wooden capstan, 
cracked, with two long bleached handles 
and some melancholy stains, like dried blood, 
where the ironwork has rusted. 
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike. 
He was a friend of my grandfather. 
We talk of the decline in the population 
and of codfish and herring 
while he waits for a herring boat to come in. 
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb. 
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty, 
from unnumbered fish with that black old knife, 
the blade of which is almost worn away. 

Down at the water's edge, at the place 
where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp 
descending into the water, thin silver 
tree trunks are laid horizontally 
across the gray stones, down and down  
at intervals of four or five feet. 

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, 
element bearable to no mortal, 
to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly 
I have seen here evening after evening. 
He was curious about me.  He was interested in music; 
like me a believer in total immersion, 
so I used to sing him Baptist hymns. 
I also sang "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God." 
He stood up in the water and regarded me  
steadily, moving his head a little. 
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge 
almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug 
as if it were against his better judgment. 
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, 
the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us, 
the dignified tall firs begin. 
Bluish, associating with their shadows, 
a million Christmas trees stand 
waiting for Christmas.  The water seems suspended 
above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones. 
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same, 
slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones, 
icily free above the stones, 
above the stones and then the world. 
If you should dip your hand in, 
your wrist would ache immediately, 
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn 
as if the water were a transmutation of fire 
that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame. 
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, 
then briny, then surely burn your tongue. 
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:  
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, 
drawn from the cold hard mouth 
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts 
forever, flowing and drawn, and since 
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

So glad to see you here and now you must share some of your poetry with us...anna

Hi Anna, my father loved fishing. I thought of him while reading Elizabeth Bishop's poem. Thank you for posting it.

I am glad the poem meant something to you.. I live near Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic so see a lot of fishing here and lots and lots fish stores. So I enjoy fish often....anna

Here is poem I related easily too...When WWII was going on the St Louis Newspapers ran pictures every Sunday(postage size) of all the young men and women who were in service. There must have been 500 on a page and there were so many pages over the war years. My 16th year happened during those years and one Sunday while looking through the pictures I saw a young man in the Navy....I cut his picture out because there was a feeling someday I would meet him. So every Sunday after that I also checked the pages showing our war dead. About year later his was among them...perhaps it was just being a girl or being young but I grieved for him and kept his picture for years. So this poem resonated with me...anna

 
CHANCE MEETINGS 
by: Conrad Aiken (1889-1973) 

In the mazes of loitering people, the watchful and furtive,  
The shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves,  
In the drowse of the sunlight, among the low voices,  
I suddenly face you,  

Your dark eyes return for a space from her who is with you,  
They shine into mine with a sunlit desire,  
They say an 'I love you, what star do you live on?'  
They smile and then darken,  

And silent, I answer 'You too--I have known you,--I love you!--'  
And the shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves  
Interlace with low voices and footsteps and sunlight  
To divide us forever.

Hello dear friends .. Yes Chrysanthemum .. I did read Anna's poem about you .. it is quite beautiful. I'm so pleased you liked Barbara's poem. I have others which I shall write for you all.

Oh! my goodness Anna .. Elizabeth Bishop's 'The Fish Houses' just simply took my breath away .. I could live every line. Growing up in a fishing community in Ehgland .. where nearly every family was connected in some way with fishing. Walking to work past all the fishing boats tied up at the quays. Looking back on generations of fisherfolk and then coming to New Zealand and spending 30 years living on the water's edge with our fishing boat tied up at our jetty. Walter fishing for rock lobster .. his Dad ( a fisherman all his life) in his final years of terminal cancer sitting mending nets in the sun. He taught me how to mend and sling nets .. yes with a shuttle polished with years of use. It was a magical part of my life which I loved so much and for which I give great thanks. Somewhere I have some poetry written by fishermen in their spare time at sea. I shall seek them out and post them. (Oh! those stacks of papers). Here is another favourite of mine ... sad though it be ..

The Three Fishers

Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the West as the sun went down;
Each thought of the woman who loved him best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And trimmed their lamps as the sun went down,
And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown;
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour-bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the whining sands,
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come home to the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,
And good bye to the bar and its moaning.

by Charles Kingsley

Hi Mancunian, thanks for posting another fisherman's poem. I love these poems. I am really enjoying the fishermen poems, the sad ones and the happy ones.

That was a special poem wasnt it? Once I came upon an old fisherman mending his nets...he remains a picture in my mind, it was a warm spring day and the sun was shining on a calm sea and I could taste the salt in the air...wish I had talent to paint that picture.

I think at some time I must have read the poem you posted for the lines seem familiar. They nibble at my memory saying I have read you before...and it is a powerful poem and like Hats I love sea poems so do find those you have written by fishermen....looking forward to reading them..anna

Here is one of the poems I found written by the poet. He was killed in an auto accident at 50 so we will never know how his poetry may have changed as he aged. I also found a site with poems by England's Poet Laureates...and will check that out and mix up the offerings I am posting. When I read some of Jarrells poems I realized I had read them before...perhaps I should pay attention to the poet but it the poems that stay not the name of the author. Here is the one I chose today. anna

 
Well Water 
Randall Jarrell  



What a girl called "the dailiness of life" 
(Adding an errand to your errand.  Saying, 
"Since you're up . . ." Making you a means to 
A means to a means to) is well water 
Pumped from an old well at the bottom of the world. 
The pump you pump the water from is rusty 
And hard to move and absurd, a squirrel-wheel 
A sick squirrel turns slowly, through the sunny 
Inexorable hours.  And yet sometimes 
The wheel turns of its own weight, the rusty 
Pump pumps over your sweating face the clear 
Water, cold, so cold! you cup your hands 
And gulp from them the dailiness of life.

There are a number of Frost's poems that are quoted at least part of them so I chose a new one to me...what do you think it means? anna

 
(Robert Frost (1874–1963).  

The Lockless Door  



IT went many years,   
But at last came a knock,   
And I thought of the door   
With no lock to lock.   

I blew out the light,          
I tip-toed the floor,   
And raised both hands   
In prayer to the door.   

But the knock came again   
My window was wide;           
I climbed on the sill   
And descended outside.   

Back over the sill   
I bade a “Come in”   
To whoever the knock           
At the door may have been.   

So at a knock   
I emptied my cage   
To hide in the world   
And alter with age.

I am using some quotes by Richard Eberhart who was the poet laureate after Frost.. They just appealed to me..what do you think???anna

Richard Eberhart Quotations:

"Struggles in the soul make poetry possible."

"I have the idea of a time-spirit in the air which the poet seizes, mysteriously, out of the air to give his truth to the world."

"It is necessary to hail delicacy wherever it is found in men."

From Of Poetry and Poets: "Poetry is a confrontation of the whole being with reality." "It is a basic struggle of the soul, the mind, and the body to comprehend life; to bring order to chaos or to phenomena: and by will and insight to create communicable verbal forms for the pleasure of mankind."

"The poet may be said equally to depend on environment, to seek continuously the right environment, and the poem comes only when the environmental situation is such that it evokes poetry."

"If a poet writes to save his soul, he may save the souls of others."

Annafair, I liked your quotes. They really rang true for me. Your friend, Chrysanthemum

Hi Annafair and Crysanthemum, I enjoyed all of the quotes. I especially liked the last one. A poet begins by wanting to unleash his personal emotions. Ultimately, his words will speak for and to many, many other people.

Today we read a poem by Louie Untermeyer..He put together a wonderful anthology for children I gave my grandchildren...and here is one of his poems ....anna

 
 Louis Untermeyer   

Reveille 



What sudden bugle calls us in the night  
   And wakes us from a dream that we had shaped;  
Flinging us sharply up against a fight  
   We thought we had escaped. 

It is no easy waking, and we win  
   No final peace; our victories are few.  
But still imperative forces pull us in  
   And sweep us somehow through.  

Summoned by a supreme and confident power  
   That wakes our sleeping courage like a blow,  
We rise, half-shaken, to the challenging hour,  
   And answer it -- and go.

A very good and happy day .. I have been away for a couple of days and am now relaxing and enjoying our poetry posts. Poety can be so thought provoking can't it? It's part of the joy of reading and then thinking. I loved the "dailiness" because so often we don't give much thought to our daily happenings .. they are there and we sometimes let them go by without a second thought. I enjoyed the quotes Anna and 'Reveille' .. how often in our lives have we been faced with a challenge and with no hesitation have risen to it?

The poem I have was written I would say about pre mid 20th century when many fishing boats were powered by steam. A very hard life was endured and Fleetwood was where I spent childhood days among the fishing folk.

'A Glimpse at our Heritage'

There were days when Fleetwood, famed for fish
Supplied the Nations's favourite dish.
Delivered by the brave elite
Of the distant water fishing fleet.

"Head on", pounding a towering sea,
Or "dodged" behind a friendly lee.
Taking a risk to make a trip,
As fog and ice envelop the ship.

Seagulls, gannets, mollies and shears
Swoop and plunge as the bag appears.
Fish on the deck in a bright cascade,
Released by the knot the mate had made.

From Muckle Flugga, the Minch, Rockall,
Cleaning the decks for another haul.
"Watch on watch", until they filled her.
White sea, Faroe, Iceland, Kilda.

Then steam home to catch the tide.
Pray the owners are satisfied;
Bathe in a bucket at Wyre Light,
Three days ashore for a brief respite.

Families waiting, sweethearts and wives
Making the most of their seperate lives.
Loving and laughing, sorrow and pain,
Heaven and hell and then sail again.

Coal for the trimmer, iced up and stored,
Ready for sea, the Skipper's aboard.
Fearnoughts and jerseys, yellow oil frocks,
Books in a locker, seaboots and socks.

Steam trawling stories often evoke
Odours of liver, hot oil and smoke.
Tearful farewells around the North End,
"Wesley boats" offering help to a friend.

This race apart, "These Men of the Sea',
Displayed a fierce camaraderie.
Honed by the wind in the restless chase
And meetings with Nature ... Face to Face.

By Harry Lister .. Steam Trawler Fisherman

Mancunian, The poem by Harry Lister on the Steam Trawler Fisherman was so realistic. I am a Docent at the Mariner's Museum in Newport News and we have Menhadden Fishing Boats on display. A number of years ago these fishierman, quite old by then, sang there heave ho songs. When they pulled in the nets it was hard work. Now everything is hydraulic. Thanks for sharing that poem.

Chrysanthemum

I would never have made a fisherman on a boat but I admire those that did and thank them for their efforts. Marjorie thanks for posting that song....I have nothing to contribute today. It was my youngest daughters 38th birthday and I took her out to lunch , gave her a book and TWO birthday balloons..only because she has two children 7 and 5 and one balloon would cause an arguement. SInce there were two I expect they didnt care if they got a balloon....then at 3 pm I went to the hospital for her brother was having surgery. It was after 9 PM when we saw him home and I havent had time to look up a poem to share.

I do have two greetings though ...A HAPPY EASTER to all of my Christian readers and I am told I should say CHAG SAMEACH to my Jewish readers...so That is what I am doing ..and wherever you are and whatever you believe I wish you always good days, sweet sleep, and safe jouneys...will be back tomorrow with another poem...anna

Thank you Anna and Chrysanthemum .. glad you like sea poems. I shall be among the fishing boats and folk when I leave on 4 May for 4 months. It is always a sentimental journey for me.

You have given us a lovely Easter message Anna. And pleased you had a such an enjoyable time with your daughter on her birthday. Balloons and all!

I would like to leave you all with this message for Easter.

May The Great Spirit Bless You
With Health And Happiness
Enduring Friendships
And The Freedom That Are Ours.

Mancunian, thank you for another sea poem. I really enjoy them. I hope every will have a safe religious holiday.

I thank you for your Easter wish and hope we wont be without your posts for four months. Will you be staying on the island where you and your husband lived? In any case I hope it will be a special time for you and healing for your heart.

We used to stay two weeks each summer in North Carolina right on the Atlantic Ocean. It was always such a special time. Without an alarm clock I woke each morning in time to wake everyone and go to the water's edge and watch morning appear. There were often pods of dolphins arching up in what we always felt was joyous glee. Seagulls and sandpipers and pelicans swooping down for breakfast, early swimmers and fishermen ...I have missed it very much since my husband died, I went back one year but it wasnt the same. So I just go to the beach nearest and enjoy the sound and beauty of the waves.

Enjoy every minute and share with us...anna

I should be thinking of May but even with rain and colder days than usual spring is still a wonderful time. My apple tree perfumed the air and the ground beneath looks like snow its fallen blossom. Dogwoods, pink and white carry their blooms like snow on the limbs. The early bulbs are gone and the Iris now is holding buds high, my lilac bush ( only three years old) had 20 blooms and every day I would go and inhale their fragrance. I am looking forward to the year there will be enough to cut and bring indoors. So here is a poem to April......anna

 
April  

by John Greenleaf Whittier  

'Tis the noon of the spring-time, yet never a bird 
In the wind-shaked elm or the maple is heard; 
For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow, 
And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow; 
Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white; 
On south-sloping brooksides should smile in the light, 
O'er the cold winter-beds of their late-waking roots 
The frosty flake eddies, the ice crystal shoots; 
And, longing for light, under wind-driven heaps, 
Round the boles of the pine-wood the ground-laurel creeps, 
Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers, 
With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers! 

We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south! 
For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy mouth; 
For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God, 
Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod! 
Up our long river-valley, for days, have not ceased 
The wail and the shriek of the bitter northeast,- 
Raw and chill, as if winnowed through ices and snow, 
All the way from the land of the wild Esquimau,- 
Until all our dreams of the land of the blest, 
Like that red hunter's, turn to the sunny southwest. 

O soul of the spring-time, its light and its breath, 
Bring warmth to this coldness, bring life to this death; 
Renew the great miracle; let us behold 
The stone from the mouth of the sepulchre rolled, 
And Nature, like Lazarus, rise, as of old! 
Let our faith, which in darkness and coldness has lain, 
Revive with the warmth and the brightness again, 
And in blooming of flower and budding of tree 
The symbols and types of our destiny see; 
The life of the spring-time, the life of the whole, 
And, as sun to the sleeping earth, love to the soul!

Thank you Anna .. what a powerful and baeutiful poem of April by John Greenleaf Whittier .. can you feel the same awakening in your self? Everything is starting off again in a wonderful new and fresh way. Is this the way that each year has such an effect on our inner self? The seasons .. the new life of spring .. the warmth of summer .. the fading of the fall, winding ourselves down to hibernate whilst we wait through the cold of winter to wake again to the new life of spring. Probably my very simple thoughts !

Anna I have only been back to the island once .. and looking at my home there on the water's edge which I shared with the bush and the sea for thirty years with Walter, I felt enormous gratitude that I had those years in such a very peaceful and beautiful place. I also feel the same gratitude that I am now able to enjoy a different but also beautiful place here on our 12 acres of garden and native bush. It teaches me also never to take things for granted .. love what you have .. it is our little place in the sun.

I am hoping to be able to access a computer Anna whilst away. If I can I shall certainly keep in touch and let you know how things are going. Last year I spent some time in Vancouver .. it was this time of the year when the dogwoods, the azaleas and the blossoms were absolutely vivid in colour .. reading 'April' brought it all back to me. Just off now to find another poem.

Today was sunny but as the weatherman said It is not April weather but March's cool days. The family had a cook out but it was so cool we made it an eat in. The children had a great time..with an egg hunt and then a egg toss using REAL EGGS..I think there were nearly 40 of us and everyone form two lines across from each other and tossed real raw eggs back and forth. In spite of the danger of getting egg all over it was the grass that got YOLKED ...so we all had a great time and it reminded me of a poem by Mary Oliver....and here 'tis. anna

 
The Summer Day 

Mary Oliver 



Who made the world? 
Who made the swan, and the black bear? 
Who made the grasshopper? 
This grasshopper, I mean-- 
the one who has flung herself out of the grass, 
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, 
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-- 
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. 
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. 
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. 
I don't know exactly what a prayer is. 
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down 
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass, 
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, 
which is what I have been doing all day. 
Tell me, what else should I have done? 
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? 
Tell me, what is it you plan to do 
With your one wild and precious life?

Here is the one I chose today....anna

 
Sylvia Plath  

Mirror  

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. 
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. 
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike 
I am not cruel, only truthful – 
The eye of a little god, four-cornered. 
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. 
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long 
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers. 
Faces and darkness separate us over and over. 

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me. 
Searching my reaches for what she really is. 
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. 
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully 
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. 
I am important to her. She comes and goes. 
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. 
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman 
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Anna .. I like the poem 'Mirror' .. I haven't heard it before .. but we have looked in the same mirror .. perhaps all our lives .. and the reflections grow with us .. telling no lies. But the lake ...."A woman bends over me, searches my reaches for what she really is" On a lighter thought .. one understands why mostly now, we only fleetingly look into that mirror.

On April 25, we here in New Zealand and Australia put on one side that day for remembrance. We call it ANZAC day. ( Australian and New Zealand Army Corps') It is in commemoration of the ANZAC landing at Gallipoli in 1915 and the day has continued to be set aside in remembrance of both world wars.

Here is a poem by Rupert Brooke

CLOUDS

Down the blue night the unending columns press
In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow
Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.
Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,
And now with profouind gesture vague and slow,
As who would pray good for the world, but know
Their benediction empty as they bless.

They say the Dead die not, but remain
Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.
I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,
In wide majestic melancholy train,
And watch the moon, and the still raging seas,
And men, coming and going on the earth.

Rupert Brooke

All the poems you have shared about spring I had to get busy - and so here is my latest -

A Coohing Near-By Dove
Sounds a Long Way Off.
We've all just met -
two seated, two standing,
animated in chatter - "I've been,"
"No, not long," "Wasn't he great?" -
Pleasantries from pleasant faces
alive with smiles, flashing eyes,
a slight strain pulls tight
cheekbones and lip lines.
We're reaching for moons
the essence of each shape,
where is the safe spot,
what weakness joins space
with a sheepish smile we're proud
we found a cringe,
trying to tell friendship
from each paper face.
A mention of blossoms,
words stop in mid air -
her fullness in place -
greets - a no-man's land.
Her eyes soften inward
pale checks relax
her face like a white dove flies into space,
wanders the sad grieving call, gentle
sounds a thousand miles away
she’s walking a mountain floating
in white Dogwood blossoms, as thick as snow,
shares a slight blush close to her throat -
Her voice undone, holds a longing,
a push against old stories in time,
like red birds at play in cold Spring shadows
our heartwood dreams bind the falling petals
of memory, advancing
two seated, two standing,
a federation,
we share -
"I’ve been there - !"

Marjorie I have always wondered what Anzac day meant, it comes up on my calendar program.Now I know and the poem by Rupert Brooke was new to me. When I find a "new" poem it is like finding a pearl, a treasure I missed. Thanks for sharing the information and the poem.

Barbara you have written a "pearl", a treasure. I have re read it several times searching for one special line to mention but all are special and I feel "I've been there" You are so good to share your heart with us and your uncommon talent...anna

This is a very vigorous growing vine and if contained a beautiful one as well. It does need a lot of water to survive and for three years we have had a severe drought..That seems to be over since we have 5 inches more than normal this year.EVERYTHING IS just blooming like mad this year and the wisteria is really the worst...so here is a poem about the wisteria....

 
The Wild Wisteria  

Fed by spring rains it has grown and spread 
lavender blooms hang like drapery  
Over the dead and dying tree  
its beauty suffocating  
fragrance cloying clings to  
wounded wood branches  
it is reaching for a victim 
twining wrapping a live tree 
in its need to grow  
stay away from me  
I don't wish you to hide  
My sepulcher  

anna alexander  
4/23/03©

Most noted for his book Diliverence ...I found it hard to find a poem that really touched me ..some were very long and some I wasnt sure what he was trying to say..but here is one I found..share what you think....anna

  
Autumn  

James Dickey  

I see the tree think it will turn  
Brown, and tomorrow at dawn  
It will change as it thinks it will change. 

But faster, bringing in orange,  
And smoking and king-killing gold.  
The fire of death shall change colors.  

But before its rich images die,  
Some green will be thought of in glory.  
The dead shall withhold it until  

The sleep of the world take on  
The air of awaiting an angel  
To descend into Hell, and to blow  

With his once-a-year breath upon grass roots.  
And deliver the year from its thinking  
To the mindless one color of life.

Here's to a lovely day to you Anna and all our poetry lovers .. and others of course.

The Wisteria is such a beautiful vine .. we have three but we do have to contain them .. they seem to love the guttering and creeping where they shouldn't. Bougainvillia is another favourite of mine. Here is a little poem fom Barbara Beatty ..

The Geranium

One geranium brave and bright
Blossoms scarlet in gold sunlight
Gently shiverrs in quiet breeze
All underneath bush and trees
Nature's flag of joy unfolds
Shines in all the quiet soft gold
Raising bright face to lovely skies
All before my wondering eyes
Jasmine hangs her star filled hair
Scented and silent for me to stare.

Anna .. I enjoyed James Dickey's Autumn .. which of course is what we have just now in New Zealand. Out in my garden these few days I have been cutting back all the brown and aged undergrowth of many shrubs .. just to allow beautiful new life to present itself when spring gomes along again.

Hi Marjorie, I love the poem The Geranium. The Geranium was my father's favorite flower. His favorite tree was the Weeping Willow. I am partial to Geraniums too. I have tried the peach, pink and white ones. I always end up really enjoying the bright red Geraniums. The scented ones are nice too.

Anna, I enjoyed the James Dickey poem.

I think they must be everyone's favorite. I have had all colors but really like the red ones best. Pots of them on my deck each year cheer me.

Two years ago I replaced the roses on trellis in front of my home. Trees that were not there 30 years ago shaded the roses and they just sort of gave up. Last year I enjoyed the jasmines perfume and with all the good rain the vines now reach to the top of the trellis..and I know soon the blossoms with follow..yes they are like tiny stars and so wonderful to approach the house and smell that delicious fragrance.

I am glad you like the Dickey poem and upon re reading it I found more to it than I did at first glance. Even my own poems affect me that way. When I am looking for a special one I see one I forgot about and re read it ...suddenly my own writings are clear.

Since I think of us being in one world it is hard to think Marjorie you are heading into Autumn while we are in the full flush of Spring and Summer is yet to come. If for no other reason I thank the inventors of computers. For my non computer friends they sometimes look askance when I say I was chatting with a friend in Australia or England or some other place. Over the years I have chatted with people from South America, Africa, Asia,Poland etc ....and none of it seems odd but right and natural.

I have no poem this am but we are expecting severe thunderstorms today and I may be off the computer for quite a while. Hope I can post later but to all I hope it is a good day wherever you are and you enjoy each minute...anna

PASTURES OF PLENTY
by Woody Guthrie

It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed
My poor feet have traveled a hot dusty road
Out of your Dust Bowl and Westward we rolled
And your deserts were hot and your mountains were cold

I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes
I slept on the ground in the light of the moon
On the edge of the city you'll see us and then
We come with the dust and we go with the wind

California, Arizona, I harvest your crops
Well it's North up to Oregon to gather your hops
Dig the beets from your ground, cut the grapes from your vine
To set on your table your light sparkling wine

Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground
From the Grand Coulee Dam where the waters run down
Every state in the Union us migrants have been
We'll work in this fight and we'll fight till we win

It's always we rambled, that river and I
All along your green valley, I will work till I die
My land I'll defend with my life if need be
Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free

The Ballad of Harriet Tubman
by Woody Guthrie

I was five years old in Bucktown Maryland
When into slavery I was sent
I'll tell you of the beatings and of the fighting
In my ninety-three years I've spent

I helped a field hand make a run for freedom
When my fifteenth year was rolling round
And the guard he caught him in a little store
In a little slavery village town

The boss made a grab to catch the field hand
I jumped in and blocked the door
The boss he hit me with a two pound scale iron
And I went black down on the floor

On a bundle of rags in our log cabin
My mother she ministered unto my needs
It was here I swore I¹d give my life blood
Just to turn my people free

In '44 I married John Tubman
Well I loved him well till '49
But he would not come and fight beside me
So I left him there behind

I left Bucktown with my two brothers
But they got scared and run back home
I followed my northern star of freedom
I walked the grass and trees alone

I slept in a barn loft and in a haystack
I slept with my people in slavery shacks
They said I'd die by the bossman's bullets
But I told them I can't turn back

The sun was shining in the early morning
When I come to my free state line
I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming
I just could not believe my eyes

I went back home and I got my parents
I loaded them into a buckboard hag
We crossed six states and other slaves followed
Up to Canada we made our tracks

One slave got scared and he tried to turn backwards
I pulled my pistol in front of his eyes
I said get up and walk to your freedom
Or by this fireball you will die

When John Brown hit them at Harper's Ferry
My men was fighting right by his side
When John Brown swung upon his gallows
It was then I hung my head and cried

Give the black man guns and give him powder
To Abe Lincoln this I said
You¹ve just crippled that snake of slavery
We¹ve got to fight to kill him dead

When we faced the guns of lightning
And the thunders broke our sleep
After we waded the bloody rainstorms
It was dead men that we reaped

Yes we faced the zigzag lightning
But it was worth the price we paid
When our thunder had rumbled over
We¹d laid slavery in its grave

Come now and stand around my deathbed
And I will sing some spirit songs
I'm my way to my greater union
Now my ninety-three years are gone

This Land is Your Land (original words)
by Woody Guthrie

This land is your land, this land is my land
From the California to the Staten Island,
From the Redwood Forest, to the Gulf stream waters,
God blessed America for me.

As I went walking that ribbon of highway
And saw above me that endless skyway,
And saw below me the golden valley, I said:
God blessed America for me.

I roamed and rambled and followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts,
And all around me a voice was sounding:
God blessed America for me.

Was a high wall there that tried to stop me
A sign was painted said: Private Property,
But on the back side it didn't say nothing
God blessed America for me.

When the sun come shining, then I was strolling
In wheat fields waving and dust clouds rolling;
The voice was chanting as the fog was lifting:
God blessed America for me.

One bright sunny morning in the shadow of the steeple
By the Relief Office I saw my people
As they stood hungry, I stood there wondering if
God blessed America for me.

Mal, I love The Ballad of Harriet Tubman. The last stanza is my favorite in the poem. Harriet Tubman was a very strong woman, a woman who should never be forgotten.

You couldnt have chosen better words to share ...we did have some heavy rain and thunderstorms so I was just checking to see if there were any posts to read and here were your three great ones.

We have something here in the newspaper it is sort of cartoon stories and the narrator is called Chester Crab..not long ago his story was all about Harriet Tubman...I wish he had included Guthries poem...thanks again...anna

April is still with us but I am thinking May so will post a poem about MAY..anna

 
Beauteous May  

by John Milton  

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, 
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 
Hail, beauteous May, that dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

Thank you Mal for the Guthrie poems .. as Hats says .. Harriett Tubman was certainly a very strong woman .. what a story is told! I was interested too to learn that Woody was called that because of his real name Woodrow Wilson.
I have a book of Australian ballads and poems. I am rather reminded of the Guthrie poetry when I read some of those Australian early poems mainly of the life and its struggles during those first years of settlement. Most of them are extremely long but I shall look for one that I can fit in here nicely.

Isn't it noticeable how many many poems are written about May? Even Shakespeare seemed to have a yen for May. I loved the words from John Milton ...

Hail, beauteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth and warm desire

Here is rather a lovely poem of two hearts ..

Meeting at Night

The gray sea and the long black land
And the yellow half moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Then the two hearts beating each to each !

by Robert Browning

I have just a few days before I leave .. lots of last minute rushing round .. the usual thing I suppose. But dear Anna and dear friends .. just in case I don't reappear on 'Poetry' during these next few days I will just say a very fond farewell until the beginning of September. Take care .. I have enjoyed this so much. Marjorie

I know all wish you a wonderful visit in your special place. We all appreciate the poems you have shared, your thoughts and memories. We hold hopes you may find an opportunity to say hello but in any case you will be welcomed and welcomed upon your return. God go with you ...and we will look for you come September...anna

ULYSSES

-- by Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known - cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all -
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades
Forever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle -
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads - you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are -
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

This poem is one I found for The Dante Club discussion.

Marvelle

Marvelle, thank you for sharing the poem, Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

Problem in Physiology and Space Mechanics
by James E. Fowler

The problem is solvable only with advanced
transducers measuring forces and positions,
three axis, non Euclidean co-ordinate system,
like stars unseen during this late afternoon.

The orientation of the objects, poorly lit, needed
to be rigid in space, with speed, acceleration and
forces vectored by the stainless draw saw, initial
parameters and time correct only for this situation.

Latissimus and tricep muscle fibers were electro-
chemically contracted in a millisecond ramped
force, accelerating the blade's wedge teeth, parting
the cellulosic fibers of the apple branch in shear.

Saw blade trajectory continued in space, casually
crossing my thumb, freed to fall to dark earth.

James Fowler ©

Apple Pie and Motherhood
James E. Fowler

Its bark gnarled, the tree was fabled
in family stories. The canopy of apples
summer ripe, sliced white, stuffed
in pies my mother made to tempt all.

We'd climb for bounty in early fall,
breath hazed in the frigid air. Apples'
full bloom with dusky veil, polished
briskly on the sleeve for crisp bites.

Now, yellow jackets swagger on its
trunk. Eaters of flesh and fruit come
each season, wait for gravity's gift
to fall to their grinding mandibles.

Swarming in grass and dirt, they smell
sweet vinegar, and the memory of pies.

James E. Fowler ©

Sir Donn posts poetry in the SeniorNet International Café almost every day. Recently he's been posting poetry by Longfellow.

Mal

Glory 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 chesnut-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.

Hi Anne, thank you for posting the poem Pied Beauty by Hopkins. I love this poem. It makes me realize how much beauty there is to see around us. It also helps me appreciate the variety in nature. Every animal or flower is given its own original pattern, color, etc. May, it seems, is the perfect time to begin seeing the rebirth of life.

I especially like line three about the Trout.

and was thrilled, even some people writing their own which is simply marvellous.It is impossible not to be attuned to people who have a poets soul. Anneo

Hi Anneo, I am glad to see you. I really love this site. Each day I look forward to coming and seeing a new poem posted or an old one to think about again.

Anneo, I love that description, "a poet's soul."

Ileave tomorrow on a trip driving to Iowa and return...so I have been very busy getting ready for my journey. I miss this site when for some reason I cant drop by ..to share a poem or read poems other poet souls love. I am so glad you found us Anne ...we have met before..and I am pleased you are here and for sharing that lovely, lovely poem.

I like to think I have always appreciated the important things in the world...the beauty that surrounds us..especially the beauty we so often overlook. I am taking my laptop with me so I will be here again..Perhaps tomorrow night when I have found a place to stop....but in any case when I reach my destination I will BE HERE with a poem to share ..I think since I will be traveling through some gorgeous mountains and then the plains of Illinois on my way to Iowa I will look for a poem about that...I am sure to see a brindled cow somewhere....

Please keep posting until I am able to do so..It will cheer all of us and especially me....anna

here in Quilpie, we had an opal miner called Frank, who played a mean piano. We would gather at the pub in the evenings and read favourite poetry, which bought back wondrous memories.This place reminds me of that, lovely warm glow,. and posts that can be read and reread, far from the Madding Crowd. Anneo

I tell you a poet must be free
To sing in any sort of tree he likes
If you would have his song; or as a bee
Within a bee's flight must be free to roam
Wherever his desire and fancy takes
If you'd have honey in the comb.

HARLEM

Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Hi Anne, I enjoyed Freedom by Leonard Mann. Thank you for posting it.

I need to take better care of my dreams, how thought provoking is that, as I sip fresh squeezed orange and watch a perfect Autumn sunrise here in the bush.

Hi Anne, yummy! fresh squeezed orange. May I have some? (smile)

eewwww such wonderful 'Dream' poems - and how poignent a Dream Deferred - and I have mine - hmmm better clean out the stink...

CAnt believe how busy we have beenn so while Idont have a poem tp share I have wonderful poetic sites...the mighty Mississippi, lilac trees everywhere in full bloom, tulips still here blooming and many flowering fruit trees...some of the farm land has been prepared for planting and just need some dry days to do that. I am always amazed how vast and beautiful is the land we call America...from Virginia through the mountains of West Virginia , the gentler hills of Kentucky and on to the plains of Illinois and Iowa..and the bowl of the heavens over all. Here you can see a storm for miles while back in Virginia it arrives as a surprise and disappears rapidly. This is an area I called home as a child and like an old family movie the road unwinds and names forgotten for fifty years are still there, most smaller with empty buildings where the friendly merchants used to offer their services and wares. Some streets are like ghosts, blank store fronts, the names gone, the sidewalks uninhabited ...adn I rememeber all the people from my past... just being here is a poem ...anna

I love a sunburnt country,A land of sweeping plains;
Of rugged mountain ranges, of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons, I love her jewel sea.
Her beauty and her terror,The wide brown land for me.

Hi Anna, I am glad you are back. Thank you for describing your trip. Your prose is just like poetry. So beautiful.

Hi Anne, I love your poem. "I love her jewel sea" is my favorite line.

I read a nice poem by Sylvia Plath last week. I can not remember which book I found it in. It was very descriptive like what you and Anna have written.

Anna was so descriptive,making me all proud of my country, as I read of hers, there is much more of the "My Country" poem, which is probably Australia's most well known, next to Waltzing matilda.

Today we drove about 70 miles through the countryside.. It was a perfect MAY day and when we returned I wrote the following poem....First Anne I want to thank you for that verse it certainly speaks to me as I am being reacquainted with my homeland..IF there is more I am sure we would all love to read it...here is my poem...anna

 
Going Home  

This is not the place where I was born  
Yet is seems known to me 
Haven’t I walked the wide sidewalks? 
Shopped in the now vanished stores 
Windows announcing empty shelves 
Hollow corners, homes for spiders. 
Dust kittens and insects dead  
Their feet turned up, still in the musty air? 

Cozy homes snuggle close.  Built for car less owners. 
Lawns, napkins of green adorned with aged shrubs 
Lilacs once a small planted hope  
It’s promise now fulfilled bursting with  
Fragrant lavender blossoms reach the roof. 
Oh I have been here in another time  
Another place …where memories grace  
My aging face and tears stream down unafraid 

The road here unreeled before me, a movie  
From the past.  Towns whose names once dear 
Remind me they still exist, smaller like me  
Shrunken with years of use bravely use cosmetics 
To prove their youth is still here  
We fool ourselves for us the truth is clear  
The time is coming when we will vanish 

Our names forgotten, our empty shells 
Washed upon some distant shore 
Other people some day will look and wonder  
Who we were and why we were here  
Will they know they too will stay awhile  
And like us they too will disappear? 

anna  alexander  
ã 05/09/2003

You really did see the places you went, and manage to make us part of them. Thank you. Anneo

My Country

Dorethea McKellar

The love of field and coppice,
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens,
Is running in your veins;
Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft, dim skies-
I know but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountains ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains,
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel sea,
Her beauty and her terror-
The wide brown land for me!

The stark white ring-barked forests,
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon.
Green tangle of the bushes,
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops
And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When sick at heart, around us,
We see the cattle die-
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country
Land of the Rainbow Gold,
For flood and fire and famine,
She pays us back threefold;
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness,
That thickens as we gaze.

An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land-
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand.
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.

Annafair, Your poem reminded me of when Nelson went to visit the various places he lived in the northwestern part of Virginia. All he found was a paved street and a fire hydrant where his favorite house once stood. Your description of your trip in the prose piece really got my attention. This is my second attempt to post a message to you. I hope this one posts. Give me a call when you get back. I am reading my poetry at the Williamsburg Poetry Society of Virginia at the banquet. Continue to have a great trip. Chrysanthemum

Hi Crysanthemum and Anne,

Anne, I just reread the poem you posted. I like this line "The hot gold hush of noon." I wanted to read that line as "hot gold rush." When you read the poem, did that happen to you? I wonder if the poet meant for the mind to think of "hush" and "rush."

Crysanthemum, good luck reading your poem. What a honor!!

Wow, sounds marvellous. How did it go?

Hats, I agree and it certainly makes sense. Our summer afternoons do indeed rush in, and it is traditional out here to hush or rest for a while in the early afternoon. Anneo

What a great trip...thankfully we missed the really bad weather coming and going....the traffic wasnt too bad and I am grateful for my trip to the past.

We rejoiced with the achievement of my relative ..five years of working and studying part time and she was awarded her MBA ...I am so happy for her and delighted to be there and say so in person. It was a busy time...family and good friends also paricipated in "HER DAY"

The fields had been planted and as we left we could see tiny green sprouts giving a haze to the ground. There are rivers of green where the grass is allowed to stay and the land never plowed for they show where the water flows when the rains come and keep the earth from eroding. As I mentioned earlier the sky there is so HUGE it seems you could see forever. Storms take forever to arrive and the wind is wild and untamed. I have never seen grass laying horizontal to the ground. We had two days and a night when it seemed the trees would break as they bowed and flailed in that wind. The grass in the ditches looked like ocean waves ...and at night bits of paper, straw, leaves , anything that wasnt attached flew about in the outside light.

On the actual day of her graduation when I emerged from the car the wind was so strong it blew me back and only the steady hand of one of her daughters kept me from blowing over. The wind seemed as if it were coming off ice and while I had taken a warm coat with me there were dozens who tried to pull light sweaters or even just a shirt or blouse close. The irony cant be missed ..while we were shivering in Iowa my home town in Va was basking in warm 70+ weather and sunny days.. The day we returned it was 70+ in Iowa and COLD HERE>...

Last night my family gathered here for dinner...12 adults and six grandchildren ..it was a great visit and enjoyed by all...the last left a few hours ago and I will be happy to return to normal. I have missed you and say HELLO and glad to be back. I found a poem I will share...and I thank you for your sharing and your posts while I was away.....smiles across the miles...anna

 
W. Wordsworth  

 Admonition to a Traveller  

YES, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!    
  The lovely cottage in the guardian nook    
  Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,    
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!    
But covet not the abode; O do not sigh           
  As many do, repining while they look—    
  Intruders, who would tear from Nature's book    
This precious leaf with harsh impiety.    
Think what the home would be if it were thine,    
  Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door,    
  The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,    
The roses to the porch which they entwine:    
Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day    
On which it should be touch'd, would melt away!

I feel like reciting that old rhyme...Rain ,Rain go away, Come again another day. In the past by this time of the year we would be thinking of air conditioning but now we still sleep with a blanket to ward off the dampness and chill. Of course that led me to find a poem about rain. This is the one I chose and hope you like it too. Do you have a rain poem you would like to share? anna

 
The Rain and the Wind  

The rain and the wind, the wind and the rain -- 
    They are with us like a disease: 
They worry the heart, they work the brain, 
As they shoulder and clutch at the shrieking pane, 
    And savage the helpless trees. 

What does it profit a man to know 
    These tattered and tumbling skies 
A million stately stars will show, 
And the ruining grace of the after-glow 
   And the rush of the wild sunrise? 

Ever the rain -- the rain and the wind! 
    Come, hunch with me over the fire, 
Dream of the dreams that leered and grinned, 
Ere the blood of the Year got chilled and thinned, 
    And the death came on desire! 

    	-- William Ernest Henley

Rain is promised through next week so I am thinking June...and my favorite poem of June....it was one I memorized years ago and the summers of my youth seemed to be a perfect example of the poet's thoughts...anna

 
What is So Rare As a Day in June  

AND what is so rare as a day in June? 
      Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, 
     And over it softly her warm ear lays; 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 
     An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 
     Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 
The flush of life may well be seen 
     Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 
     The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 
     To be some happy creature's palace; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
     Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 
     With the deluge of summer it receives; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? 

Now is the high-tide of the year, 
     And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, 
     Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 
We are happy now because God wills it; 
No matter how barren the past may have been, 
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; 
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing 
That skies are clear and grass is growing; 
     The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 
     That dandelions are blossoming near, 
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky, 
That the robin is plastering his house hard by; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
For our couriers we should not lack; 
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, 
     And hark! How clear bold chanticleer, 
     Warmed with the new wine of the year, 
Tells all in his lusty crowing! 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
Everything is happy now, 
     Everything is upward striving; 
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, 
     'Tis for the natural way of living: 
Who knows whither the clouds have fled? 
     In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake, 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 
     The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; 
The soul partakes the season's youth, 
     And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 
     Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 

James Russell Lowell

Anna, thank you for posting the poems. I really enjoyed the James Russell Lowe poem.

I have missed reading, writing etc while visiting and traveling. Traveling and visiting family, friends and renewing friendships is my favorite vacation...but if you have some semblance of order in your life it really bends it out of shape. SO I am happy to be home and getting back into a routine....of sorts...I keep repeating the James Russell Lowell poem..and hoping June days will be as wonderful as he described and I recall....anna

They lined the front of my home when I was a child. Mother called them pineys so I never knew what a peonie was until I saw one with the correct name. On our return from Iowa we stopped at a roadside rest area. I have no idea what state but it had been raining and everything was drenched. There was a circular garden with huge peonie plants, each blossom was so heavy with rain they touched the ground. It was an odd sight, the green leaves hovered over a wreath of rosy pink balls and I felt a sadness we could not enjoy thier true beauty or smell thier fragrance. This is a poem about Peonies...anna

 
Peonies by Mary Oliver 

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready 
to break my heart 
as the sun rises,  
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers 

and they open --- 
pools of lace,  
white and pink --- 
and all day the black ants climb over them,  

boring their deep and mysterious holes 
into the curls,  
craving the sweet sap,  
taking it away 

to their dark, underground cities --- 
and all day 
under the shifty wind,  
as in a dance to the great wedding,  

the flowers bend their bright bodies,  
and tip their fragrance to the air,  
and rise,  
their red stems holding 

all that dampness and recklessness  
gladly and lightly,  
and there it is again ---  
beauty the brave, the exemplary,  

blazing open.  
Do you love this world?  
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?  
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?  

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,  
and softly,  
and exclaiming of their dearness,  
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,  

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,  
their eagerness 
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are 
nothing, forever?  

(c) Mary Oliver

I hoped to find a poem about this day that was new to me...and I did...I hope if you have read it before you will be glad to read it again.....anna

 
"MEMORIAL DAY POEM." 

The bugle echoes shrill and sweet, 
But not of war it sings to-day. 
The road is rhythmic with the feet 
Of men-at-arms who come to pray. 

The roses blossom white and red 
On tombs where weary soldiers lie; 
Flags wave above the honored dead 
And martial music cleaves the sky. 

Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel, 
They kept the faith and fought the fight. 
Through flying lead and crimson steel 
They plunged for Freedom and the Right. 

May we, their grateful children, learn 
Their strength, who lie beneath this sod, 
Who went through fire and death to earn 
At last the accolade of God. 

In shining rank on rank arrayed 
They march, the legions of the Lord; 
He is their Captain unafraid, 
The Prince of Peace...Who brought a sword. 

~By Joyce Kilmer 1917~

Anna, thank you for the Memorial Day poem. Is this the Joyce Kilmer who wrote Trees? Am I thinking of someone else? I might have the authors mixed up.

I love the Peonies poem. The delicate words chosen remind me of the beautiful flower. The author Mary Oliver is new to me.

Yes it is the same Joyce Kilmer and I am including a web link that will give you other poems by Kilmer...anna

http://www.poetry-archive.com/k/trees.html

Atleast 7 years ago when I started to take poetry seriously the professor at the local University suggested a book by Mary Oliver as a guide and help in our writing and study. I am including another poem by Mary O and for anyone interested in her works search on Google or any search engine and type in poet Mary Oliver. There are a number of sites available ...I chose one called poets.org Here is the poem I promised..anna

 
Wild Geese 
 
You do not have to be good. 
You do not have to walk on your knees 
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. 
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. 
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. 
Meanwhile the world goes on. 
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain 
are moving across the landscapes, 
over the prairies and deep trees, 
the mountains and the rivers. 
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air 
are heading home again. 
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, 
the world offers itself to your imagination, 
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-- 
over and over announcing your place 
in the family of things. 

MARY OLIVER 
Dream Work

Wow, Anna! That poem Wild Geese by Mary Oliver is beautiful. Thank you for the Joyce Kilmer website.

 
At Blackwater Pond 

At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled  
after a night of rain.  
I dip my cupped hands. I drink  
a long time. It tastes  
like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold  
into my body, waking the bones. I hear them  
deep inside me, whispering  
oh what is that beautiful thing  
that just happened? 

Mary Oliver

Anna, I am falling in love with Mary Oliver. I love both of the poems you posted.

I love the images in those poems too and I'll investigate Mary Oliver, as well. There are black swans on our lagoon where I walk the dog(or rather where the dog walks me!) and the image of the geese in her poem and the black swans reminded me of these lines by one of our famous bush balladists, Banjo Paterson. Paterson tells how if we could join the black swans as they are flying overhead

We should catch the chime of a church bell ringing,
Or the distant note of a torrent singing,
Or the far-off flash of a station light.

A station is the equivalent of a ranch.

Jan

Hi Jan, I would love to see a black swan. I have never seen one, and you see them everyday. I bet they are beautiful.

Mary Oliver writes in an unique way and like you I too love her words..they are more than mere descriptions ....I am not sure I even have words to explain but they move me ...for she takes me where I wouldnt have the courage to go..NOW does that makes sense.

Colonial Williamsburg has black swans I think on the Governor's Palace grounds.

A two week trip was extended when my relative returned with me for another two weeks..She left Friday and here is the poem I wrote...anna

 
The Perfect Guest 



You came to have a holiday  
A respite from your cares.  
Instead, you spent your hours  
Adding order to the house. 
Labored in the garden,   
Transformed it to a bit of Paradise. 
You left us better than before. 
Today when we said goodbye 
Unwept tears choked our throats,  
Moistened our saddened eyes. 
We wish you a journey safe  
One you will enjoy ,but know,  
We will miss your kind heart,  
The late night talks. 
Tomorrow morning wont seem the same, 
No smell of coffee wafting up the stairs  
Telling  us, You are there! 
anna alexander  
5/30/03©

Here's information About Australia's Black Swans

The following are some photos of black swans that I found. They're quite stunning birds.

Marvelle

Good morning, Anna, that poem was lovely, and brought to mind a poem I'd clipped out of an English Women's Weekly once. They, have a poetry competition once a year and print all the finalists. I hope it's okay to copy it, as it was a public magazine.

Absent Friend
I longed for coffee
brewed
in her untidy kitchen,
Cat purring in sunlight,
Window-sill a plant riot.

We'd just sit dreaming,
Until mention of some
Unimportant gossipy item
Brought a spate of
words.

Laughter often shook our
troubles to the floor,
Freed hearts from tears,
Brought us closer still.

I've moved so far away,
Another land with other
Friends who've become dear
Grown more loved with time

Yet for a while today
I longed to taste
remembered brew.
Watch smiles brim
her eyes,
In her warm, untidy kitchen.

Anne Micklethwaite.

Hats, I don't see them all the time, I think we're a rest stop for travellers<grin>, they stop a week or two and move on. Just now, we have a flock of Magpie Geese, who must be on a break. The resident Ibis's had gathered up the paddock in a huddle to gossip and glare at the newcomers who've pushed in! The locals versus the tourists! Marvelle, what nice links. I loved the end of the first one. May you always hear the whisper of wings.

Jan

Thanks, Marvelle! I should have known you would be somewhere nearby. You are like a guardian angel who helps those in distress. Thanks for all of the links.

Ann and Jan, I love your friendship poems. There is nothing like a cup of coffee with friendly conversation especially if there is a kitten or cat nearby.

Marvelle, those swans are truly beautiful. Thanks.

I think my favorite is the one with the cygnets...I am sure the ones in Williamsburg are in the back of the Governors Palace..there is a pond or a lake there and they are so elegant ..I know I have seen them on the grassy area adjacent to the pond...there are white swans as well but the black ones just catch your eye and you think how wonderful is the world we live in. anna

Since it was published and you gave her credit for the poem I feel sure that is all right. You are sharing it with a group of poetry lovers and not using it in any way that would smack of profit or deceit...and thank you for sharing it...As a rule I dont drink coffee but enjoy a cup with a friend ...there is something special and comforting about sharing that moment...anna

Almost all of yesterday ..well from early morn until 11:00 Pm we were in a tornado watch and severe thunderstorm advisory...so most of the day my computer was OFF and did little except to watch the weather forecast on TV...it was ominious and the sky was the same. Dark clouds and torrents of rain..all clear was declared about midnight and I went to bed ..this morning I awoke and wrote the following poem.I am glad to share mine but prefer sharing those of my favorite poets...anna

 
After the storm  

After the storm we awoke to a dappled day 
Sunlight poured through freshened leaves 
Glistened on still wet grass and flowers 
Glad to see the sun they lifted their faces 
To a blue sky, late clouds hurrying away 
The birds a chorus of thankful song  
Giddy at the feeder and seeds upon the ground  
Riding the wind they soar and cry in joy  
Joining the squirrels who hurry from  
Their nests to find the sunflower seed  
Tossed upon the grass to sate their hunger  
This June morn. 
anna alexander  
6/1/03©

Since we had so much I thought a poem would be appropiate...anna

 
Emily Dickinson - The Wind -- tapped like a tired Man  

  The Wind -- tapped like a tired Man -- 
  And like a Host -- "Come in" 
  I boldly answered -- entered then 
  My Residence within 

  A Rapid -- footless Guest -- 
  To offer whom a Chair 
  Were as impossible as hand 
  A Sofa to the Air -- 

  No Bone had He to bind Him -- 
  His Speech was like the Push 
  Of numerous Humming Birds at once 
  From a superior Bush -- 

  His Countenance -- a Billow -- 
  His Fingers, as He passed 
  Let go a music -- as of tunes 
  Blown tremulous in Glass -- 

  He visited -- still flitting -- 
  Then like a timid Man 
  Again, He tapped -- 'twas flurriedly -- 
  And I became alone --

The hour before dawn has always been my favorite time of day. And Mary Oliver has caught the sun and asks us an important question. anna

 
The Sun  

Have you ever seen  
anything  
in your life  
more wonderful  

than the way the sun,  
every evening,  
relaxed and easy,  
floats toward the horizon  

and into the clouds or the hills,  
or the rumpled sea,  
and is gone--  
and how it slides again  

out of the blackness,  
every morning,  
on the other side of the world,  
like a red flower  

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,  
say, on a morning in early summer,  
at its perfect imperial distance--  
and have you ever felt for anything 

such wild love--  
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,  
a word billowing enough  
for the pleasure  

that fills you,  
as the sun  
reaches out,  
as it warms you  

as you stand there,  
empty-handed--  
or have you too  
turned from this world--  

or have you too  
gone crazy  
for power,  
for things?  

Mary Oliver

Hi Anna, I love the last question of Mary Oliver's poem. It gives me something to think about. I also like her phrase "a rumpled sea." We have visited the ocean many times, and I think she uses a perfect description of it.

Thank you for posting another Mary Oliver poem. I like Emily Dickinson too.

It was the last question that made me choose that poem. How sad that many people just miss life because they immerse themselves in things....I am in the process of giving away a lot of my things. To my children, to friends who have admired them to charity. Most were gifts from my husband and they are beautiful ..but if he had never given them to me I would not have wept for what he gave me was so much more important..Understanding and love...When you are dying I dont think you grieve for things but for loved ones.....good memories will comfort you but things dont care...they will not shed a tear when you are gone....anna

Anna, you are so right.

My favorite way to find a poem to share is to recall a poet read in the past and find what other poems the poet wrote. Here is one...anna

 
Vachel Lindsay - An Indian Summer Day on the Prarie  

      (IN THE BEGINNING) 

THE sun is a huntress young,  
The sun is a red, red joy,  
The sun is an indian girl,  
Of the tribe of the Illinois. 

      (MID-MORNING) 

The sun is a smouldering fire,  
That creeps through the high gray plain,  
And leaves not a bush of cloud  
To blossom with flowers of rain. 

      (NOON) 

The sun is a wounded deer,  
That treads pale grass in the skies,  
Shaking his golden horns,  
Flashing his baleful eyes. 

      (SUNSET) 

The sun is an eagle old,  
There in the windless west.  
Atop of the spirit-cliffs  
He builds him a crimson nest.

Anna, another beautiful poem. I recognize the name of Vachel Lindsay. In this poem, he takes you through each change of the sun. I love the images. My favorites are the "Indian girl" and the "wounded deer."

Anna, you really find some wonderful poems. It is a delight to come to The Poetry Corner and find new surprises.

It seems we are having a dialogue between two ...hope some of the other posters will appear. I know I am so busy it seems sometimes I cant believe all the things I have done over the years and when did I have time to do them?

Most be a poem somewhere about people who are organized and those that only have good intentions.

Keep thinking of some other poets I have read (too many to count) and search an unknown poem ( to me) by the poet. see you later ..anna

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-- by Theodore Roethke

In moving-slow he has no Peer.
You ask him something in his Ear,
He thinks about it for a Year;

And, then, before he says a Word
There, upside down (unlike a Bird),
He will assume that you have Heard --

A most Ex-as-per-at-ing Lug.
But should you call his manner Smug,
He'll sigh and give his Branch a Hug;

Then off again to Sleep he goes,
Still swaying gently by his Toes,
And you just know he knows he knows.

___________________________________________

I can get into spells of doing just one thing all day long; focusing on THAT until it's done. Not exactly disorganized, you know? But neglecting things I shouldn't such as this lovely discussion. I appreciate and enjoy your contributions, Anna and Hats.

Marvelle

Marvelle what a wonderful poem. Makes me laugh and since we have had a lot of rain, thunderstorms and threats of same ..a good laugh is absolutely necessary. If the thunderstorm threat departs I will be back with poem. AND IT IS SO GOOD TO SEE YOU HERE! anna

Hi Marvelle, there are days when I feel just like The Sloth. Thanks for sharing that poem.

Well I am not sure what we can expect in weather as I havent turned the TV on today. It is a slothful day. So I am glad I am adept at being one! My hydrangeas are drooping, heavy with rain and the shattered rose petals makes a bright pink carpet beneath the the bushes. Here is the poem I found....anna

 
by Robert Pinsky 

JERSEY RAIN  

Now near the end of the middle stretch of road 
What have I learned? Some earthly wiles. An art. 
That often I cannot tell good fortune from bad, 
That once had seemed so easy to tell apart. 

The source of art and woe aslant in wind 
Dissolves or nourishes everything it touches. 
What roadbank gullies and ruts it doesn't mend 
It carves the deeper, boiling tawny in ditches. 

It spends itself regardless into the ocean. 
It stains and scours and makes things dark or bright: 
Sweat of the moon, a shroud of benediction, 
The chilly liquefaction of day to night, 

The Jersey rain, my rain, soaks all as one: 
It smites Metuchen, Rahway, Saddle River, 
Fair Haven, Newark, Little Silver, Bayonne. 
I feel it churning even in fair weather 

To craze distinction, dry the same as wet. 
In ripples of heat the August drought still feeds 
Vapors in the sky that swell to smite the state -- 
The Jersey rain, my rain, in streams and beads 

Of indissoluble grudge and aspiration: 
Original milk, replenisher of grief, 
Descending destroyer, arrowed source of passion, 
Silver and black, executioner, font of life.

Hi Hats! Hi Anna! Oh I love that poem Anna and espec "The Jersey rain, my rain, in streams and beads / of indissoluble grudge and aspiration" -- beautiful. Here's another poem on the effects of rain

ONE STEP BACKWARD TAKEN

-- by Robert Frost

Not only sands and gravels
Were once more on their travels,
But gulping muddy gallons
Great boulders off their balance
Bumped heads together dully

And started down the gully.
Whole capes caked off in slices.
I felt my standpoint shaken
In the universal crisis.
But with one step backward taken
I saved myself from going.
A world torn loose went by me.
Then the rain stopped and the blowing,
And the sun came out to dry me.

Marvelle

Well you can see why I chose Pinskys poem and the one by Robert Frost is good. I wonder how often we have taken one step backward and were saved ...I wonder do we know it when we do it? Or only looking back see the result? and what about taking one step forward and suffering the consequences...who said...life hangs by a thread? Perhaps also by a step. I dont think Robert Frost wrote a poem I didnt like. Thanks Marvelle for posting for us..anna

Yes, I figured Frost would be a favorite with you Anna. He's a poet's poet with more depth than is usually acknowledged. There are many times I should've 'one step backward taken' if I'd only thought first. Of coure Pinsky is wonderful and I really like the Mary Oliver poems, and the one posted by Ann called "Absent Friend" and your own poems.

I live in the southwest desert where the weather is usually hot-dry and hotter-drier but we do have a monsoon season of rain. We've had about 3-4 days of rain this year and we may get more. There's the possibility and the hope.

Marvelle

gosh both you Marvelle and Anna have fabulous quotes in your headings -

You are both too kind she said modestly. Sorry I should just say thanks and I treasure the poems you share, the ones Barbara writes and your posts here. I am happy I was asked to host this column. First it inspires me to write, second it encourages me to seek poems I would have missed and to find a poet new to me and share with you.The following is a poem by a poet I have heard of but have yet to read. Since summer has arrived here, the 80's today I was looking for a summer poem and found the perfect one. It is about a summer storm but of course more than just a storm. Hope you enjoy ........anna

 
Summer Storm  

We stood on the rented patio 
While the party went on inside. 
You knew the groom from college. 
I was a friend of the bride. 

We hugged the brownstone wall behind us 
To keep our dress clothes dry 
And watched the sudden summer storm 
Floodlit against the sky. 

The rain was like a waterfall 
Of brilliant beaded light, 
Cool and silent as the stars 
The storm hid from the night. 

To my surprise, you took my arm– 
A gesture you didn't explain– 
And we spoke in whispers, as if we two 
Might imitate the rain. 

Then suddenly the storm receded 
As swiftly as it came. 
The doors behind us opened up. 
The hostess called your name. 

I watched you merge into the group, 
Aloof and yet polite. 
We didn't speak another word 
Except to say goodnight. 

Why does that evening's memory 
Return with this night's storm– 
A party twenty years ago, 
Its disappointments warm? 

There are so many might have beens, 
What ifs that won't stay buried, 
Other cities, other jobs, 
Strangers we might have married. 

And memory insists on pining 
For places it never went, 
As if life would be happier 
Just by being different. 

Well I apologize when I copied this I left the poet's name out. 
 I am not sure I will spell it right but will guess, 
 and return to correct. It is Dana Gaiao  
 We discussed him briefly in my class last year.  
Just enjoy for now........anna

It is Dana Gioia ...anna

Ya know when you are on overload and can't sort it out to say something coherant - lots of drama in the past week or more - my backyard for the second year in a row has been a neo-natal clinc for a small part of the deer population in my neighborhood -

This time I actually saw the faun being born - at first it didn't register - after the faun was born the mother came and went every few hours and after the second day, not knowing she left the faun, I thought I would do them a favor and pick up the downed limb and some other twigs that were left behind the laural bush without realizing the fawn was right there - when the doe came back she didn't like that I tried to tidy up and made an attempt to move the faun, who couldn't keep up - he was lost and crouched by the fence seperating my yard from my neighbors that runs along the side yard. The faun was crouched behind a utility cable in the front-side yard all afternoon and night - while that night the doe was frantic going back and forth mostly across the street not knowing where the faun was.

I call the Game Warden who assures me, she will find her young and if there is a fence or something in the way pick up the faun and move it. Well her searching continues and finally I got the idea that even though its Spring, when they do not eat corn, I go down to the HEB and get a sack of deer corn and scatter a good bit on the lawn toward where the faun is crouched.

Well around 2: in the morning other deer, about 6 of them, come to eat the corn and gently without touching the faun they find it and just stare and stare without touching it. About an hour goes by and finally the doe comes - whew and off to the backyard they go -

I never did pick up the oak leaves from the patio that fell in March so that the faun has even chosen to sleep on my patio with the doe mostly standing watching within feet of my window -

I feel like a prisoner in my house because if she sees me she has become skittish and off she goes. Now that the faun is a week old it goes as well. My concern for them is, the guy next door built this fence all around the FRONT of his property and they have to go around it on the street - the deer sign I ordered won't be here for another four weeks -

For the most part I am keeping my patio window drape closed, playing mostly Dvorak and Brahms and peeking out without making a sound or letting them see me so they are not spooked - here I am trying to keep them near. Problem I don't think I have gotten to bed before 4: all week and I am only sleeping till 9: but I woundn't miss this wonderment and I am mesmerized by their every move.

In the afternoon the faun now is hopping and running dashing all over the yard like a two year old child.

What is so interesting to me is last year she had twins and I was not near as involved as this year - you just have to be open for wonder even though it may be all around you = one poem -

And another I need to write has to do with the different kinds of wonder in that at one time I had a lovely garden that when my life shattered I no longer gave it much attention and gradually even the 5 foot fence gave way so that neighbors built fences but my old gate finally went and soon there were pockets of old leaves where there had been roses and herbs and garden vegtables -

So now I have deer and coons, possom all able to have free access to the yard along with a greater variety of birds, including a pair of marvalous woodpeckers, the jays had three offsprings this year, cardinals, doves, finches, squarals - the monarchs came through on their flight path north and east - so finally instead of feeling guilty because I had not kept up with the garden I realize I swapped one marvel for another = which all equals poem 2.

Well all that to say I have a new poem that I had to work and work because I had so much that only yesterday I realize I have several poems and I needed to narrow down the focus - it was not easy.

Still do not have a name for it - any suggestions will be appriciated - better post it in a second post after my story here...

Stars, like white fire-sparks,
moor the endless night.
The coo of the Dove breaks silence.
Out of the inky black, dark smudges,
phantoms dimly move: printless deer
wounding the struggle of leaf and grass, tread
in shy splendor, attend our slumber.
On this moonless night, I sit and watch
dew beads unstrung, drip from stars,
shift the purling rustle on the drum -
the warping, the drying, the flutter, the still.
A wind shakes dust from the estates of childhood
and youth, a sweet numbing maelstrom fouls
furrows in the black earth district of helplessness,
yawping for the skirts of morning,
where a chorus of songbirds flutter
midst the warping shadows -
Spotted fawns lie still,
curled upon drying leaves.
Spirits of the wild, lightfoot and swift,
ken the heartbeat of earth,
flee the sanctuary grove
before the rising frills the treetops.
A nervous dove takes to the air -
rising in a riotous rush, the flock
catapults with whistling wings, above
the coves of darkness into the golden light.
A Monarch glides by on a life journey.
The agony of wild freedom
moors the boundless - reconciled.

Hi Barbara, your poem is beautiful. I love how you used the words "purling" and "warping." For some reason, I thought of your love of needlework.

My favorite line is the one about "dew beads unstrung, drip from stars."

That is so beautiful. Thank you for sharing your poem.

First I agree with hats on the line about the dew beads //that evokes such a wonderful thought picture..it is just beautiful

I cant tell which I loved most your post and story about the deer and how your appreciation changed or your poem. The story should remind us all to keep our souls open to new ways to enjoy and apprciate life. The changes may represent a loss but also often represent something new and precious we would have missed.

Your poem is breathtaking...I had a poem in edit by Rita Dove who was poet laureate but lost it when the thunderstorm predicted for today arrived last evening. Will look it up but Barbara I can tell you I would nominate you for Poet Laureate ...your poems are like a fine wine, heady, full of flavor and oh so splendid to savor. Thanks so much for sharing....anna

Hi Anna, I hope you can find the Rita Dove poem.

Good Grief and Wow - thank you - you are both so wonderful with your compliments - Anna my - but then I think we have a mutual admiration for each other's work - I am not familiar with Rita Dove's work so this will be a treat...

Today doe and faun are tucked in the shade of the photinia bush - for a bit there it looked like Walt Disney's Snow White with squirrels looking at them from the peach tree where they were stealing the peaches and then tumbling on the lawn then the various birds hopping and flying around them - I am telling you what a show -

Barbara, I would like to be there looking out of your window.

You make it sound so special which of course it is. No deers in our neighborhood but lots of birds and squirrels. We also have rabbits and once in awhile a garden snake. This year a surprise ,,two pigeons which I cant remember seeing anywhere in this area in 30+ years. What a surprise. I wonder if they are a neighbor's pets? We did have baby, I guess they are baby possums this year. I was looking out the window one night and saw what at first I thought was a rat! But it didnt look like one and it was nibbling at something on the steps. I opened the door and tapped on the storm door..What a nasty look ..as he/she backed away.Even gave me one last snarl before disappearing into a shrub. Your visitors sound a bit more interesting and nice.

Barbara you often mention working on your poems and that makes a big difference. I just write and seldom edit. I think that means you care more about your poems than I do. You strive for the perfect word, the perfect line and I believe that is what one needs to be a first class poet. If you lived near I would bring over a star for your efforts. I just appreciate your sharing them with us.

Her is the Rita Dove poem I promised...anna

 
My Mother Enters the Work Force 

The path to ABC Business School 
was paid for by a lucky sign: 
Alterations, Qualified Seamstress Inquire Within. 
Tested on Sleeves, hers 
never puckered -- puffed or sleek, 
Leg o' or Raglan -- 
they barely needed the damp cloth 
to steam them perfect. 

Those were the afternoons. Evenings 
she took in piecework, the treadle machine 
with its locomotive whir 
traveling the lit path of the needle 
through quicksand taffeta 
or velvet deep as a forest. 
And now and now sang the treadle, 
I know, I know.... 

And then it was day again, all morning 
at the office machines, their clack and chatter 
another journey -- rougher, 
that would go on forever 
until she could break a hundred words 
with no errors -- ah, and then 

no more postponed groceries, 
and that blue pair of shoes! 

© Rita Dove

As part of the dove-theme, here's a link from Cornell:

Mourning Dove

Anna contributed the wonderful poem by Rita Dove and Barb has shown us that the usual -- including a dove -- is not so usual if we take the time to really see. The poem was lovely Barb and your hide-and-seek adventure with the doe and faun had me holding my breath. You've shown that while we may lose something one way (a garden through sadness), we can gain in another -- if we are open to the new path.

Marvelle

Thanks so much for the link to the mourning dove. I have a number who come all year to my feeders. I found the bit about them nesting in an evergreen interesting. My neighbor had a large round fir I believe and years ago I remember seeing a pair of doves going into the fir where they had built a nest. While I dont recall it mentioning in the link I understand they mate for life. We learn so much dont we? And all because we are lovers of poetry...see how good reading poetry is for you ????anna

Hi Anna, Barbara, Marvelle,

This is so much fun. Thank you for the Rita Dove poem, Anna. I enjoyed that one especially since my mother loved to sew. Marvelle, thank you for the link to Mourning Doves. Your writing is very beautiful. Can you write poems too?

I do not see Deers in my area, but I do see lots of squirrels. Later in the summer, I will see many Hummingbirds. So, I always have a hummingbird feeder.

I just went through some of the poems posted earlier on other days. Marvelle, somehow, I missed your Robert Frost poem. It is the one called ONE STEP BACKWARD TAKEN. I really enjoyed it. I have never read that one before.

I love Robert Frost's poems. I remember one specifically about a husband and wife. Their baby died. Both the husband and wife had a different way of dealing with their grief. This caused a conflict in the marriage. It's a long poem. I can not remember the name of it, but it is really moving.

Anna, I read Rita Dove's poem over again, much slower on my second reading. You picked a good one. I love the description of the fabric, "quicksand taffeta or velvet deep as a forest." I can just see the taffeta slipping and sliding quickly past the sewing needle. Of course, the lush velvet is easy to see as a deep forest.

It amazes me how all of you poets can think of just the right words!! What a wonderful gift.

I love the last line about buying "that blue pair of shoes." I bet those shoes were a soft blue, just perfect for dancing.

You chose the lines I loved best. I learned to sew from my mother on a long shuttle treadle machine. And I continue to sew. Fabrics are almost an addiction to me. Taffeta is not easy to sew on and neither is velvet but the lushness of the velvet and the crisp beauty of the taffeta makes me do it anyway. Here is my choice for a poem today. Last October many of the "bookies" here on seniornet met in DC for the Bookfest sponsored by The Library of Congress and Laura Bush.

I dont remember how many authors were there to autograph copies of their books but many. Billy Collins, the Poet Laureate was near where I was standing. He was a pleasent looking person and was very charming and helpful to those waiting for his autograph. SO here is one of his....anna

 
Marginalia  

Sometimes the notes are ferocious, 
skirmishes against the author 
raging along the borders of every page 
in tiny black script. 
If I could just get my hands on you, 
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien, 
they seem to say, 
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. 

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive-- 
"Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" -- 
that kind of thing. 
I remember once looking up from my reading, 
my thumb as a bookmark, 
trying to imagine what the person must look like 
who wrote "Don't be a ninny" 
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson. 

Students are more modest 
needing to leave only their splayed footprints 
along the shore of the page. 
One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's. 
Another notes the presence of "Irony" 
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal. 

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, 
hands cupped around their mouths. 
"Absolutely," they shout 
to Duns-Scotus and James Baldwin. 
"Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!" 
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points 
rain down along the sidelines. 

And if you have managed to graduate from college 
without ever having written "Man vs. Nature" 
in a margin, perhaps now 
is the time to take one step forward. 

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own 
and reached for a pen if only to show 
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; 
we pressed a thought into the wayside, 
planted an impression along the verge. 

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria 
jotted along the borders of the Gospels 
brief asides about the pains of copying, 
a bird singing near their window, 
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-- 
anonymous men catching a ride into the future 
on a vessel more lasting than themselves. 

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, 
they say, until you have read him 
enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling. 

Yet the one I think of more often, 
the one that dangles from me like a locket, 
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye 
I borrowed from the local library 
one slow, hot summer. 
I was just beginning high school then, 
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room, 
and I cannot tell you 
how vastly my loneliness was deepened. 
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, 
when I found on one page 

a few greasy smears 
and next to them, written in soft pencil-- 
by a beautiful girl, I could tell, 
whom I would never meet-- 
"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love." 

Billy Collins

Oh a great Billy Collins you chose Anna - I do not remember feeling that lonely reading Catcher in the Rye - did you - but then as a girl I may have been more of an observer - I do remember better his Franny and Zooey and for years I had a Zooey door.

Oh Hats the Hummers - they are really, as many describe, like little jewels aren't they - recently I found a book and had no idea there were so many different kinds and in all sizes - another bit I didn't know about till recently was the various and multitude of dragonflies -

I love going down to the creek in mid-summer and because the hot sun dries up so much of the creek there is less and less moving water - but clothes and all I lay in the water and listen to the frogs and watch the dragonflies - this year I must look to see if I note more than one type of dragonfly - there is a big old cottonwood that catches even the slightest breeze so the large leaves always rustle. The sun is usually its redest just before it starts to set and that searing red filtered by the salt willow so that you cannot even see the white blossoms on the salt willow -

At this time in my life I am not hampered with as many obligations so I can pick up where I left off when I was a kid. I used to take long walks or ride my bike to some favorite spots and just gaze at it all - I loved that I could tell you exactly what the sky looked like and what color the sky was for every month of the year - even the air seems to have a color -

I got the biggest kick out of my one grandboy when he was about 5 - I have always just talked about what I was seeing, especially when we were in the car - well it was after a rain and the afternoon sun was sparkling all the wet - he pipes up how the drips of water on the phone line look like a string of glass beads - even his mom and dad looked at each other in amazement -

I do not understand all this need for TV for kids on long car rides but then after being with my daughter-in-law who does not seem to know to look at the world around her she is bored by long car rides and my duaghter who is such a people person although loves walking and hiking in the woods where as in a car she is either chatting or that TV is on - brrrr I want it all off and just look and look.

But then I drive them up a wall - in the middle of a conversation I notice an interesting conglogmeration of brick, morter and old paint on the side of an old warehouse that is just beautiful and have to stop and point it out in awe then pick up as if the interuption never happened - hehehe each time their head swings around, they get a dazed look and then when they are back they are completely lost in following what we were talking about. I think it is funny and I'm sure they think it is either annoying or they dismiss it as their ding bat mother not focused again.

Oh yes Anna where you the kind of kid when you went shopping with your mom she constently had to tell you not to touch - I remember the fabric stores and wanting to feel between my fingers all the fabrics - to this day I love the feel of flannel although todays flannel is not soft on both sides and it is stiffer then the flannel that we had years ago.

Anna, I really enjoyed the Billy Collins poem. I happened to see him on The Today Show one day. He seems quite humble, a very nice man. I hope to get his book "Nine Horses" from the library soon. I hope the title is correct.

Like you, Barbara, I did not know there were so many Hummingbirds. Thanks for sharing.

Yes I got carried away but I was excited after finding this site which is reading and writing nature poetry and being observant to various aspects of nature -

http://www.asle.umn.edu/pubs/collect/nature_writing/McEwen.pdf

Hi Barbara,

What a great site!

Barbara I am with you...My husband liked the interstate and I always wanted to get off of them and go poking about the country side..and my family think I am getting senile, they always thought I was eccentric...because I will stop to admire a bird , or a flower or some unusual shadow or interesting collection right in the middle of a conversation...I am giving my grandson a pair of binoculars ( did I mention that already? ) for his birthday tomorrow. For Christmas I gave him a magnifying glass. I hate giving my grandchildren toys.

I am glad you enjoyed the Billy Collins ..today I chose a sonnet and hope you enjoy...anna

 
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?  

William Shakespeare  

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate. 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date. 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often is his gold complexion dimmed; 
And every fair from fair sometime declines, 
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed; 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, 
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, 
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st. 
     So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
     So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Loved everyone's posts. Haven't been able to log onto SN for a few days, due to the SN computer glitch, or I would have commented earlier. Here's a prose poem:

THE URBAN LIFE by Liljana Dirjan

These mornings, when I pass alongside Parisian fish vendors, I witness blank, white, frozen men in the process of wage and capital, spreading out fish fresh from the sea and just off the boat. The unraveled forms sparkle in the sheen of coin and mother-of-pearl, luminous shocks of ice pounded down in stalls, the clear light of January. I suffer their separate deaths, their stared-through eyes, their void. Such jettisoned and mute nakedness . . . so suddenly I need to feel my heart eneath my coat to convince me who I am -- my clean presence, my still warm, still life.

- translated from the Macedonian by P.H. Liotta

Funny how, sans SN, I felt jettisoned, adrift without the familiar anchor. I knew it was temporary and also know that some changes and losses are permanent and that, somehow, through it all we adjust and cope.

I spent these past no-SN days tidying up my library shelves. I've occupied myself with inventorying books, dusting all the books and shelves, and rearranging. In the process I created a teetering bookstack by my dilapidated but comfy reading chair, a stack that grew book by book from the surprise treasures I'd forgotten I had on the shelves. Now I've promised myself to start reading The Leopard by Guiseppe di Lampedusa, a novel that Barbara had suggested in Great Books. (I've sneaked a peak and its a fine fine fine book!)

Shakespeare is The Writer isn't he? and our yardstick in poetry and plays. Thank you for the poem, Anna.

Thunderstorm just began so I need to end this post.

Marvelle

Thanks so much for the prose poem. I have tried several but really cant say they are poems. Prose yes,but a poem...?????

Like you with seniornet down I felt lost and disconnected. I kept trying but gave up when thunderstorms threatened our area ..I kept thinking I would do something practical with all the down time. I have three skirts to cut out and sew, I need to make a dent in some of my mess, especially since one of my sons in law will be here three days this week on a job interview. I did use my cell phone a lot and called some friends I have missed chatting with in person.

Will return later with a poem I was just checking to see if we were back! AND WE WERE! anna

Wow we're BACK... Hal-le-lujah - Hallelujah - A-men - Amen

When we were down I had planned to find a poem about fathers. This is the one I chose which wasnt what I really had in mind but liked it anyway...anna

 
Elizabeth Bishop's poem Manners: 

MANNERS 

for a child of 1918 

My grandfather said to me  
as we sat on the wagon seat,  
"Be sure to remember to always  
speak to everyone you meet." 

We met a stranger on foot.  
My grandfather's whip tapped his hat.  
"Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day."  
And I said it and bowed where I sat. 

Then we overtook a boy we knew  
with his big pet crow on his shoulder.  
"Always offer everyone a ride;  
don't forget that when you get older," 

my grandfather said. So Willy 
climbed up with us, but the crow  
gave a "Caw!" and flew off. I was worried.  
How would he know where to go? 

But he flew a little way at a time  
from fence post to fence post, ahead;  
and when Willy whistled he answered.  
"A fine bird," my grandfather said, 

and he's well brought up. See, he answers  
nicely when he's spoken to.  
Man or beast, that's good manners. 
Be sure that you both always do." 

When automobiles went by,  
the dust hid the people's faces, 
but we shouted "Good day! Good day! 
Fine day!" at the top of our voices. 

When we came to Hustler Hill, 
he said that the mare was tired,  
so we all got down and walked,  
as our good manners required. 

PS I never knew my grandfathers but had an Uncle who this poem described ....anna

Anna, that poem exactly portrays my grandfather, a fine Victorian gentleman, well educated and principled. Like many Victorians of his day he practiced his principles and was a socialist and egalitarian. He believed in manners and doing the right thing and consideration for all creatures, human and otherwise.

My happiest moments as a child were when we (sisters and parents) lived with Grandfather on his ranch with the orange grove and fields. I felt at peace in the grove of fully grown tall trees (no dwarf or semi-dwarf orange trees). I remember animals of all types including a well-beloved Great Dane given to Grandfather as a puppy by circus people that he'd let camp on his land to give shows to customers coming from miles around; and I remember 'helping' him with the bees and the lighting of smudge pots to protect the orange crop from damaging frost which left our two cats -- one black and the other pure white -- suddenly equally black.

Thank you for the Bishop poem.

Marvelle

Hi Anna and Marvelle,

I very much enjoyed the Bishop poem. I read it yesterday and again this morning. Marvelle, like Anna, I did not know either of my grandfathers. I just have a few family stories. I relate the poem to my father who owned a tailor shop. He and my mother believed in speaking to anyone who walked in the shop or walked down our street. Everyone seemed to know Mr. and Mrs. Harris. My mother did not mind speaking out to one of the children in the neighborhood if they forgot their manners for a moment. Back then anyone could be a responsible parent to the kids on the street jumping rope, playing hopscotch or riding bikes.

The poem brought back many memories. Marvelle, I enjoyed reading about the orange groves and trying to picture them.

An poet of the olden days but one who uses words and phrases that please me....anna

 
Upon Julia's Clothes 

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,  
Till, 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! 

Robert Herrick

Herrick is a fab poet. I believe he was a lifelong bachelor, shy yet admiring of women. Anna, you've actually quoted some lines alluded to in Theodore Roethke's "I Knew A Woman" -- which could be about loving a woman but also about loving poetry, helplessly, madly, gladly. (Herrick was one of many poets alluded to in Roethke's poem.) Roethke (RHET-Key), that would be RHET as in Rhett Butler of movie fame.

Marvelle

We agree on Robert Herrick and you are right about his being a life long bachelor. I have read his biography but with so many in my mind I cant quote anything from it. I just love his use of words and have a poem of my own based on this short one of his. Now if I can locate the disc I will post it later. anna

http://www.bartleby.com/65/he/Herric-po.html

Thanks for that link..I was going to say in my earlier post I think he was a member of the clergy. I am glad he was recognized as a great poet because I am fond of his works. There must be many who wrote well but were never recognized//anna

The following is a Villanelle ...we studied this in my poetry classes but I have yet to try my hand at one. Hope you enjoy it and if you are interested a search will tell you how to do one....any takers? anna

 
'One Art' 

The art of losing isn't hard to master; 
so many things seem filled with the intent 
to be lost that their loss is no disaster. 

Lose something every day.  Accept the fluster 
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. 
The art of losing isn't hard to master. 

Then practice losing farther, losing faster: 
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel.  None of these will bring disaster. 

I lost my mother's watch.  And look! my last, or 
next-to-last, of three loved houses went. 
The art of losing isn't hard to master. 

I lost two cities, lovely ones.  And, vaster, 
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. 
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. 

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture 
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident 
the art of losing's not too hard to master 
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. 

	-- Elizabeth Bishop

Oh I have got to send that one to my daughter who is at that stage in her life with too much and now she is really convinced she has althimers - I think every young women in her forties bringing up children and carrying on with a career along with in my daughter's case building a house where they are the contractors thinks they are more then scattered and something is really wrong - I have been in Real Estate offices where this age women has bottles of herbs for memory lined up on their desk - my daughter left her cell phone three times at different shops in town over the course of a week so that it became the joke of Saluda - and no matter what I say she is convinced something terrible is wrong - ah so

Do show that poem to your daughter. All of my life I have had memory lapses and it was not an illness it was a mind always thinking, full of decisions, full of good intentions, doctors appointments for four children, a husband who was away in some foreign land with the Air Force.

Now with a computer I understand my mind better. All of the information is there I just have to find what folder I put it in. AND LORDY DO I HAVE LOTS OF FOLDERS! It only takes a second to lose a train of thought, how many times have I put something somewhere so I will KNOW where it is and then cant rememmber.

How many times over the years have I forgot a name of someone dear to me and someone known to me for a long time and when I attempted to introduce them I couldnt recall at all. I just gave in and said What is your name anyway? and when they replied I would say Thank Goodness YOU REMEMBERED! When my children were younger I would often start with one name and go down the list and include the dogs name and then say NOW WHICH ONE ARE YOU?

I do hope she realizes this is normal and not fret about it. If she is really concerned then she should talk to her doctor. However I suspect it is the same with her as it was and still is with me...

Will go look for another kind of poem. A pantoum ...which I have written but want to find one better ...you all take care...anna

This is a form I have tried and enjoy. It dates back to early times in Malaysia ..A French poet used it in the 1500's if my memory serves me well. I have written several but wanted to share one by someone else. In my early research into this form I found it was often used a social events and some were like songs that everyone had memorized. When someone would recite the beginning another would do the next quatrain etc. And it was also okay to start a new one and have guests try and finish it...sort of a verbal charade! Here is one for you...anna

 
The Pantoum (Panthera lyrica) 
D. A. Feinfeld 



Hidden in the lines of a tree-cleft  
as wind whips clouds over a bare moon,  
the shimmering Pantoum waits to spring  
with quicksilver claws and fangs.  

As wind whips clouds over a bare moon,  
ghost rays dapple the swart coat. 
With quicksilver claws and fangs  
the phantom cat balances on its branch;  

ghost rays dapple the swart coat,  
ripples repeating through dark fur.  
The phantom cat balances on its branch,  
holds each panting muscle in check,  

ripples repeating through dark fur.  
Caution, paced by lean seasons, 
holds each panting muscle in check.  
Night plays rhythm of stretch and release;  

caution, paced by lean seasons,  
risking all on one stark leap.  
Night plays rhythm of stretch and release:  
white light splashed over black flanks.  

Risking all on one stark leap,  
hidden in the lines of a tree-cleft 
white light splashed over black flanks,  
the shimmering Pantoum waits to spring.

Funny I never knew this poem was in that form. I cant say why it appealed to me today. While Thomas was writing this for his father who was ill it reminded me of my husband who fought his cancer well and only gave up five days before he died and even then kept his sense of humor. For most lovers of poetry this will not be a new poem since it is often quoted. anna

 
'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night' 

Do not go gentle into that good night, 
Old age should burn and rave at close of day; 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, 
Because their words had forked no lightning they 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright 
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, 
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight 
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

And you, my father, there on the sad height, 
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

      -- Dylan Thomas

When I search for a poem to share I feel I am led to a particular one. Yesterday we were just driving around and near a pond a heron took off. This area of Va has many ponds and small lakes. streams and rills...and I often see herons or ducks or geese even egrets land or take off...of course we have gulls and pelicans as well but herons and egrets I find such magnifcant birds..so a poem for you ..anna

 
Heron Rises From The Dark, Summer Pond 



So heavy 
is the long-necked, long-bodied heron, 
always it is a surprise 
when her smoke-colored wings 

open 
and she turns 
from the thick water, 
from the black sticks 

of the summer pond, 
and slowly 
rises into the air 
and is gone. 

Then, not for the first or the last time, 
I take the deep breath 
of happiness, and I think 
how unlikely it is 

that death is a hole in the ground, 
how improbable 
that ascension is not possible, 
though everything seems so inert, so nailed 

back into itself-- 
the muskrat and his lumpy lodge, 
the turtle, 
the fallen gate. 

And especially it is wonderful 
that the summers are long 
and the ponds so dark and so many, 
and therefore it isn't a miracle 

but the common thing, 
this decision, 
this trailing of the long legs in the water, 
this opening up of the heavy body 

into a new life: see how the sudden 
gray-blue sheets of her wings 
strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing 
takes her in. 

Mary Oliver

Anna the Dylan Thomas - I have this wonderful book A Readers Guide to Dylan Thomas by William Tindall who goes on for several pages about Go Gentle... among other things he says "the shape so artificial for a matter so close to heart is as much a conceit as springing the rhythm, even moderatly, within so traditional a shape. Forms and their violations were his (Dylan) delights. "Do not go gentle" would not be half as moving without the ritualistic repetition with variation that the form demands."

Further Tindall says that Dylan's father taught English and the mere fact that Dylan in the same profession proves that "he easier to forgive than most or Dylan more forgiving." The poem remained unpublished till after the old man's death.

"The four tercets give examples of the four kinds of men, who, knowing all at last, meet death variously and alike.

"Grave men," the most important of all and the climax toward which the poet has been working, means serious, also means concerned with tomb and womb or all life's undertakings as in 'grave truth' and the nearness of death increases their gravity.

Blind eye leads the poem back to the father who although blind in his last years to the holy light, he was in fact blind on his deathbed - the poem Elegy augments Do not go gentle and is the last poem Thomas wrote before he raged ungently into the dark in St. Vincent's Hospital on Seventh Ave. as if bounced from a bar on the Bowery."

Thanks so much for sharing the insight into Dylan. I am sure all will appreciate it...poetry not only opens the heart of the poet but allows us to look inside the mind and soul as well. ...anna

The villanelle is one of the easier forms to learn to write, surprisingly. The French name actually comes from the Italian villa or farm. Historically, the Italian villanella was a rustic dance or round song with simple repetition dating from the 16th Century.

Writers of villanelles include Theodore Roethke ("The Waking"), Dylan Thomas of couse, E.A. Robinson, Elizabeth Bishop, W.H. Auden, Donald Justice, Richard Hugo, Weldon Kees, David Wagoner, Marilyn Hacker. The best way to learn to write a villanelle is to study examples.

TIP = HOW TO BEGIN: Write the 1st and 3rd lines of the 1st stanza first. Make them about the same length and have the rhyming end word. Then write the other lines, working off these 2 lines. Vary the content of the repeated lines if you wish to soften the strict repetition of the traditional form (Yes, rules are made to be broken if done well such as those by Thomas and Roethke.)

_____________________________

FORM

The villanelle is made up of 6 stanzas: 5 tercets (3-lines) and the ending 6th stanza of a quatrain (4-lines).

There are 2 rhyme types and 2 refrains.

RHYME: The rhyme pattern is A,B,A except for the last/6th stanza which is A,B,A,A -- meaning the 1st, 3rd and 4th lines have end words that rhyme with each other.

REFRAINS: The 1st and 3rd lines of the 1st stanza take turns repeating as the final line of the next four stanzas. Then these 2 lines are the last 2 lines of the 6th stanza.

_______________________________

THE HOUSE ON THE HILL

-- Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869 - 1935)

They are all gone away,
The House is shut and still,
There is nothing more to say.

Through broken walls and gray
The winds blow bleak and shrill;
They are all gone away.

Nor is there one to-day
To speak their good or ill;
There is nothing more to say.

Why is it then we stray
Around the sunken sill?
They are all gone away,

And our poor fancy-play
For them is wasted skill:
There is nothing more to say.

There is ruin and decay
In the House on the Hill,
They are all gone away.
There is nothing more to say.

Marvelle

Haven't had time for Poetry for a long time now, but ran into 2 little items in my Sunday newspaper I found irresistible. This is by W.H. Auden, and I don't remember reading it previously, although I do own his anthology.

At Dirty Dick's and Sloppy Joe's We drank our liquor straight Some went upstairs with Margery, And some, alas, with Kate; And two by two like cat and mouse The homeless played at keeping house... The nightingales are sobbing in The orchards of our mothers, And hearts that we broke long ago Have long been breaking others...

That was in the BOOK WORLD section of The Washington Post. This next was in the PARADE section of the same paper; but Parade appears in many, many other newspapers as well.

Who will cry for the little boy Lost and all alone? Who will cry for the little boy Abandoned without his own?

Who will cry for the little boy, A good boy he tried to be? Who will cry for the little boy Who cries inside of me?

That was by Antwone Fisher, and Who Will Cry for the Little Boy? is the title of his book of poetry which was published 12/2002. The above are only the first and last verses. This author wrote an autobiography titled "Finding Fish" about his childhood spent in foster care.

Both poems pull at my heartstrings something fierce.

MaryPage, I loved both of those poems, and I am moved by each one. I did not know about Antwone Fisher's poetry book. I will try to get that one. I have "Finding Fish" on hold at the library. I like the last two lines the best.

"Who will cry for the little boy
Who cries inside of me?

The line that makes me tear up is "A good boy he tried to be."

Hi Anna,

I wanted to say how much I like the Dylan Thomas poem. I have read it many times, and each time I love it more than the last time. It gives us the courage to fight against invincible odds. Are all of his poems this great?

Of course, I enjoyed reading about the Heron in the Mary Oliver poem. She is a poet who you introduced to me. I love each of her poems that you post. The one you posted seemed to go right along with the the Thomas poem. He tells us life is worthing fighting for with all of our might, and Mary Oliver names what we will miss if we give up the fight. There is so much beauty in nature. Who could not love living each and everyday?

Thanks for the poems MaryPAge although the last one made me weep...and Hats I am so glad you enjoyed the poems I posted. When research a poem sometimes I have nothing in mind. Perhaps a feeling my day left with me, or a thought that slipped in when I wasnt looking. So I am never sure what I will find or share...as I have said sometimes I seem to be led to a particular poem.Summer has arrived in spades...with bright, bright sunlight and hot hot temperatures and higher heat index..we have an insect repeller lamp inside because there a lot of them sneak in due to the hot weather so

Here is one I found today ....

 
An August Midnight 
By Thomas Hardy 
6/2/1840-1/11/1928  

A shaded lamp and a waving blind,  
And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:  
On this scene enter--winged, horned, and spined -  
A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore;  
While 'mid my page there idly stands  
A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands . . .  





Thus meet we five, in this still place,  
At this point of time, at this point in space.  
- My guests parade my new-penned ink,  
Or bang at the lamp-glass, whirl, and sink.  
"God's humblest, they!" I muse. Yet why?  
They know Earth-secrets that know not I.

Thanks for both the information and the villanelle ...I read this last night but lost a poem I was going to share and just gave up ..it is too hot even with A/C. However later I couldnt go to sleep because I kept thinking of this poetic form and trying to come up with something I could give a try. Thanks again ..and when I suceed I will share...anna

Anna, it's me again. i love Thomas Hardy novels. I especially loved The Mayor of Casterbridge. I have never read one of his poems. I really enjoyed the one you posted. It fits these summer days.These are my favorite lines.

"A sleeply fly, that rubs its hands" and

"They know Earth-secrets that know not I."

I think the last line is very special. It takes a brave spirit to look for the secrets of the earth; spelunkers, explorers to the North and South Pole and mountain climbers.

I see a little of Earth-secrets when I look up at the stars or see beautiful wild flowers.

Marvelle, I am waiting for your poem. Then, I can see again what that form looks like.

Do you SUPPOSE that poem is where Jo Rowlings got the name for Professor Dumbledore?!? I'll just bet it is!

MaryPage, that makes sense!

I have read Hardy before but this one was a new one to me and that was a new word..havent looked it up to see what it means but if I were writing a book that needed a character to remember..it sure would come to mind....PS I am so pleased my choices connect with the readers...as I said I just pick something that goes with my thoughts or feelings each time and so often they seem just what everyone enjoys ...hugs to all...anna

Have not read any Hardy - thanks for the intro - I love his use of language - I need to find more of his work...

The group I meet with has been writing Haiku - we have learned that another form using the 5-7-5 that does not include seasons is Tanka - most of us are better at Tanka then Haiku but here are a couple that I thought you might enjoy.

The first one you may have to live where the lizards are a constant companion all summer on the screens, and walls of your house both inside and outside. Little boys try to catch them - hate giving the punch line but I think most of you live north and do not know the tails come off in the boys hands while the geico goes on its way - so this Tanka got a big aha laugh from everyone present. A Geico skitters
Boys have grown and moved away
Geico has a tail

Colored lanterns hang
above the evening dinners
Poets have to scream

This one I understand is really a Haiku since it has nature symbols of Spring

A faun is born
among the unraked leaves
where my garden grew

Barbara, I like the one about the Faun. What a peaceful and beautiful scene.

we did these in our poetry class one year and it was fun...I dont have a haiku today but one of my own. I kept trying to find a poem that just suited the time of year, the weather etc. Everytime a poem seemed to be just what I wanted to share thunder would rumble and I would hurry to turn the computer off.

I am sharing a poem written in 2002 ...perhaps I was led to this one as well. I was awake early the past few days, the sun wasnt up yet and everything looked sort of grey. When I caught a glimse of myself in the bathroom mirror I thought AUGH I look like an old witch. The dim light enhanced the grey in my dishelved hair and I was ready to return to bed until I would look better. This poem is called Paradox...tomorrow a better poem...anna

Barbara I loved the haiku about the geico ...met them on Okinawa and since they eat insects they were welcome in our quarters. We never tried to catch one and I thought of them as sort of HOUSEKEEPERS>>..

 
Paradox 

childhood memories return in waves  
of early morning winter smells  
cinnamon on buttered toast  
baked in a wood heated oven  
of summer flowers warmed from 
day long sun, the fragrance  
sharper in the evening air  
of swings that served to take us  
on imaginary trips to places  
we would never see  
of fireflies in summer and crickets 
in winter hidden among the logs, 
that heated the room where  
my bed, covered with what mama 
called feather ticks, a comforter  
to keep the cold night air at bay.  
the dreams my mind conjured  
of  what I would  be when I was grown.  
oh how I longed to see the marks  
on the kitchen wall prove I was  
taller and the mirror older  
today I am the same height as the summer  
I was twelve, heavier and at last I have  
reached that childhood wish  
I am old , my auburn hair faded to grey  
my step not as light nor  swift  
my bones creak here and there  
but in the mirror I see dimly  
the face I wore those many years ago  
and I FEEL YOUNG. 

anna alexander  
8/3/02©

July begins and always as an American I am ready to recognize July 4th and this poem came to mind. Anyone have a poem they remember and want to share? Perhaps one about a special event dear to you, a poem about a special day in your life, your country? We would love to hear. anna

 
Ralph Waldo Emerson - Concord Hymn  
Sung at the Completion of the Concord Monument, 4 July 1837 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 
Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 
We set to-day a votive stone; 
That memory may their deed redeem, 
When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, or leave their childern free, 
Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

 
For You O Democracy 

Come, I will make the continent indissoluble, 
I will make the most splendid race the sun ever shone upon, 
I will make the divine magnetic lands, 

With the love of comrades, 

With the life-long love of comrades, 
I will plant companionship thick as trees along the rivers of 
America, and along the shores of the great lakes, and all over 
the prairies, 

I will make inseperable cities with their arms about each other's 
necks, 
By the love of comrades, 
By the manly love of comrades. 

For you these from me, O Democracy, to serve you ma femme! 
For you, for you I am trilling these songs. 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just saw a film on Walt Whitman - he was such the expansive full of himself poet - so much like our nation at the time in the height of Manifest Destiny. A poet for his time -

He also believed in only using the simple word never the complex only the vocabulary of the man on the street. Words like "indissoluble" remind me of some of the McGuffy Readers I have in my collection that show the advanced vocabulary of even a Fourth Grader as compared to what is in use and expected today.

Some of his patriotic thoughts have held the test of time haven't they - I guess we all feel expansive when it comes to the freedom and liberty we attempt to make available for all who live among us. Like the lines you posted

Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, or leave their childern free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

Wonderful!

I only know O Captain! My Captain! and When Lilacs Last In the Dooryard Bloomed. They were in my Senior Poetry Book and over the top of My Captain in my schoolgirl handwriting it says "sustained metaphor". Was I ever that neat? The words bring back instantly everything I felt when the Kennedy's died. I remember early mornings clutching hankies and watching the Funerals on black and white TV.

Jan

I was talking to a friend from Canada about Canada Day and how they celebrated the day. He was born and raised there and commented Canadians arent as enthusiastic about Canada Day as Americans about the 4th of July. He felt the difference may have been the wars we fought to obtain our freedom. I dont know but I do know there are so many things that make me stand taller and determined and most have been incorporated into poetry and this poem became our national anthem. It was written by Francis Scott Key when he awoke after being held captive offshore of Ft McHenry by the British during the war of 1812. And I decided to place it here today. anna

 
The Star Spangled Banner  

By Francis Scott Key 

Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light 
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming? 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. 
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? 

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream: 
'Tis the star-spangled banner!  Oh long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, 
A home and a country should leave us no more! 
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave: 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
Between their loved home and the war's desolation! 
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land 
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto:  "In God is our trust." 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Hi Anna,

Isn't it funny? We always sing The Star Spangled Banner. I have never taken the time just to read the words. Today, because you posted the words, I will read them.

Happy July fourth to Everyone!!!!

Anna, I have a Mary Oliver poetry book on hold at the libray. It is called Dream Work. I also put one on hold one by Rita Dove. Those "blue shoes" stuck in my mind.

Yes we sing it but as you say we seldom read the whole poem or think about the reason Key wrote it. And I know you will enjoy the poetry books ..and I am so glad the ones I posted encouraged you to read more.

In the past few days I have searched and searched the net for just the right poem to share on the 4th...I know there are many but none seem to say what I hoped to post. I grew up during WWII as I am sure many of you did. My three older brothers served all during that war and many of my high school classmates joined and many failed to return. I graduated in '46 and we had a prom..a small affair since most of the males from that class were still in service. My husband was in WWII, The Korean War, Viet Nam and a number of places where the Air Force sent him and his plane. My two younger brothers were in Korea and Viet Nam...I am thankful they all returned but weep for my friends who failed to survive and for all who go when thier country calls. So forgive me for posting my own poem ...it is not that I think it so good but I need to share my feelings and this is the way I do it...anna

 
Come ye heros Rise Up 	 

From your graves, wherever they may be.  
Some honored, some unmarked, some beneath the sea. 
Today we need to celebrate each of you,  
Who fought ,though ill supplied, against enemies  
On every side. We need to honor you . 
Do not let US forget the price you paid.  
The debt we owe, and less we forget  
Amidst the picnics and parades 
To honor you. Let us kneel down and PRAY! 
To thank you for your sacrifice, for your family  
Left alone to face the future. They too were brave, 
To kiss you and say goodbye and never know 
If you would die and left behind in an unmarked spot, 
Or maimed and crippled return to say,  
I am glad and have no remorse for the gift I fought  
To save. Freedom, Oh use it well for it can tarnish  
Without your help. I beg of you don't let anyone take it away. 
Ring your bells, wave the flags, cheer the living  
And bless the dead. AND Thank God with heart and soul 
Or come and lie with me.  

anna alexander  
July 3, 2003©

Anna, your poem is so beautiful. Those men must not be forgotten. Their families carry a hard burden too. Sometimes we do forget what we should remember. Our minds are thinking about fireworks, hot dogs and relaxation. The day quickly becomes selfish and meaningless. Anna, your poem reminds us of the ones who gave their all for others. Thank you for posting it.

Today I would like to post the poem that became the song America. Written by school teacher Katharine Bates in 1893. A group of teachers decided to go to the top of Pikes Peak, 14,000 ft high. First they went by prairie cart and finally on mules. In her words she was exhausted but when they reached the top she was so taken with the beauty she viewed she wrote the first draft of the poem.The first draft was published in a weekly journal,The Congregalionalist on July 4th 1805. In 1904 she added more verses and the finished poem was written in 1913....anna

 
America the Beautiful - 1913 

O beautiful for spacious skies,  
For amber waves of grain,  
For purple mountain majesties  
Above the fruited plain!  
America! America!  
God shed his grace on thee  
And crown thy good with brotherhood 
From sea to shining sea! 

O beautiful for pilgrim feet 
Whose stern, impassioned stress 
A thoroughfare for freedom beat 
Across the wilderness! 
America! America! 
God mend thine every flaw, 
Confirm thy soul in self-control, 
Thy liberty in law! 

O beautiful for heroes proved In liberating strife.  
Who more than self the country loved 
And mercy more than life!  
America! America! 
May God thy gold refine  
Till all success be nobleness  
And every gain divine! 

O beautiful for patriot dream  
That sees beyond the years  
Thine alabaster cities gleam  
Undimmed by human tears!  
America! America!  
God shed his grace on thee  
And crown thy good with brotherhood  
From sea to shining sea! 

O beautiful for halcyon skies, 
For amber waves of grain, 
For purple mountain majesties 
Above the enameled plain! 
America! America! 
God shed his grace on thee 
Till souls wax fair as earth and air 
And music-hearted sea! 

O beautiful for pilgrims feet, 
Whose stern impassioned stress 
A thoroughfare for freedom beat 
Across the wilderness! 
America ! America ! 
God shed his grace on thee 
Till paths be wrought through  
wilds of thought 
By pilgrim foot and knee! 

O beautiful for glory-tale 
Of liberating strife 
When once and twice, 
for man's avail 
Men lavished precious life ! 
America! America!  
God shed his grace on thee 
Till selfish gain no longer stain  
The banner of the free! 

O beautiful for patriot dream  
That sees beyond the years 
Thine alabaster cities gleam 
Undimmed by human tears!  
America! America! 
God shed his grace on thee 
Till nobler men keep once again  
Thy whiter jubilee!

pablo neruda is a poet I have been wanting to read ..so today I did ..I chose the poem Ode to an Onion because I am especially fond of onions and because we often fail to appreciate the common..on the 4th I did my favorite thing with an onion..cut a slice from the bottom and cored it a bit..sprinkled it with coarse garlic and a bit of pepper ..stuffed a piece of butter inside the cored area, placed in on heavy duty aluminum foil and twisted it ..set it on top of the hot coals and about 30 min later opened the package and enjoyed an onion the way it should be...that makes me laugh..any way tell me what you think about the poem...anna

 
Ode To The Onion 

by Pablo Neruda 
Translated by Stephen Mitchell  

Onion, 
luminous flask, 
your beauty formed 
petal by petal, 
crystal scales expanded you 
and in the secrecy of the dark earth 
your belly grew round with dew. 
Under the earth 
the miracle 
happened 
and when your clumsy 
green stem appeared, 
and your leaves were born 
like swords 
in the garden, 
the earth heaped up her power 
showing your naked transparency, 
and as the remote sea 
in lifting the breasts of Aphrodite 
duplicating the magnolia, 
so did the earth 
make you, 
onion 
clear as a planet 
and destined 
to shine, 
constant constellation, 
round rose of water, 
upon 
the table 
of the poor. 

You make us cry without hurting us. 
I have praised everything that exists, 
but to me, onion, you are 
more beautiful than a bird 
of dazzling feathers, 
heavenly globe, platinum goblet, 
unmoving dance 
of the snowy anemone 

and the fragrance of the earth lives 
in your crystalline nature.

ANNA, what a lovely, sensual poem (and I have an onion here predestined for your yummy recipe!). I first "met" Neruda through his Love Sonnets which are amazing and I think you'd like them. All of Neruda's work is amazingly beautiful.

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) was Chile's Nobel Laureate, a career diplomat, and a Communist frequently persecuted by a new government which was non-democratic and a menace to freedom. Neruda's most famous home was the one at the Isla Negra by the sea. He wrote lovingly, in a book of prose poems "The House in the Sand", of the home he created there, collecting many things, ordinary and extraordinary, including ships' figureheads.

In the Afterword to the book, Chilean writer Ariel Dorfman talks about the importance of Neruda's house as a monument to hope and a metaphor for the life of art and the life of the mind. The Afterword was a plea to the people to maintain Neruda's home at Isla Negra, since the government had destroyed his other homes after the poet's death.

_________________________

Some prose poems from "The House in the Sand" by Pablo Neruda:

THE SEA

The Pacific Ocean was overflowing the borders of the map. There was no place to put it. It was so large, wild and blue that it didn't fit anywhere. That's why it was left in front of my window.

The humanists worried about the little men it devoured over the years.

They do not count. Not even that galleon, laden with cinnamon and pepper that perfumed it as it went down.

No.

Not even the explorers' ship -- fragile as a cradle dashed to pieces in the abyss -- which keeled over with its starving men.

No.

In the ocean, a man dissolves like a bar of salt. And the water doesn't know it.

_________________________

THE STONES

Stones, boulders, crags . . . Perhaps they were fragments of a deafening explosion. Or stalagmites that were once submerged, or hostile fragments of the full moon, or quartz that changed destiny, or statues that time and the wind broke into pieces or kneaded into shapes, or figureheads of motionless ships, or dead giants that were transmuted, or golden tortoises, or imprisoned stars, or ground swells as thick as lava which suddenly became still, or dreams of the previous earth, or the warts of another planet, or granite sparks that stood still, or bread for furious ancestors, or the bleached bones of another land, or enemies of the sea in their bastions, or simply stone that is rugged, sparkling, grey, pure and heavy so that you may construct, with iron and wood, a house in the sand.

_________________________

MICAELA

The last one to arrive at my home (1964) was Micaela. She is corpulent, sure of herself, with colossal arms. After her sea crossings, she was set up in a garden, among the farmlands. There she lost her maritime condition, was stripped of the mystery she certainly had (because she was brought from the wharves), and was transformed into a purely terrestial being, into an agricultural figurehead. She appears to carry in her raised arms not the gift of the twilight at sea but an armful of apples and cabbages. She is rustic.

Marvelle

Thank you Anna and Marvelle. Pablo Neruda is a new poet for me. I am anxious to read more of his poems. When I chop another onion, I will remember his poem. A onion does have a transluscent beauty, almost like a pearl.

Marvelle, I love poems about the ocean. I will read the one you posted again and again. I am going to look for his book House in the Sand at my library.

Thanks so much for sharing the sea poems and the biography of Pablo Neruda...I knew of him and always meant to look up some of his work. The first water color I did was a painting of two onions. Because they are everything he described ..it is matted and framed and hangs in my youngest daughter's kitchen. I chose them because I have always found onions beautiful as well as delicious .......and after reading his poem can anyone ever look at a onion without admiration again?

anna

Since he is a poet I have longed to read ....I share another of his poems today....anna

 
If You Forget Me 
by Pablo Neruda 

I want you to know 
one thing.  

You know how this is:  
if I look  
at the crystal moon, at the red branch  
of the slow autumn at my window,  
if I touch  
near the fire  
the impalpable ash  
or the wrinkled body of the log,  
everything carries me to you,  
as if everything that exists,  
aromas, light, metals,  
were little boats  
that sail  
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.  

Well, now,  
if little by little you stop loving me  
I shall stop loving you little by little.  

If suddenly  
you forget me  
do not look for me,  
for I shall already have forgotten you.  

If you think it long and mad,  
the wind of banners  
that passes through my life,  
and you decide  
to leave me at the shore  
of the heart where I have roots,  
remember  
that on that day,  
at that hour,  
I shall lift my arms  
and my roots will set off  
to seek another land.  

But  
if each day,  
each hour,  
you feel that you are destined for me  
with implacable sweetness,  
if each day a flower  
climbs up to your lips to seek me,  
ah my love, ah my own,  
in me all that fire is repeated,  
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,  
my love feeds on your love, beloved,  
and as long as you live it will be in your arms  
without leaving mine.

Thank you for sharing another Pablo Neruda poem, Anna. I like the imagery of "the red branch of the slow autumn at my window." His poetry is so sensual whether it be onions or a tree limb or the sea or, of course, love itself.

There's a widely available book of Neruda's called "100 Love Sonnets" which has the Spanish and English translation of each sonnet facing each other. The poems are radiant.

Marvelle

Anna and Marvelle,

Guess what!! Almost all of Pablo Neruda poetry books are checked out at my library. No wonder. These poems are beautiful.

Marvelle, used the same word I had in mind. The word is "sensual." That last poem really sent chills down my spine. Good chills.

Sneaky things that explode when you least expect them and keep you away from electrical appliances. We have either been on a severe thunderstorm alert or watching the wind and rain and lighting split the sky...this am is sunny and I looked for a poem ..I found one by Amy Lowell I hope you enjoy......and what have all of you been doing? anna

 
Amy Lowell 

 Summer 

Some men there are who find in nature all 
Their inspiration, hers the sympathy 
Which spurs them on to any great endeavor, 
To them the fields and woods are closest friends, 
And they hold dear communion with the hills; 
The voice of waters soothes them with its fall, 
And the great winds bring healing in their sound. 
To them a city is a prison house 
Where pent up human forces labour and strive, 
Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man; 
But where in winter they must live until 
Summer gives back the spaces of the hills. 
To me it is not so.  I love the earth 
And all the gifts of her so lavish hand: 
Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds, 
Thick branches swaying in a winter storm, 
And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake; 
But more than these, and much, ah, how much more, 
I love the very human heart of man. 
Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky, 
Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake 
Lazily reflecting back the sun, 
And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze 
Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns. 
The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops 
The green crest of the hill on which I sit; 
And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer, 
The very crown of nature's changing year 
When all her surging life is at its full. 
To me alone it is a time of pause, 
A void and silent space between two worlds, 
When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps, 
Gathering strength for efforts yet to come. 
For life alone is creator of life, 
And closest contact with the human world 
Is like a lantern shining in the night 
To light me to a knowledge of myself. 
I love the vivid life of winter months 
In constant intercourse with human minds, 
When every new experience is gain 
And on all sides we feel the great world's heart; 
The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!

Anna, what a beautiful and deeply appreciative poem on summer! Now I feel my complaints about heat grow silent when I muse on "it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer / the very crown of nature's changing year / when all her surging life is at its full / to me alone it is a time of pause / a void and silent space between two worlds"

Marvelle

Your choice of lines describes the summers of my youth. You can even carry that into my later years but somewhere along the line summer's have become too hot for me. Since everyone else seems to feel summer is wonderful I will have to blame it on advancing age. It is with pleasure I remember those summers from long ago and your choice of lines reminds me when summer was only joy. anna

Goodness, there is some beautiful poetry here in these pages ! Thankyou one and all for posting.

ANNA. MARJORIE, who is now visiting family in the British Isles, asks me to pass on her love to you. She has no access to computers in the places in which she is staying, but says she will read through your postings and remarks when she returns to New Zealand, I think in September. We miss her, both in these pages, and the NZ folder== Trevor

Now that is interesting ...I was thinking of Marjorie yesterday..Sat here and wondering if she were enjoying herself and how much she is missed. Today here is your message from her. I feel like we communicating via space.

Good to see you here too and hope you will share some of the wonderful poems from there. They share another view of what is common to us all. Thanks for relaying Marjories message.

When I am asked by those who reject the computer and ask what do I do,..I tell them I speak to friends all over the world, they question me further...How can you be friends with people you have never seen or met? I have no answer for them because I cant explain how like spirits can meet in space and while they may never meet in person...you KNOW THEM ..and often in ways you dont know the person who lives next door. Thank you friend and am looking forward to welcoming Marjorie on her return and you any time you drop by...anna

My computer has been off as much as on ..we are in a cycle where thunderstorms threaten. The thunder rolls across the sky and lets me know my computer needs to be OFF>..so today I took some time to search for a poem to share. I had something in my mind but I read a poem I liked totally unlike what I had in mind but it moved me and so here it is..anna

 
Rough Country 

Give me a landscape made of obstacles, 
of steep hills and jutting glacial rock, 
where the low-running streams are quick to flood 
the grassy fields and bottomlands. 

A place no engineers can master–where the roads 
must twist like tendrils up the mountainside 
on narrow cliffs where boulders block the way. 
Where tall black trunks of lightning-scalded pine 
push through the tangled woods to make a roost  
for hawks and swarming crows. 

And sharp inclines 
where twisting through the thorn-thick underbrush, 
scratched and exhausted, one turns suddenly 
to find an unexpected waterfall, 
not half a mile from the nearest road, 
a spot so hard to reach that no one comes– 
a hiding place, a shrine for dragonflies 
and nesting jays, a sign that there is still 
one piece of property that won't be owned. 

from The Gods of Winter 
© 1991 Dana Gioia

Hi Anna,

I enjoyed reading "Rough Country." The last line is really meaningful."One piece of property that won't be owned." Those places on earth that have not been touched by construction teams are the most beautiful and the most special. These are the places that must be protected for our children and grandchildren and all of the people we love who will live after we are gone.

Just wanted to check in...we have had both forecast and surprise thunderstorms lately. Yesterday we had a doozy ..a surprise..and I have spent today hauling tree branches which really look like small trees to the curb. One large branch hit the garage roof and had to be encouraged to fall down so I could drag ( how else would a 5' senior lady do that? ) to the curb. The streets were strewn with large clusters of leaves as well as lots of downed branches. One house in sight of mine had a tree fall on it..this is the second time for them.....I did have a poem in edit to share when we lost power...Will try to return later today with a poem. Be safe...anna

His poems read old-fashioned I guess but I have always enjoyed them ...this is one I used to sing when I was young and when I was older and started reading poetry and poets I found out it was originally a poem...but I always hear the tune when I read it...anna

 
 Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms 



  Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, 
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, 
Live fairy-gifts fading away, 
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, 
Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart 
Would entwine itself verdantly still. 

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 
That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known, 
To which time will but make thee more dear! 
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 
But as truly loves on to the close, 
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets 
The same look which she turned when he rose! 

Thomas Moore

ANNA, I didn't know this was originally a poem. I kept hearing the music too as I read. I especially liked the last 4 lines comparing the looks of love with the constancy of the sunflower turning to look at the sun.

We're coming to the end of the discussion of Dante's Inferno and I found this poem about the poet.

On A Bust of Dante by Thomas William Parsons

Marvelle

Marvelle many thanks for that link. I printed it out so I can read it again. My trip to Northern Virginia was delayed a day when the night before a most fierce thunderstorm arrived. It must have lasted nearly 3 hours, the longest I have endured. With my poor hearing I would shudder at the sounds and the black sky was constantly being split with flashes of white light. It reminds me of halogen light, no shadows, no softness ..just harsh,sharp light. The wind was gusty but not as much as the earlier storm we had. In any case my sweet dog, a Golden Retriever, was so frightened. To her sensitive ears I am sure the sound was awful and the pounding of the rain on my skylight drove both of us downstairs to a sofa placed somewhat in the middle of the house, where she cowered at my side and burrowed her head in her paws. We have such old trees here and they tower over my house and after the last storm I feared one might decide to demand entry. It delayed my trip and I returned yesterday ..Mon and thought today I had a doctor's appointment. I arrived on time to find out it is tomorrow..so here I am bringing you a poem

Marvelle sent me some poems about storms and I am going to ask if she will to share them with you. I visited a Robert Frost web site she mentioned but found another poem I fell in love with..I hope you like it too...anna

 
Putting in the Seed  

You come to fetch me from my work to-night  
When supper's on the table, and we'll see  
If I can leave off burying the white  
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree  
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,  
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea);  
And go along with you ere you lose sight 
Of what you came for and become like me,  
Slave to a Springtime passion for the earth.  
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed  
On through the watching for that early birth  
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,  
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes  
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs  
Robert Frost

It was 103-105 degrees last week. Now we're in the 95 range but also with a few minutes here and there of cooling rain. Rain never lasts long in high desert and when the first drops fall I like to sit out on the covered porch and extend my arms over the railing to catch raindrops in cupped hands. Here's a Robert Frost poem about the Down East rain which is more frequent and stronger than found in lower New Mexico:

NOW CLOSE THE WINDOWS

-- by Robert Frost

Now close the windows and hush all the fields:
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.

It will be long ere the marshes resume,
It will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.

ANNA, what a lovely image Frost gives us in "Putting in the Seed" of 'burying the white soft petals fallen from the apple tree' and how weeds come up but the sprout of the apple tree seed too 'shouldering its way'.

Marvelle

Another storm poem. This one from Theodore Roethke, son of a greenhouse grower in Michigan.:

BIG WIND

-- by Theodore Roethke

Where were the greenhouses going,
Lunging into the lashing
Wind driving water
So far down the river
All the faucents stopped?--
So we drained the manure-machine
For the steam plant,
Pumping the stale mixture
Into the rusty boilers,
Watching the pressure gauge
Waver over to red,
As the seams hissed
And the live steam
Drove to the far
End of the rose-house,
Where the worst wind was,
Creaking the cypress window-frames,
Cracking so much thin glass
We stayed all night,
Stuffing the holes with burlap;
But she rode it out,
That old rose-house,
She hove into the teeth of it,
The core and pith of that ugly storm,
Ploughing with her stiff prow,
Bucking into the wind-waves
That broke over the whole of her,
Flailing her sides with spray,
Flinging long strings of wet across the roof-top,
Finally veering, wearing themselves out, merely
Whistling thinly under the wind-vents;
She sailed until the calm morning,
Carrying her full cargo of roses.

Marvelle

AND here is a thunderstorm poem about Virginia and the Blue Ridge Mountains...which I love ....Marvelle sent me this and I share it with you...I can almost feel better about thunderstorms when I read and think about what he wrote.....anna

Virginia Evening

Michael Pettit

Just past dusk I passed Christiansburg,
cluster of lights sharpening
as the violet backdrop of the Blue Ridge
darkened. Not stars
but blue-black mountains rose
before me, rose like sleep
after hours of driving, hundreds of miles
blurred behind me. My eyelids
were so heavy but I could see
far ahead a summer thunderstorm flashing,
lightning sparking from cloud
to mountaintop. I drove toward it,
into the pass at Ironto, the dark
now deeper in the long steep grades,
heavy in the shadow of mountains weighted
with evergreens, with spruce, pine,
and cedar. How I wished to sleep
in that sweet air, which filled--
suddenly over a rise--with the small
lights of countless fireflies. Everywhere
they drifted, sweeping from the trees
down to the highway my headlights lit.
Fireflies blinked in the distance
and before my eyes, just before
the windshield struck them and they died.
Cold phosphorescent green, on the glass
their bodies clung like buds bursting
the clean line of a branch in spring.
How long it lasted, how many struck
and bloomed as I drove on, hypnotic
stare fixed on the road ahead, I can't say.
Beyond them, beyond their swarming
bright deaths came the rain, a shower
which fell like some dark blessing.
Imagine when I flicked the windshield wipers on
what an eerie glowing beauty faced me.
In that smeared, streaked light
diminished sweep by sweep you could have seen
my face. It was weary, shocked, awakened,
alive with wonder far after the blades and rain
swept clean the light of those lives
passed, like stars rolling over
the earth, now into other lives.

From Cardinal Points by Michael Pettit

I have been on that road a hundred times...and I love it in all seasons but especially in autumn.....anna

I love to come in here and lurk - when I feel the need to calm down. What a gem of a place this is! Thank you all for sharing your love of poetry. I wonder if you know this little html code/trick when posting poetry. Instead of putting a "br" in <> at the end of each line, you can simply put pre in <> before the poem and then close at the end with /pre in <> and the poem will look exactly as you pasted it in. Try it, it should save you some time- no more brs at the end of each line!
Love,
Joan

Hats asked if I would post a poem by poet Carlos Williams....he is new to me and I thank her for the introduction....I am glad to be back. The computer problems were erratic for me. One time working and the next hour ignoring me completely. It bounced around so much I was afraid I would be lost in cyber space...but it seems we are okay and here is the requested poem...anna

 
The Red Wheelbarrow 

William Carlos Williams  



so much depends 
upon 

a red wheel 
barrow 

glazed with rain 
water 

beside the white 
chickens.

Anna, if you are using the pre tag...you only have to use it once in the beginning of the poem and then close it at the end. Everything in between will look exactly as you put it in the screen, or pasted it in from somewhere else. Got it? One pre in the front - and one /pre at the end...

When I read this I felt the same way about poetry and it was so good to find someone to express it for me....anna

 
PABLO NERUDA 

POETRY 

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived 
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where 
it came from, from winter or a river. 
I don't know how or when, 
no, they were not voices, they were not 
words, nor silence, 
but from a street I was summoned, 
from the branches of night, 
abruptly from the others, 
among violent fires 
or returning alone, 
there I was without a face 
and it touched me. 

I did not know what to say, my mouth 
had no way 
with names 
my eyes were blind, 
and something started in my soul, 
fever or forgotten wings, 
and I made my own way, 
deciphering 
that fire 
and I wrote the first faint line, 
faint, without substance, pure 
nonsense, 
pure wisdom 
of someone who knows nothing, 
and suddenly I saw 
the heavens 
unfastened 
and open, 
planets, 
palpitating planations, 
shadow perforated, 
riddled 
with arrows, fire and flowers, 
the winding night, the universe. 

And I, infinitesmal being, 
drunk with the great starry 
void, 
likeness, image of 
mystery, 
I felt myself a pure part 
of the abyss, 
I wheeled with the stars, 
my heart broke free on the open sky.

Most of my choices are made because something in me seems to say..this is how you feel today..and so I bring a poets voice for you...anna

 
Robert Frost - A Minor Bird  

I have wished a bird would fly away, 
And not sing by my house all day; 

Have clapped my hands at him from the door 
When it seemed as if I could bear no more. 
 
The fault must partly have been in me. 
The bird was not to blame for his key. 

And of course there must be something wrong 
In wanting to silence any song.

Hi ANNA. I heard you had trouble getting onto SN for over a week. So glad you're back.

Neruda and Frost were writing about the same thing -- I think -- from different perspectives. Poetry found Neruda and gave him the liberating gift of song and it was an integral part of his nature; Frost guiltily wants to stop the song which the bird, due to his nature, MUST sing, nuisance though it is at times.

Marvelle

While Neruda and Frost wrote eloquently about being called to poetry, here's a silly(?), funny(?) one about being a poet:

POET'S WORK
-- by Lorine Niedecker (1903-1970)

Grandfather
advised me:
Learn a trade

I learned
to sit at desk
and condense

No layoff
from this
condensery

ANNA, I hope your computer is behaving now. How frustrating for you to have been locked out of the net for over a week.

Marvelle

Today I feel the weight of summer and we still have August to see through. As a fan of fresh air I miss open windows and smells from my garden. Yes I appreciate the air conditioner bringing a fake coolness to the house, I am grateful for it but already ready for cooler days and Autumn to arrive..which is why I chose this poem to share....anna

  AUTUMN CHANT" 

Now the autumn shudders 
In the rose's root, 
Far and wide the ladders 
Lean among the fruit. 

Now the autumn clambers 
Up the trellised frame 
And the rose remembers 
The dust from which it came. 

Brighter than the blossom 
On the rose's bough 
Sits the wizened, orange, 
Bitter berry now; 

Beauty never slumbers; 
All is in her name; 
But the rose remembers 
The dust from which it came. 

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Hi Anna and Marvelle,

I am ready for autumn too. Anna, I greatly appreciate the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem. I am slowly making my way through Savage Beauty by reading the Archived notes. Your comments on her poems are beautiful. I also am learning a lot from the posts made by Ella, Harriet and Brumie and the other posters in the archives.

I cant recall a summer when we have had so many thunderstorms. My garden has plenty of water but the sunny days are so hot and muggy I cant weed. If this keeps up by September the weeds will have won.

Any way I found a poem written by a weather man..he was a little more than that holding some official position. It was in a NOAA newsletter and it is thought to have been written in 1942....it is about thunderstorms with a bit of humor...anna

An Untitled Poem on Thunder and Lightning by George W. Mindling

If they try to persuade you that shooting makes rain, You can tell them in substance they “give you a pain”. If they argue that thunder precedes the downpour, You can show them how badly they mix up their lore. When the high swollen cloud drops a heavy rain dash, It’s the splitting of raindrops makes the lightning flash, Which in turn then produces the thunder’s loud crash.

So the rain is the starter – by good reason it is first – Not the lightning’s bright flash or the thunder’s outburst. But say the rain and the lightning and the thundering sound Make a start all together in a race for the ground. Now, the flash is perceived before thunder is heard, Though the sound of the thunder outspeeds any bird. Still the speed of the sound is some forty times faster Than the speed of the raindrops a falling like plaster. So, why shouldn’t you hear the loud roaring sound A little bit sooner than the rain hits the ground?

Hi, everybody. I am new on Seniornet, and even newer on the Poetry thread. I love poetry very much, and am fortunate to be able to read French, German, Italian, and Spanish poetry in original--besides English, of course. I would like to share some of my favorites in foreign languages, if somebody is interested. Please, let me know.

Welcome and we hope you will share the poems you love...I can make out some words in other languages but now well...I am not sure what to suggest since I do know there are those on seniornet who have a great command of other languages////why dont you post one and see how it goes? Is it possible to include a translation ? I do hope you will return and post your poems...anna

There is always a line in her poems that just reaches out and grabs me..here is the latest...anna <center)
Black Oaks by Mary Oliver

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,

or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance and comfort.

Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays carp and whistle all day in the branches, without the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen
and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage

of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from one boot to another -- why don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money, I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

What a wonderful group of poems shared of late - with all the talk of thunder my mind darted to another type of thunder - I do not remember if we shared this earlier or not but it is where I am tonight and I can hear it read by Richard Burton. I'm going to try Joan's per - whoops didn't work only seperated the stanzas but not each line...

- Channel Firing -
Harding

That night your great guns, unawares,
Shook all our coffins as we lay,
And broke the chancel window-squares,
We thought it was the Judgment-day
And sat upright. While drearisome
Arose the howl of wakened hounds:
The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,
The worms drew back into the mounds,
The glebe cow drooled. Till God called, "No;
It's gunnery practice out at sea
Just as before you went below;
The world is as it used to be:
"All nations striving strong to make
Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters
They do no more for Christés sake
Than you who are helpless in such matters.
"That this is not the judgment-hour
For some of them's a blessed thing,
For if it were they'd have to scour
Hell's floor for so much threatening ....
"Ha, ha. It will be warmer when
I blow the trumpet (if indeed
I ever do; for you are men,
And rest eternal sorely need)."
So down we lay again. "I wonder,
Will the world ever saner be,"
Said one, "than when He sent us under
In our indifferent century!"
And many a skeleton shook his head.
"Instead of preaching forty year,"
My neighbour Parson Thirdly said,
"I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer."
Again the guns disturbed the hour,
Roaring their readiness to avenge,
As far inland as Stourton Tower,
And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.

Barbara thanks for sharing that poem....here is the one I found for today....anna

Acquainted with the Night
by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain - and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But did not call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.

Annafair, thank you for your encouragement. Before I would start pushing foreign poetry down your throat, I would like to know about people who can read those languages, and which ones.

Maybe it was the rain today..again! Pounding the skylight, pouring over the roof line, but somehow I thought of the sea and Masefields poem. Years ago when I sailed to Europe and return I thought how special it was ..out on the ocean, no land in sight and the ships providing a moving home. Even in the storms ( one small and the other wild) I recalled how serene I felt inside. In my mind I quoted this poem and I guess I still feel this way. Life is the adventure and its challenges moves us along. Good companions along the way and in the end a quiet place. anna

Sea Fever

by John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sails shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume and the seagull crying.

I must go down to the sea again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife: And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover, And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trip's over.

Hegeso: Mais oui, we would love to have you post some poems in the French discussion. By all means. No just poems, anything your heart desires. Juck click HERE and you will be taken directly there. You will be most welcome.

Eloïse

It seems just as I am trying to post a poem thunder and lightning begins. I dont have one right now...since each time I turn off the computer I lose it in edit. each night we are visited by THUNDER STORMS.....and sometimes during the day as well. The prediction for the next ten days is more of the same. It is late so I am going to park this and go to my corel and retrieve a poem I wrote. August always has great meaning to me since it was the time my late husband started getting ready for a 6 week Nato exercise in Turkey. By the time he returned in October the leaves had started to fall and and he had missed so much. After his death I would visit my daughter in the Blue Ridge mountains in late August and all the signs of autumn were there, the round rolls of hay, like huge biscuits toasting in the sun and the deep, dark shadows the trees cast across the highway...so this poem was one I wrote in memory of that time. anna

A Question for you

When Autumn comes shall I gather Her jewels fallen to the ground? Pack each one in a box and send them Off to you? What will you think When you open and find them there? Topaz from the tulip tree, garnet and ruby Sparkling in the sun. Waiting to be gathered Before they dry and blow away. Will you remember me as I remember you? Your address I no longer know, Where did you go when we said goodbye? How can I reach you? What number can I call When summer says goodbye and I say hello to fall?

anna alexander August 5, 2003 ©

Hi Anna,

Your poem is beautiful. I am going to print it out and reread it. You described the fall leaves in such a unique way. I am in the mood for fall. It is my favorite season. I am waiting anxiously for the return of autumn.

You are a poet. I have seen bundles of hay. Never thought to describe them as "biscuits." I will remember that too.

I enjoyed reading Sea Fever too. You have a way of picking the perfect poem at the perfect time here in Poetry Corner. I hope you will continue for a very long time.

ANNA, I can only ditto HATS. I loved it and think this is your best ever from a long line of beautiful Anna-poems.

Marvelle

Thank you for your encouragement, Annafair and Eloise. I will go now to the French section.

I am deeply touched by your caring.

I know you will find a place there for your poems in French but if I may suggest ...you must have some favorite poems in English as well...and we would love to see you share some of them when you care to do so. And in the years I have been here on seniornet I can tell you ..you wont find more caring, helpful and nice people anywhere in the world...they are here in abundance and are encouragers supreme....take care,,anna

I am so weary of rain I feel like singing Rain Rain GO AWAY ....actually I feel like moaning that line. Today I decided I needed something a bit far afield from rain and water poems...so here it is...anna

Endymion

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana, in her dreams, Had dropt her silver bow Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this, She woke Endymion with a kiss, When, sleeping in the grove, He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Love gives itself, but is not bought; Nor voice, nor sound betrays Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes,—the beautiful, the free, The crown of all humanity,— In silence and alone To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, And kisses the closed eyes Of him who slumbering lies.

O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes! O drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own.

Responds,—as if with unseen wings, An angel touched its quivering strings; And whispers, in its song, "Where hast thou stayed so long?"

Anna this poem reminds me how we do not know any longer the names and stories of all the Gods and Goddesses - there was so many poems written during the nineteenth century refering to them and yet we know there was little schooling beyond the 6th grade for the average person - and yet they seemed to know the Gods and Goddesses as most kids today know their football, basketball and baseball stars. Seems to me even through the early part of the twentieth century education included memorizing certain poems and those poems would include references to some of the Gods and Goddesses - I wonder if that was the means used to learn who they were...I know even I had a few poems I was required to memorize by it was my mother and father's generation who could quote in full poems like Hiawatha and the Wreck of the Hespres and Paul Rever's Ride oh yes, and what was that one about the 6000 that rode to their doom...all to say I need to look up and find out who was Endymion.

600 that rode into the Valley of Death. About the British charge of the Russian guns. Crimea, was it not?

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

Endymion was a handsome shepherd boy of Asia Minor, the mortal lover of the moon goddess Selene. Each night he was kissed to sleep by her. She begged Zeus to grant him eternal life so she might be able to embrace him forever. Zeus complied, putting Endymion into eternal sleep and each night Selene visits him on Mt. Latmus, near Milete, in Asia Minor. The ancient Greeks believed that his grave was situated on this mountain. Selene and Endymion have fifty daughters.

Thanks so much for that link ..there have been several times I have wanted to use that poem and didnt...a link makes it easier and also gives the reader and option...Thanks again, anna

I am not sure where I was in school, it was a LONG time ago but I do have a lot of knowledge of the Gods and Goddesses and Mount Olympus etc....I have no idea why....I think you are right that most students of today would not know and perhaps not care.. One thing I am grateful for William and Mary University offers a Shakepeare Camp for young children. My 8 year old grandaughter attended and loved it...they gave a play at the end..which unfortunately I was unable to attend but my sil videotaped it so I will see it. The children really seemed to love the whole thing. They are into a lot of sports as well but they all seem to love books...and plays...anna

Wow thanks Mary Page for the link - yes, 600 not 6000 - I can hear my father now - Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them

annafair a Shakepeare Camp for young children WOW!

MaryPage, thanks for the link which I've saved in my file. The poem is so memorable.

Anna, I know you sent me your new email but I've lost it. Can you send it yet once again? This second time I promise to keep it safe.

Marvelle

When I was eight years old, I read Bullfinch's mythology. I mean, everyone did, back then. It was de rigueur, right along with the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson. When I was ten, I read "Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare". Again, everyone did. Charles Lamb and his sister Mary wrote all of the Shakespeare works, or at least most of them, in fairy tale form for children to read and understand the stories and who the characters were. This made Shakespeare a piece of cake for me by the time I hit 8th grade and my first play of his in English Lit. I already knew who the players were and what was going on. The new revelation was not what Shakespeare had them say, but how he had them say it!

Perhaps that is it because years ago I read Bullfinch's Mythology ..in fact I was looking for another book and saw it tonight..( I have books all over the house but do have a library area in my den )I thought gee maybe that's how I remember all those mythic characters...it sounds reasonable to me...

I also remember my readers in grade school had a lot of stories about the mythic characters ...I loved them since not only was the story engrossing we had such beautiful paintings that accompanied them.Oh for the good old days...anna I will post a new poem tomorrow ..we had heavy thunderstorms again today in fact we had an F1 tornado about 6 miles or less away...so I have been on and off my computer all day and really have had little time to do much...anna

Every year I yearn for Autumn ....August is usually our hottest month but as I have complained ..the rain is a constant this year so I am ready for Autumn and so was John Keats...Here is his poem about Autumn ..enjoy, anna

To Autumn

John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

 

So as not to live alone 
We live with a dog, 
Surround ourselves with roses 
Or worship a cross. 
So as not to live alone 
We choose make-believe, 
Loving a memory, 
A shadow, any old thing. 
So as not to live alone 
We live for Spring 
And when Spring is gone 
We live for next Spring. 
So as not to live alone 
I love you and I'll wait for you 
It gives me the illusion 
That I'm not all alone. 

So as not to live alone 
Girls are loving girls 
And you can see boys 
marrying other boys. 
So as not to live alone 
Some have children 
Children who are alone 
Like all children. 
So as not to live alone 
We build cathedrals 
Where all the lonely souls 
Cling to a star. 
So as not to live alone 
I love you and I'll wait for you 
It gives me the illusion 
That I'm not all alone. 

So as not to live alone 
We are making friends 
And we gather them at life's dawn. 
We live for our money, for our dreams, for our castles in the sky. 
But you cannot be buried at two places. 
So as not to live alone, I live with you. 
I am lonely with you, you are lonely with me. 
So as not to live alone 
We live like the ones that want to live with the illusion 
That they are not all alone.

This song moved me for the beautiful poetry. The music itself is typical French cafe music, but Oh the lyrics! Apparently it was written in 1972. The movie is 2002, but I just viewed it on DVD today.

Here is a site about it: Pour ne pas Vivre Seul

Anna, Keats is a beautiful, lyric writer. I liked "Where are the sons of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too." And then MaryPage includes the gorgeous poem. It reminds me of Edith Piaf.

Anna, the link to your email address ends with dot com rather than dot net. I think that's why my email didn't go through but it works when I use dot net.

Marvelle

Hi Anna,

MaryPage, like Marvelle, I think the poem is very, very beautiful and meaningful. Thank you for posting it.

I lost another poem because of weather so I appreciate your posting...and what a poem and it moved me so much. We do so many things not to be alone and in the end we are just that. I wish I could hear it being sung but my hearing loss has left me a great deal alone even in a group sometimes. It is like being in a room of mimes and the action is not understandable. So your post means a LOT to me..thanks again...and I want to say something personal here...I appreciate all the posters and the lurkers...in fact my heart is full of love for you all. anna

The movie 8 Women is out in video and DVD, and may be rented. It is a silly spoof on murder mysteries. French (English subtitles), each actress is famous in France, and some throughout the world. They really ham it up, and I think it possible it was all filmed at once like a stage play. BUT, each of the 8, at some point in the melodrama (for it is that), stops and sings a song by herself. One of the 8 is a black (African-French? Is that what they choose to say over there? I honestly do not know.) cook, named Chantal. She is the one who sings this painfully insightful song.

If you go to Google, or any search machine, and type in "Pour Ne Pas Vivre Seul", you will find a lot of sites about it. You can even listen to a bit of it. Or you can rent the movie and settle in with some bon-bons.

A movie and bon-bons -- irresistible. Thanks MaryPage for the inspiration. Anna, you're an inspiration yourself both as a poet and a human being.

Marvelle

I hope you those are coconut bon bons. I have been trying to remember what poems I had in edit before the storms caused me to lose them. I will just post one that I liked and see what you think...anna

The Country Wife

She makes her way through the dark trees Down to the lake to be alone. Following their voices on the breeze, She makes her way. Through the dark trees The distant stars are all she sees. They cannot light the way she's gone. She make her way through the dark trees Down to the lake to be alone.

The night reflected on the lake, The fire of stars changed into water. She cannot see the winds that break The night reflected on the lake But knows they motion for her sake. These are the choices they have brought her: The night reflected on the lake, The fire of stars changed into water.

Dana Gioia

All of Emily Dickenson's poems are available on the net so I know when I can always find something there ...this one interests me, particularly where she mentions Van Diemans land...I looked it up an unless I am misundertanding she speaking of a Penal Colony in Australia in Tasmania....I keep re reading that verse and think it may mean she would stay a prisoner until her love appeared. BUT I would like to hear how you read that verse as well. SO WHAT THINK YOU? anna

Emily Dickinson (1830–86).

If you were coming in the fall.

IF you were coming in the fall, I ’d brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year, I ’d wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed, I ’d count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen’s land.

If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I ’d toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length Of time’s uncertain wing, It goads me, like the goblin bee, That will not state its sting.

Is Van Dieman's Island a leprosy colony? That was my first thought. If wrong, excuse me.

Anna, I know you are right about the penal colony. I thought of leprosy for some reason, in relationship to the name of the colony.

ANNA, this is a lovely poem. My quick research gave me the same answer that Van Dieman's Land was a prison colony in southeastern Australia (Tasmania}. It was considered quite remote with harsh living conditions. Originally it didn't have women and convicts convicted of murder were sent there for the rest of their lives. HATS, Van Dieman's land did have a brief period of illness that could have been leprosy as you suspected, and escaping prisoners also were known to turn to cannibalism in order to survive. (Both images of fallen/separated fingers.)

Dickinson's poem is masterful and surprisingly complex. She takes us in stages through her agony of separation from her love and waiting for his return. The longer the wait, the greater the agony.

Stage 1 waiting one season (a few months) - she'd 'brush the summer by... as housewives do a fly'. Time would pass quickly.

Stage 2 waiting one year - she'd 'wind the months in balls and put them each in separate drawers'. The waiting is more difficult but by separating the months instead of stringing them together by counting one month at a time -- the time will pass more rapidly.

Stage 3 waiting for centuries - 'I'd count [the centuries] on my hand, subtracting till my fingers dropped into Van Dieman's land.' Dickinson plays with a little riddle here as her fingers would drop down under to Austrailia/Tasmania. This centuries wait is more painful than the shorter waits.

Stage 4 waiting for eternity - she'd 'toss [her life] yonder like a rind, and taste eternity'. Death is worthwhile, life tossed away like an orange peel, if it means they'd be together forever.

Stage 5 waiting for an uncertain time - 'It goads me like the Goblin Bee that will not state its sting.' This not knowing is her greatest agony. Every second of waiting hurts.

Dickinson did a few things here. First of course the difficulty of dealing with a separation increases with each stanza in which the contemplated waiting-time gets longer and longer. As the waiting extends, so Dickinson's personal control of her environment decrease (swatting a fly to stored ball to dropped fingers) while her efforts to cope increase. Finally, in the last stanza the hidden agony explodes with the realization that the unknown is the worst of all, the most unbearable because she cannot avoid its sting/pain.

Okay, so this is my reading of it. It isn't necessarily right or the only way this can be read.

Marvelle

Marvelle thank you especially for your explanation...but that 3rd verse still troubles me. The others made sense and touched me but that line really puzzled me. However in my search I did find that at one time there were lepers there and since she is saying she would count them and drop them off I wonder if she isnt referring to leprosy. Whenever you read about leprosy in old stories etc they do speak of losing toes etc so if you are counting centuries you would expect each finger to drop off..in any case it shows poems are more than mere rhymes....readers of Emily in her time would prehaps understand that reference. I had never heard of Van Dieman's Land and needed to undertand what it was. Prison perhaps would not be appropiate .,.she is willing to wait and if necessary lose her fingers if her love will only come...regardless of the years she waits. I just loved the poem it moved me and I thank you all for your responses ...remember whenever a poem is posted here you are free to tell how it affects you and explain why. That is why I explained my last poem but as Marvelle said and I have always said each poem is first the poets but your interpretation and expierience affects what it means to you....thanks again..anna

Summer
Amy Lowell

Some men there are who find in nature all Their inspiration, hers the sympathy Which spurs them on to any great endeavor, To them the fields and woods are closest friends, And they hold dear communion with the hills; The voice of waters soothes them with its fall, And the great winds bring healing in their sound. To them a city is a prison house Where pent up human forces labour and strive, Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man; But where in winter they must live until Summer gives back the spaces of the hills. To me it is not so. I love the earth And all the gifts of her so lavish hand: Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds, Thick branches swaying in a winter storm, And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake; But more than these, and much, ah, how much more, I love the very human heart of man. Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky, Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake Lazily reflecting back the sun, And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns. The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops The green crest of the hill on which I sit; And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer, The very crown of nature's changing year When all her surging life is at its full. To me alone it is a time of pause, A void and silent space between two worlds, When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps, Gathering strength for efforts yet to come. For life alone is creator of life, And closest contact with the human world Is like a lantern shining in the night To light me to a knowledge of myself. I love the vivid life of winter months In constant intercourse with human minds, When every new experience is gain And on all sides we feel the great world's heart; The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!

I love Amy Lowell. Wasn't she the one who actually was one of the famous Boston Lowells and smoked a cigar? She wrote PATTERNS, and I absolutely adored it.

I havent tried this before so hope it works..this is a link to Amy Lowells biography....anna

http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/amylowell/index.shtml#bio

 

I walk down the garden paths, 
And all the daffodils 
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. 
I walk down the patterned garden-paths 
In my stiff, brocaded gown. 
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, 
I too am a rare 
Pattern. As I wander down 
The garden paths.

 

My dress is richly figured, 
And the train 
Makes a pink and silver stain 
On the gravel, and the thrift 
Of the borders. 
Just a plate of current fashion, 
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. 
Not a softness anywhere about me, 
Only whalebone and brocade. 
And I sink on a seat in the shade 
Of a lime tree. For my passion 
Wars against the stiff brocade. 
The daffodils and squills 
Flutter in the breeze 
As they please. 
And I weep; 
For the lime tree is in blossom 
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

 

And the plashing of waterdrops 
In the marble fountain 
Comes down the garden-paths. 
The dripping never stops. 
Underneath my stiffened gown 
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, 
A basin in the midst of hedges grown 
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, 
But she guesses he is near, 
And the sliding of the water 
Seems the stroking of a dear 
Hand upon her. 
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! 
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. 
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

 

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, 
And he would stumble after, 
Bewildered by my laughter. 
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes. 
I would choose 
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, 
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, 
Till he caught me in the shade, 
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, 
Aching, melting, unafraid. 
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, 
And the plopping of the waterdrops, 
All about us in the open afternoon— 
I am very like to swoon 
With the weight of this brocade, 
For the sun sifts through the shade.

 

Underneath the fallen blossom 
In my bosom, 
Is a letter I have hid. 
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. 
“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell 
Died in action Thursday night.” 
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, 
The letters squirmed like snakes. 
“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman. 
“No,” I told him. 
“See that the messenger takes some refreshment. 
No, no answer.” 
And I walked into the garden, 
Up and down the patterned paths, 
In my stiff, correct brocade. 
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, 
Each one. 
I stood upright too, 
Held rigid to the pattern 
By the stiffness of my gown. 
Up and down I walked, 
Up and down.

 

In a month he would have been my husband. 
In a month, here, underneath this lime, 
We would have broke the pattern; 
He for me, and I for him, 
He as Colonel, I as Lady, 
On this shady seat. 
He had a whim 
That sunlight carried blessing. 
And I answered, “ It shall be as you have said”. 
Now he is dead.

 

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk 
Up and down 
The patterned garden-paths 
In my stiff, brocaded gown. 
The squills and daffodils 
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. 
I shall go 
Up and down 
In my gown. 
Gorgeously arrayed, 
Boned and stayed. 
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace 
By each button, hook, and lace. 
For the man who should loose me is dead, 
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, 
In a pattern called a war. 
Christ! What are patterns for?

Those of you interested in Poetry may be stunned to see Richard Wilbur appearing at the National Book Festival in Washington DC on October 3! You may remember Wilbur, a several times Pulitzer Prize winner, as one of the...did they call them War Poets? At any rate, he's going, and of course we in the Books are, too, not as a Bookfest but as our annual appearance at the National Book Festival, have no idea what he's written since WWII or what subjects he's tackling but he was once the cause celebre of the poetry world, if you didn't realize he was going to be there, thought you'd like to know.

ginny

Richard Wilbur is a translator as well as poet. About every 8-10 years he brings out a book of his own poetry. I think his latest is Mayflies, published in 2000. Here's a tiny poem from this book:

A SHORT HISTORY

Corn planted us; tamed cattle made us tame.
Thence hut and citadel and kingdom came.

_________________________

Another poem from Mayflies:

SIGNATURES

False Solomon's Seal --
So called because it lacks a
Star-scar on the heel,

And ends its arched stem
In a spray of white florets,
Later changing them

To a red, not blue,
Spatter of berries -- is no
Falser than the true.

Solomon, who raised
The temple and wrote the song,
Wouldn't have dispraised

This bowed, graceful plant
So like an aspergillum,
Nor its variant

With root duly scarred,
Whose bloom-hung stem is like the
Bell-branch of a bard.

Liking best to live
In the deep woods whose light is
Most contemplative,

Both are often found
Where mandrake, wintergreen, and
Dry leaves strew the ground,

Their heads inclining
Toward the dark earth, one blessing
And one divining.

In an author's note to the above poem, Wilbur writes: 'Gerard's Herball (1597) says of Solomon's Seal that 'The root is white and thicke, full of knobs or joints, in some places resembling the mark of a scale, whereof I thinke it tooke the name Sigillum Solomonis.' Evidently some herbalists saw in the 'raised orbicular scars of the stems of former years' (Homer D. House, Wild Flowers) a pattern resembling the magical five-pointed or six-pointed star called Solomon's Seal. The rootstock of False Solomon's Seal also bears the scars of former stems, but no such pattern has been discerned in them. Yeat's poems mention more than once the bell-branch which was the insignia of the ancient Celtic bard or ollave. And Robert Graves, in his White Goddess, tells of 'the branch of golden bells which were the ollave's emblem of office'."

Marvelle

Some years summers seem longer than others and this is certainly been one of them. I have read and read trying to find a poem that seemed right for me to share. This is what I found, it seemed to reflect my feelings. anna

WHEN I HEARD THE LEARN'D ASTRONOMER

by: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

WHEN I heard the learn'd astronomer, When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me, When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them, When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room, How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick, Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself, In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

I just purchased two books by Dana Gioia and am enjoying them so much.Poetry is special for me..There is always one that captures my feelings regardless of what those feelings are. So here is one for today...anna

The Sunday News
Dana Gioia

Looking for something in the Sunday paper, I flipped by accident through Local Weddings, Yet missed the photograph until I saw your name among the headings.

And there you were, looking almost unchanged, Your hair still long, though now long out of style, And you still wore that stiff and serious look You called a smile.

I felt as though we sat there face to face. My stomach tightened. I read the item through. It said too much about both families, Too little about you.

Finished at last, I threw the paper down, Stung by jealousy, my mind aflame, Hating this man, this stranger whom you loved, This printed name.

And yet I clipped it out to put away Inside a book like something I might use, A scrap I knew I wouldn't read again But couldn't bear to lose.

Dana Gioia

Just one I used to read..anna ...In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

...It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

...The little rift within the lover's lute, Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all.

...It is not worth the keeping: let it go; But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. And trust me not at all or all in all.

.....Vivien's Song by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Autumn is just around the corner...and I think of cooler days and especially cooler nights. My dream is to clear the summer weeds fed by all the rain and get ready for spring...I am going to put lots of mulch out and hope to suffocate those weed seeds...just the idea sets my thoughts dancing....I looked to Robert Frost to find something to post today, this poem reminds me of my mother saying she wasnt impressed with good intentions that bore no fruit...hope you are all reading poetry even if you are not posting. take care of you wherever you are and be safe...anna

Robert Frost (1874–1963). Mountain Interval. 1920.

The Exposed Nest

YOU were forever finding some new play. So when I saw you down on hands and knees In the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay, Trying, I thought, to set it up on end, I went to show you how to make it stay, If that was your idea, against the breeze, And, if you asked me, even help pretend To make it root again and grow afresh. But ’twas no make-believe with you to-day, Nor was the grass itself your real concern, Though I found your hand full of wilted fern, Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clover. ’Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground The cutter-bar had just gone champing over (Miraculously without tasting flesh) And left defenseless to the heat and light. You wanted to restore them to their right Of something interposed between their sight And too much world at once—could means be found. The way the nest-full every time we stirred Stood up to us as to a mother-bird Whose coming home has been too long deferred, Made me ask would the mother-bird return And care for them in such a change of scene And might our meddling make her more afraid. That was a thing we could not wait to learn. We saw the risk we took in doing good, But dared not spare to do the best we could Though harm should come of it; so built the screen You had begun, and gave them back their shade. All this to prove we cared. Why is there then No more to tell? We turned to other things. I haven’t any memory—have you?— Of ever coming to the place again To see if the birds lived the first night through, And so at last to learn to use their wings.

Whenever I think of all the poems read over all the years, the solace thay gave me, the humor that made me smile, the unanswered questions and the ones that gave me insight I think How can I read them all? Of course I cant as there will always be new poets saying the old things in new ways or recognizing the value of old truths ..today I just share a poem for you from a poet briefly read..anna

Rainer Maria Rilke
You Who Never Arrived...

You who never arrived in my arms, Beloved, who were lost from the start, I don't even know what songs would please you. I have given up trying to recognize you in the surging wave of the next moment. All the immense images in me -- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape, cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected turns in the path, and those powerful lands that were once pulsing with the life of the gods-- all rise within me to mean you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all the gardens I have ever gazed at, longing. An open window in a country house-- , and you almost stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon,-- you had just walked down them and vanished. And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows? Perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us yesterday, separate, in the evening...

Anna, both poems are very beautiful.

Another poet, Howard Nemerov (1920-1991), U.S. Poet Laureate from 1988-1990. The first poem was my first introduction to him -- simple yet getting me to see and feel the unsayable. The second is a poem I sometimes feel on certain nights. Other Nemerov poems I like (and there are many) are Gyroscope; A Spell Before Winter; and Space Shuttle Poems.

POEMS BY HOWARD NEMEROV

Because You Asked about the Line between Prose and Poetry

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing driggle
That while youwatched turned into pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow

There came a moment that you couldn't tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.

_________________________

Insomnia 1

Some nights it's bound to be your best way out,
When nightmare is the short end of the stick,
When sleep is a part of town where it's not safe
To walk at night, when waking is the only way
You have of distancing your wretched dead,
A growing crowd, and escaping out of their
Time into yours for another little while;
Then pass ghostly, a planet in the house
Never observed, among the sleeping rooms
Where children dream themselves, and thence go down
Into the empty domain where daylight reigned;
Reward yourself with drink and a book to read,
A mystery, for its elusive gift
Of reassurance against the hour of death.
Order your heart about: Stop doing that!
And get the world to be secular again.
Then, when you know who done it, turn out the light,
And quietly in darkness, in moonlight, or snowlight
Reflective, listen to the whistling earth
In its backspin trajectory around the sun
That makes the planets sometimes retrograde
And brings the cold forgiveness of the dawn
Whose light extinguishes all stars but one.

Marvelle

ANNA, be sure to go over and check the VIRGINIA forum. They are going to have a SeniorNet International Bash in Richmond next May. You can get to that one!

Boy, what a typo I made in the first line of first poem. Driggle, ha! Here it is typed properly.

Because You Asked about the Line between Prose and Poetry

-- by Howard Nemerov (1920-1991)

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned into pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.

There came a moment that you couldn't tell,
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.

_________________________

No typos, yeaa.

Marvelle

Marvelle, I like the second poem too.

Sorry but this has been a strange summer ..I think I mentioned that before...one of my surviving brother's has been visiting and we have seen a lot..spent today at Jamestown Settlement ..which houses replica's of the 3 ships the settlers arrived in, a replica of the fort and a replica of an Indian village..since they have costumed interpreters it helps to visualize how it must have been. I have been away and when home too tired and our thunderstorms continue as well ...any way I have enjoyed my brothers visit and will be sorry to see him leave. The one benefit, after Sunday my feet will get a good rest and I will have time to read...and share some poetry. Marvelle thanks for your posts...often the newscasts decide my choice for a poem to share and this one does that ...anna

the sonnet-ballad

Gwendolyn Brooks

Oh mother, mother, where is happiness? They took my lover's tallness off to war, Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess What I can use an empty heart-cup for. He won't be coming back here any more. Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knew When he went walking grandly out that door That my sweet love would have to be untrue. Would have to be untrue. Would have to court Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort) Can make a hard man hesitate--and change. And he will be the one to stammer, "Yes." Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?

Anna, I love Gwendolyn Brooks. I have never read this one.

ANNA, that's a wonderful poem and as true emotionally now as it was when first written. Brooks has a way of using common words in uncommon ways such as 'lover's tallness' and the image of 'coquettish death'.

I met her once although briefly at a 1995 poetry reading in Michigan. Lovely woman. She was a marvelous story-teller and, like most poets, she introduced each poem she read with a snippet of how the poem came into being or what it meant to her. She was generous with her time and signed all my copies of her books which I've kept and treasure. She had a kind word for everyone who approached her which was almost the entire auditorium full of people.

Marvelle

Today is the first day of school here and I have some obligations regarding that event. UNLESS we have another night of thunderstorms I will be back later with an idea I hope will find favor with the readers and lurkers here. So check this out later today in the meantime I am singing ... School days, school days, Dear old golden rule days. 'Readin' and 'ritin' and 'rithmetic, Taught to the tune of a hick'ry stick. You were my queen in calico, I was your bashful barefoot beau, And you wrote on my slate, 'I love you, Joe,' When we were a couple of kids.

PS does that song date me? anna

No thunderstorms but connection problems. Here is a brief idea what I have in mind. I would like us to read and discuss the poems of a single poet for a week ..two weeks maximum. To start it off I will choose a poet but PLEASE suggest a poet you would like to read and hear others give their opinion. Regardless of what we are doing you are still free to submit a poem you would like to share.

I am reading a book by Dana Gioia called Does Poetry Matter. He thinks it does and so do I. Last year I think I shared an article that doctors and scientists have proved reading POETRY OUTLOUD helps to reduce blood pressure and help with heart disease. That is a good reason for reading poetry but to me poetry has always been the way I could reach my inner thoughts and feelings.

I am a romantic, an optimist, a humorous person, a lover of nature, a patriot,a worker for causes and when grief comes and no tears I find I can reach them through reading a poem. How often does a line or a poem come to me just when needed?

Please be honest in your ideas and opinion. Whether you are far or against or in between ...I would like to know where you stand. If you prefer to continue as we are that is also an option. I am agreeable and also want to you to tell us if you have an idea not mentioned. Hope to see your comments soon...anna

1 we would consider the poets background (with a link) 2 Decide if the poem is applicable to today regardless of when it was written. 3 Do you think the poet had a special reason for writing the poem? 4 Does the poem speak to you in a special way...memory, feelings, interesting ? 5 Most important are you interested in doing this?

ANNA, count me in.

We'd take a week or two and look at a poet's background and some of his/her poems? What a fab idea! I think we'd get a better insight into the poet and what may be recurring subjects. Perhaps I'd understand why I respond to certain poems.

I'm open to looking at all poets and will start thinking of some to suggest myself...now where to start? I'm thinking....

Marvelle

So glad you think it is a good idea. I was hoping to start something yesterday but for some reason we are plagued by terrible thunderstorms too often and yesterday and all last night we heard thunder and saw lightning...over 30,000 lost electricity and many of the streets were flooded as the rain came down so heavy they could not take care of the runoff.

Today we are expecting more but HOORAh if the weatherman is right we will see a week of cooler temperatures and no rain...Now I have to get some things finished so will return later when or if the thunderstorms have left us!!!

I was thinking I would like to continue with Brooks for the first discussion does anyone have someone else they would like to learn and read more about?

anna

Hi Anna and Marvelle,

Anna, I love your idea too. Along with Gwendolyn Brooks, I would like to know about Louise Gluck and read her poems. If I am not mistaken, Louise Gluck has been chosen Poet Laureate for 2003. I have never read her poems.

I'm a newcomer here so if my poetry contribution is under par, sorry. Today was such a lovely September day that it brought to mind this old,old favorite from grade school.

SEPTEMBER

The goldenrod is yellow The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

The gentian’s bluest fringes Are curling in the sun, In dusty pods the milkweed It’s hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest In every meadow nook, And asters by the brookside Make asters in the brook.

From dewy lanes at morning The grapes’ sweet odors rise At noon the roads all flutter With yellow butterflies.

By all these lovely tokens September’s days are here With summer’s best of weather And autumn’s best of cheer.

I think it is from James Whitcomb Riley, but couldn't prove it today. Mary

ps.....what am I doing wrong about posting? My poem was written in verses, but when I post it runs all together in lines like a paragraph?

MARY, the poem made me long for Fall, crisp air and changing colors. I particularly was struck by the line "in dusty pods the milkweed, its hidden silk has spun."

There are hidden commands set within these two marks < > such as <Hidden Command> Thus, to create a new paragraph you would type the letter P within the brackets < > . To show how the commands look, I'll substitute ( ) for the hidden < >

Paragraph is (P)
Indent is (DD)
End indent is the indent command with a slash (/DD)
Line break is (BR)
End Line Break is (/BR)
Bold is (b)
End bold is (/b)

If you use the Line Break command for each line of the poem it will divide the lines by a single space line. When you cut and paste a poem from a website, you have to add the hidden commands to make the poem look the way you prefer. Here's one stanza from your poem with the hidden commands, but substituting the two brackets of < > with ( ) I'm adding an optional indent to the poem and guessing at where the lines break. You won't see my actual hidden commands, just the pretend ones.(P)

(DD)From dewy lanes at morning(BR)
The grapes sweet odors rise(BR)
At noon the roads all flutter(BR)
With yellow butterflies.(/DD)(P)

Hope this helps. SN has information on how to post many different commands and even a place to practice posting.

Marvelle

MARY, SN provides help on HTML tags (hidden commands) etc. First go to the top left of the screen for any SN page, including this one, and click on Home, when that folder opens click on Help, then click on Posting Tips

You can also find help regarding frequently asked questions by clicking the following three:

Home, Help, Discussion FAQ

The area where you can practice posting is found by clicking, in order, the following four:

Home, Discussions, Practice Posting, Practice Posting a Message

I sometimes forget how to make a special effect in my post (although I never get fancy) and I refer back to SN Help sections.

MARY, I hope you'll be a regular in Poetry; and share more beautiful poems. And our intrepid leader ANNA is going to post some Gwendolyn Brooks poems and we can discuss them too. This is going to be lots of funnnnn!

Marvelle

Thank you Marvelle for your welcome and for your tips on posting. So much to learn.....better get moving. Glad you enjoyed "September". Those old and beloved verses that we memorized in early grades are always there and come to mind when prompted by certain things. I'm so happy that we were encouraged (rather strongly! lol) to memorize. Now off to check out posting tips. Mary

Thanks Marvelle for greeting Mary and helping her. This is a month with too many things to do..Cooler and dry weather have at last allowed me to do some needed outdoor work I cant say I have caught up but then I have a whole summer to cover in the next month.

I appreciate the suggestions and will do more with the idea of reading and considering a single poet.

I will post another Brooks poem. For those who have never read her poetry I warn you it is not all sweet and light. She was a lady who wrote what she saw, lived and felt. She is honest and for me she writes about things that I know have happened. And while it is mostly from the viewpoint of Afican-American ....most of her poems can also apply to any nationality that has found it hard to be recognized as human beings. For me I had the good fortune of being raised by parents who taught me to respect all and in a neighborhood that was a melting pot of America. You name it and I think we had it in our neighborhood. There were black school teachers around the corner where I lived. The small cottages in the alley behind my home were rented by black families and I played with the children there. I didnt understand why they had to bused to another school when the elementary school was in walking distance. My father was Catholic and my mother Protestant so both were respected in our household. My childhood gave me a unique view of the world for which I am grateful

Here is another of Brooks poems....

The Bean Eaters
Gwendolyn Brooks

They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair. Dinner is a casual affair. Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood, Tin flatware.

Two who are Mostly Good. Two who have lived their day, But keep on putting on their clothes And putting things away.

And remembering . . . Remembering, with twinklings and twinges, As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.

Here is the first of her poems I read. It just hit me..the hopelessness, the sadness, the depth so few words could express...anna

We Real Cool
Gwendolyn Brooks

THE POOL PLAYERS. SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We Left school. We

Lurk late. We Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We Die soon.

This is the best site I found with a very thorough biography of Ms Brooks. It shows her accomplishments and her life story and certainly can offer encouragement to any person. Hope you will stop by and read it. anna

Hi ANNA. I loved the Gwendolyn Brooks poems you've posted. (But I couldn't open the Brooks link.) I've written down -- so as not to forget them -- the four points you listed in responding to a poem.

1 -- Consider the poet's background

2 -- Is the poem applicable to today?

3 -- Do you think the poet had a special reason for writing

the poem?

4 -- Does the poem speak to you in a special way ....

memory, feeling, interesting?

_________________________

I think Gwendolyn Brooks' "We Real Cool" applies today, not only to African-American kids, but to many kids who have this feeling that they don't matter in life or society ... so they may as well be cool ... and they may as well adopt an 'attitude' because that's all they have (they believe).

I was at a Gwendolyn Brooks poetry reading once. It was a real treat to see her and hear her read her poems. She'd introduce each poem with a little story relating to it; and she'd shuffle through her papers to select a poem and reject another based on the response she was getting from the audience. When she got to "We Real Cool" she talked about looking into a poolroom and seeing young people who should possibly have been in school rather than the pool hall.

Brooks spoke the poem with the "We" almost whispered, as in "We REAL COOL." It changes the feeling of the poem since, until her public reading, I'd always given the "We" similar emphasis to the rest of the words.

In the notes I made from Brooks' reading, she said that

'the "WEs" in "We Real Cool" are tiny... wispy ... weakly argumentative. The boys have no strong sense of their identity .... Say the "We" softly.'

Marvelle

Greetings Annafair and all our lovers of verse. It really is good to be home but I must confess to an almost overwhelming feeling of sadness leaving my English family and the land I grew up in. It is like having one foot in each place. But there is a wonderful looking forward to my visit next year all going well.

It is so good too to be back with Senior Net. I have brought some Scottish poems back with me .. mostly about the isles of the Inner Hebrides .. the Isle of Mull and Iona where I visited and longed to stay. So now I will go and search for ones which I think will be enjoyed. And of course Robbie Burns' Ode to a Haggis .. which I sampled at great length and enjoyed whilst in Inverary the territory of the Duke of Argyll.

MARJORIE hope you find that book of Scottish verse. I'm sure ANNA will be delighted to see you back posting. == Trevor

Marvelle, thank you for sharing your personal experience. I can not imagine hearing Gwendolyn Brooks reading her poems with me in the same room. It is especially interesting to find out how she came up with the idea for the poem. It is also interesting to know which words to emphasize and which words not to emphasize in the poem. Reading the poem with "her" emphasis in mind made the poem sound totally different.

From my book "Poems of the Highlands and Islands" by Frances Reed my first selection is "GLEN MUICK'. My thirty odd years of living on Kawau Island just along the north east coast of New Zealand gave me such an everlasting love of the quiet and semi isolation of that beautiful environment. The islands and highlands of Scotland are enchanting.

GLEN MUICK

Up ith the glen the red deer are grazing,
Cropping the turf by the mountain stream,
Slowly they wander the rock strewn hillside,
Russet coats bright in the sun's last gleam.

Storm clouds are massed 'bove the eagle's eyrie
High on the dark crags of Lochnagar,
Faint o'er the heather the curlews are crying -
Quiet lies the loch neath the evening star.

Calm is the air - no sound breaks the silence :
Peace, like a mantle enfolds moor and hill.
Pheasants appear, and rabbits are nibbling
Down where the birch wood lies shady and still.

Written by Frances Reed

I was so interested in Gwendolyn Brooks and would love to know more about her.

Boomer Humor - 11:28am Sep 21, 2003 PST (#171 of 173) A message from Annafair via her daughter

I just got my electricity back post Isabel and my mother has called and asked that I post a message to all her friends here that she and family are fine but she has no power and the projected timetable for her area may be as many as 10 days. All are safe. No damage, no injuries just lots of inconvenience. Our family was blessed. If someone would post this in poetry and other places she visits regularly to let all know she is fine (she has telephone, outside grill and hot water) she would appreciate it. She looks forward to getting back on-line and chating with all of you again. We all hope that each of you has come through the storm okay. Our prayers go out to all. I will check here while she has no power to check for her. Thanks.

There is another message from AnnaFair in the Community Center. Please check.

Lorrie

This little scene reminds me of sights I often saw when my parents owned a country store during the 1930's-40's

A Child coming home in the rain from the store

When I see you pause
make talk dwardle-walk
on the back road to your house
your house overlooking
the timber mill and timber yard
I know you stop only to talk
not to the cruell metalled road
but to a stone, a solitary stone
sharp-edged with flat shiny
faces

through your mind's eye know
the feel of washed leaves
made green again: tall rain shafts
drifting: wind wincing
a water-filled pothole

And I child-delighting share
your long walk your talk
to things and for things along
the bent road where impatiently
others wait for the damp bread
you bring.

Hone Tuwhare.

( Trevor )

I enjoyed the poem, thank you for posting it.

Here is a poem that AnnaFair wrote, about her experiences with the Hurricane Isabel:

Shades of Dark

It is 2AM and all is dark.
Isabel has left, moved away,
Sweeping North with her wind and rain.
Her swirling skirts did not sweep clean,
Fiercely they tore at trees and homes.
Her burdened clouds overflowed,
Poured rain, engorged the streams,
Turned them to rapids, eroding all in its way.

Six days later a million homes
Without power to ease the night.
Trees nearest my window now
Bold slashes of deep charcoal
Disappear into darker depths.
No way to tell where the tree ends
Or what I know is green grass begins.

Strangely the sky is not dark
Almost a bright soft gray shines through
A black filigree of broken limbs,
Tattered and beaten trees.
In day the street shows a dark slate gray
At 2AM it has faded to a paler shade.
It is a river running between banks of debris
Disappearing into a black cavern of trees
And homes I cannot see for light is nowhere to be found.

Homes across the street white in sunlight
Now a gloomy, shadowy glow.
My neighbors red brick a sooty black
It too fades into the dark below.
All the shades of dark, have absorbed
My neighborhood, hides it from sight.
My eyes strained from trying to see
What the dark has hidden from my view
I refuse to use to my flashlight
Feel my way safely to my bed
Lay my head upon my pillow
And think..Let me be dark too.

anna alexander
written after Hurricane Isabel 9/25/2003 all rights reserved

Anna:--That poem is beautiful! Having just gone through the experience itself in a community not too far from you, it was especially meaningful remembering that night expressed in poetic form.

Thank you!

Robby

ANNA, your poem is a treasure, and so are you! love from MP

Anna your poem was breathtaking .. there are some things in life which have to be experienced for one to understand just how much trauma is caused and the depth of feeling left in one's heart. All around the world people's love and prayers were with you during that terrible disaster.

I have another Scottish poem by Frances Reed.

THE STORMY SHORE

I stood alone on the stormy shore
Down where the great grey breakers roam,
And the wind and the rain are all around -
And a welter of wild sea foam.

Brown is the wrack on the tide washed sand
Flung by the angry restless sea
Toss'd on the grey and deserted shore
From the depths of the mighty sea.

Spray, flying high from a breaker's crest
Mistily joins with the driving rain,
And the salty tang on the wild west shore
Wet my lips yet again and again.

Far out to sea, on the grey skyline
Wild sea and wild sky coldly meet,
And the white sea-horses are riding by
With the dark depths beneath their feet.

by Frances Reed

Thank you Trevor for the poem by the Maori poet. It is good to be back again and good to see more poems coming through. 'night and Godbless

Anna, thank you for your thoughtful poem.

Thank you, Mancunian for the poem by Frances Reed. I like the "white sea-horses."

Barbara Beatty has just sent me her latest book of poems. It is her birthday very soon so here is a poem from her and I do hope she has a very happy birthday.

CALLING CHILDREN

I want to run in all the sunlight
Bathe in softest moonlight
Catch the stars shining bright
As they fall in the darkest night
Tread silver paths as they wind round hills
Wind as ribbons in the green st still
Pluck flowers from the wild wild field
String in chains with wonder revealed
And all the earth come out to play
In this beautiful calm sweet day
Call the children fresh and free
As bells they call reaching me
Lifting my spirits from harsh reality
Watching over is some great deity
Casting laughter a'er all the earth
All the anmgels join in their mirth.

by Barbarar Beatty

I do apologise for the typing of Barbara's work. My only excuse is that I was very very tired and should have known better.

My life is blessed with very dear and wonderful friends. Today I received the following from a very courageous and loving lady now into her eighties .. we know each other so well and I admire her for her spirit, and her inspiring attitude towards her very daunting ill health.

THE PRISM

Zillions of rainbows zoom through my room
Piercing the shadows and shattering the gloom;
They dance and they prance
And zip thither and yon,
They slide through my fingers
And then they are gone.
When darkness falls softly
Do they still pirourette?
Or are they caught up in a silvery net?

I wonder if heaven is just as much fun
And the rainbows embrace and dance round the sun?
Some day I'll found out if that's what they do
And send back a star with a message to you.

MOMMA (Jean Smith) Sept. 2003

I have another delightful one from Jean which I shall post another day soon.

ANNAFAIR we are missing you very much and do look forward to hearing from you. Loving thoughts from Marjorie

Thank you all for keeping poetry alive and well. It is so good to see you back Marjorie and Trevor you always post such wonderful poems as well. Thank you for the poems I loved them everyone.

Perhaps shingles and a hurricane was just too much. A week of dark days and darker nights seemed to make me feel down. Winter has always been a hard time for me. With my hearing so poor I really do not like to be out after dark. Which means from about 5pm to 5am I stay indoors. The holidays are so special and I love them but so different and I suspect you all have similiar feelings. My family meets here for Christmas ( not necessarily the 25th) and I look forward to that. I enjoy the decorating but each year reminds me now I do it alone. It was a custom in our family to begin on Thanksgiving day to decorate. I still do that since I love to see the tree lit and sit in the dim room and watch the tree lights twinkle off and on.

In any case I am better, went to church, my week long laundry is finished (still ironing and putting things away) the floors are mopped, the rugs vacuumed etc. Have finally contacted some of my friends who lost a great deal during the hurricane. Personally they are okay but several lost a great deal and one I am not sure she will rebuild since she was right on the water front and in one of the areas that suffered great damage.

I havent taken the time to look up a poem from some great poet but will share one of mine from the past. Please forgive me...I havent meant to neglect you. And thanks again for your posts and sharing.

Before winter comes and locks the land Imprisons with ice tipped hand I must gather, set aside and store Supplies needed to take me through. Boxes of clouds from a summer day, Sunrise and sunset at the shore. A shell to hold against my ear To hear the sea, feel the sand warm From day long shining sun. Baskets of smells, earth fresh from A warm spring shower. Damask roses heady scent To envelope me in winters dark. Spring carnations, hyacinths, New mown grass. Bushels of sounds, a robin's song, Beating of wings across the sky. Buzz of bees hovering, sipping Nectar from the lily's cup. Trunks of things you do not see When winter closes in. A spiders web of lacy lightness, Silvered sparkled in morning dew. Fireflies sending messages after dark, Moonflowers blooming on the vine. All the smells and sounds and sights Stored in my mind for cold winter nights.
anna alexander Nov 96 all rights reserved

I wonder if I can have your permission to put that beautiful poem on my personal web journal?

When our children were young we often went camping...and I have to tell you our camping was a piece of cake (because it was well planed) than a week in a house without electricity. Every day I feel my happiness increase but still feel a bit of inner shame I should could complain when some of my friends as well as many in the community lost so much.

Again I thank you for your posts. Robby I am not sure I am glad you understood my poem since it meant you too had problems but I appreciate your feeling it described our expierence.

Marjorie I am so glad you are with us once again. And thank you for the poems. I hope I am writing when I am in my 80's Robby is so feisty and busy in his 80's I will feel I have let down if I cant do the same.

Trevor I have always enjoyed your poems by the Maori poet...and now I would like to know if you and Marjorie will give us any back ground you have on your poets.

Before Isabel and my shingles I posted an idea to cover the poems and poets in a bit more depth. I am not sure how it will work or even if it will but I thought we could put our toes in the water and see what happens.

Today I am going to post a poem by Mary Oliver whom I am fond of. Later I will give you a link to her biography. Oh yes Annie I do give you permission..I checked your website and feel it would fit in well. I enjoyed your website and hope visitors will enjoy the poems.

Here is my choice for today.......anna

Black Oaks

by Mary Oliver

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,

or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance

and comfort.

Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays carp and whistle all day in the branches, without the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen

and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage

of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from one boot to another -- why don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,

I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

Anna:--I hope you will never do anything to keep up with anyone else (whether he is feisty or not) but to do what gives you pleasure. In your case your poetry not only obviously gives you pleasure but passes the feeling to others as well.
I'm looking forward to seeing you at the Virginia Bash.

Robby

I am pleased that you have allowed me to post your poem on my web site. I have placed it on the first page where I can enjoy it often.

I hope this will find you at Mary Oliver's bio....will return later with a poem....anna

http://www.poets.org/poets/poets.cfm?45442B7C000C040300

Fall Song

Another year gone, leaving everywhere its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds and the wanderings of water. This

I try to remember when time's measure painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing to stay - how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever in these momentary pastures.

Mary Oliver

Do we have any Emily Dickerson fans here? I love her poems. So simply said yet so profound. She can be both serious and whimsical all at the same time. This is my personal favorite:

Poem# 1286 (written 1873)

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry -

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll -

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul -

Scrawler (Anne of Oregon)

Emily is great favorite of everyone who reads and loves poetry. There are some of hers I have memorized...cant think of one this minute but when an event happens in my life it sometimes recalls one of her poems and my mind will recite it.

So glad to see you here. ANY POEM BY ANY AUTHOR >>is always welcome ANYTIME ....sometimes I post poems from the same author to show thier versatility. Please post more of your favorite poems...here we love to read and enjoy poems. anna

I like Robert Frost and one of the ones I like the best is called Birches, but it is so long I hesitate to post it here.

You really and truly have ben missed Anna.

I have mentioned previuosly a very dear friend .. Jean who lives down at the very bottom of the South Island .. such a courageous person who, always manages to write so upliftingly. I have just received a poem Jean wrote for her grandson. I do love it because to me it personifies the wonderful way grandparents often have in communicating with their grandchildren. It can be stories or poetry or reminiscences of their own earlier years.

LITTLE BUGS . for Samuel

Today, I think I'll be a Lert,
A lively little bug,
And waken in the morning light
While other bugs are snug.
I'll wiggle waggle all my legs
And scuttle to and fro
Espying life beneath the leaves
And what goes on below.
I'll scritch and scratch and shove and push
Till all the bugs come out
To see why I am such a Lert
And what it's all about.
And then by night when I am still
And Samuel pokes the dirt
He'll smile and softly say to me
"Wee Lert, you were alert".

Last week I was a little Lert
And dashed about all day
With frazzled, frizzled, frozzled legs
That thought it fun to play.
The other bugs were sluggish
And crept and crawled about
And made such shiny, slimy trails
Until the sun came out.
And now I'm tired and need a rest
Today I'm NOT a Lert,
I'm phoofed and lazy, full of aches;
I think I'll stay inert.
If Samuel should come by today,
Please walk on tippy toes
And do not bump the sleepy bug
That's snoring on a rose.

MOMMA .. (Jean Smith 2003)

No poem is really too long...well maybe one that is really "book length"...for all who love Robert Frost and his poetry his "Birches" anna

Birches

Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust-- Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows-- Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig's having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Many Thanks for sharing your friends poem.....I just love it ...sometimes I write poems for my grandchildren ..they are fun to write and actually make me feel young too. Please let her know how much we enjoyed and hope she will share more.....I am trying to think of a favorite line in it but they are all so wonderful and just happy thoughts for a child to read ....thanks again ..and I am very glad to be back....This hurricane was so much worse than everyone thought ..it covered the whole state of Virginia...northern N Carolina W Virginia and Maryland....My oldest son had said all was right but his wife told me last evening they had branches driven through thier siding and into the dining room...vinyl siding may be easy to care for but you can cut it with a pocket knife. Sadly the insurance company is taking a big deductible so they will be out of pocket on this...each day the paper tells of people who have lost everything and no insurance..even those with insurance the deductible leaves them worrying how they can afford to repair much less rebuild.

For me the sun is shining today, I am baby sitting for a few hours with 3 of my grand children and life is looking good. I cannot help but be affected by the sad stories coming out about the damage from Isabel....THANKS AGAIN>>>I digress easily....<VBG> anna

She writes often of common things but in such a way they become uncommon ...anna

Honey At The Table

It fills you with the soft essence of vanished flowers, it becomes a trickle sharp as a hair that you follow from the honey pot over the table

and out the door and over the ground, and all the while it thickens,

grows deeper and wilder, edged with pine boughs and wet boulders, pawprints of bobcat and bear, until

deep in the forest you shuffle up some tree, you rip the bark,

you float into and swallow the dripping combs, bits of the tree, crushed bees - - - a taste composed of everything lost, in which everything lost is found.
Mary Oliver

Whether you would do things different if you had the chance? I think Mary Oliver is thinking that in this poem ..what do you think...anna enjoying the perfect fall day....

Next Time

by Mary Oliver

Next time what I'd do is look at the earth before saying anything. I'd stop just before going into a house and be an emperor for a minute and listen better to the wind or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether blame or praise or just passing time, I'd watch the face, how the mouth has to work, and see any strain, any sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more -- the earth bracing itself and soaring, the air finding every leaf and feather over forest and water, and for every person the body glowing inside the clothes like a light.

How can I say her poems speak to me...not in rhyme but in thought and feeling....I miss the cadence in a rhymed poem...and certainly I remember them long after I have read them the first time..my mind will recall them ,,but Mary Oliver's poem speaks too ..only long after what I try to recall is the feeling I felt..no word comes back but a feeling ...I remember...does anyone want to share how they feel about her poems? anna

Lilies

I have been thinking about living like the lilies that blow in the fields.

They rise and fall in the edge of the wind, and have no shelter from the tongues of the cattle,

and have no closets or cupboards, and have no legs. Still I would like to be as wonderful

as the old idea. But if I were a lily I think I would wait all day for the green face

of the hummingbird to touch me. What I mean is, could I forget myself

even in those feathery fields? When Van Gogh preached to the poor of course he wanted to save someone--

most of all himself. He wasn't a lily, and wandering through the bright fields only gave him more ideas

it would take his life to solve. I think I will always be lonely in this world, where the cattle graze like a black and white river--

where the vanishing lilies melt, without protest, on their tongues-- where the hummingbird, whenever there is a fuss, just rises and floats away.

Mary Oliver

That's a lovely poem, Anna. It reminds me of an essay by Annie Dillard called "Living Like Weasels" -- finding the essential quality of a thing or a creature and applying it to one's own life. That's a wonderful ability.

Annie Dillard has a book of poetry called Mornings Like This: Found Poems in which she extracts and rearranges sentences from old or odd books. It's a great example of creativity and thinking outside standard parameters. I think of what great poems Barbara and Anna could make of this technique. As Dillard states in the intro:

"This volume ... offers poems built from bits of broken text. The poems are original as poems, their themes and their ordering are invented. Their sentences are not. Their sentences come from the books named. I lifted them. I dropped extra words. I never added a word. Some of the section headings are my own .... Most come from the book themselves .... In the course of composing such found poems, the original authors' intentions were usually first to go. A nineteenth-century Russian memoir of hunting and natural history yields a poem about love and death. A book of nineteenth-century oceanographic data yields a poem about seeing. A nineteenth-century manual of boys' projects yields a poem about growing old -- and so forth."

___________________________________________

DASH IT by Annie Dillard

-- Mikhail Prishvin, Nature's Diary, 1925, trans by L. Narazov

How wonderfully it was all arranged that each
Of us had not too long to live. This is one
Of the main snags -- the shortness of the day.
The whole wood was whispering, "Dash it, dash it ..."

What joy -- to walk along that path! The snow
Was so fragrant in the sun! What a fish!
Whenever I think of death, the same stupid
Question arises: "What's to be done?"

As for myself, I can only speak of what
Made me marvel when I saw it for the first time.
I remember my own youth when I was in love.
I remember a puddle rippling, the insects aroused.

I remember our own springtime when my lady told me:
You have taken my best. And then I remember
How many evenings I have waited, how much
I have been through for this one evening on earth.

Marvelle

And Wonder where all the poetry lovers have gone? Thanks for the poem Marvelle and the essay by Annie Dillard...she is new to me and that is always such a nice gift to discover someone new. If I dont get thrown off again I shall return with a poem ..but would love to find a few here sharing as well....anna

I have subcribed here as I do so enjoy reading the Poetry here. Thanks for leading this discussion.

I have just subscribed also. Not a poet, but love to read poetry, and the poems on this page all moved me.

I know Annie Dillard only from her book "Pilgram at(?) Tinkers Creek", a perennial favorite with those who love the woods, and find mystical connections there.

Joank, I feel as you do as I am Not a poet but so enjoy hearing or reading it.

I have a love /hate relationship with my computer...when it works and does my bidding I love it. When it misbehaves and wont do as I need and wish ...I wonder why did I ever get involved with this invention. It is my hope I have resolved my problem and so I bring a poem I loved the first time I read too many years ago. When I read this poem I am reminded of the last time I saw the house that was home to my parents, my five brothers and me. Interstates were being constructed everywhere and the area what was my home ground had been torn down. It looked like a bombed out village. Blocks of broken and flattened homes, stores, churches, movie theaters ...schools and in that midst one blind house remained. It was dusk as we drove by on the road that replaced this area so dear to me, the house was standing alone amidst the destruction, why I dont know but I remember thinking how small it looked. Itis gone now and nothing remains of where I lived only my memories.....here is the poem I chose today..anna

Poetry of Joyce Kilmer Trees and Other Poems

The House with Nobody in It

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black. I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do; For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied; But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.

If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door, Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store. But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life, That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet, Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

Thanks Annafair The poem almost brought tears to my eyes as I remember seeing the same thing and wondering much the same.

Trevor and Marjorie do you have one from your area? I am not sure every place recognizes Halloween. It was truly a fun evening when I was young..My mother made a bushel of pumpkin doughnuts and gave them all out. Later when I was about 16 several young men about my age came to the door and wanted to know if my mother was still making pumpkin doughnuts ....I asked my mother to come to the door and she was so thrilled they remembered she gave them a dozen and a half...

Robert Burns poem was really too long and I wanted something simple. I finally found one I thought suitable. Hope you enjoy and remember when Halloween was a simple evening. ........anna

Halloween Poem by Ari

Makes witches, trolls and goblins green,

Just in time for Halloween.

Grind the lint from someone's pocket,

Add for flavor cherry rockets.

Use a mix of old shoe leather,

Mix a collection of jailbird's feathers.

You will need some dust and soot,

Add quite quickly powdered roots.

Plus some bread, moldy and dated,

(Sell by dates are over rated).

Makes witches, trolls, and goblins green,

Just in time for Haloween.

I looked for a Holloween poem too. Instead, I found a poem about the Mexican and Mexican American Day of the Dead.(I don't know how to center in this posting)

Day of the Dead

by

Janice Gould

I wish it were like this:

el dia de los muertes comes

and we fill our baskets with bread,

apples, chicken, and beer,

and go out to the graveyard.

We bring flowers with significant colors--

yellow, crimson, and gold--

the strong hungry colors of life,

full of saliva and blood.

We sit on the sandy mounds

and I play my accordian.

It groans like the gates of hell.

The flames of the votives

flicker in the wind.

My music makes everything sway,

all the visable and invisable--

friend, candles, ants, the wind.

Because for me life ripens,

and for now it's on my side

though it's true I am often afraid.

I wear my boots when I play the old squeezebox,

and stomp hand rhythms

till the headstones dance on their graves.

I had a hard time trying to post that poem, as you can probably tell. I couldn't get it to center, or recognize stanza endings. Is there a tutorial somewhere?

I was really looking for a poem about Novemeber but when I read this one it made me yearn to be in Georgia picking pecans. Some years ago I visited relatives in Georgia and they had an old pecan orchard. It was the perfect late October day ..sun warm but not too warm, faded blue skies with a hint of high clouds..Off in the distance several farm houses stood with gentle gray smoke spiraling to heaven. We returned home with a sackful of pecans, uncovering them from fallen leaves that looked like old potatoe peelings, dry and curled hiding the trees gifts...today I would wish once more to be there "nutting" anna

William Wordsworth

Nutting

--It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal Dame-- Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,--and, in truth, More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks, Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation; but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, A virgin scene!--A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet;--or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam, And--with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep-- I heard the murmur, and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage: and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past; Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.-- Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods.

I have emailed you some helpful suggestions hope they help and we see you here often...anna

Wordsworth, one of my heros. He must have so loved the things of nature and the earth.

A minister passing through his church in the middle of the day 
Decided to pause by the alter and see who had come to pray. 
      Just then the back door opened, a man came down the aisle, 
The minister frowned as he saw the man hadn't shaved in a while. 
      His shirt was kinda shabby and his coat was worn and frayed. 
The man knelt, he bowed his head, then rose and walked away. 
      In the days that followed, each noon time came this chap, 
Each time he knelt just for a moment, a lunch pail in his lap. 
      Well, the minister's suspicions grew, with robbery a main fear, 
He decided to stop the man and ask him, "What are you doing here?" 
      The old man said, he worked down the road. Lunch was an hour. 
Lunchtime was his prayer time, for finding strength and power. 
      " I stay only moments, see, because the factory is so far away. 
As I kneel here talking to God, this is kinda what I say: 
      "I just came again to tell you, God, how happy I've been, 
since we found each other's friendships and you took away my sin. 
Don't know much of how to pray, but I think about you everyday. 
So, God, this is Jim checking in." 
      The minsister feeling foolish, told Jim, that was fine. 
He told the man he was welcome to come and pray just anytime. 
      Time to go, Jim smiled, said "Thanks!" He hurried to the door. 
The minister knelt at the alter, he'd never done it before. 
      His cold heart melted, warmed with love, and met with God there. 
As the tears flowed, in his heart, he repeated old Jim's prayer: 
      " I just came again to tell you, God, how happy I've been, 
since we found each other's friendships and you took away my sin. 
Don't know much of how to pray, but I think about you everyday. 
So, God, this is me checking in. " 
      Past noon one day, the minister noticed that old Jim hadn't come. 
As more days passed without Jim, he began to worry some. 
      At the factory, he asked about him, learning he was ill. 
The hospital staff was worried, but he'd given them a thrill. 
      The week Jim was with them, brought changes in the ward. 
His smiles, a joy contagious. Changed people, were his rewards. 
      The head nurse couldn't understand why Jim was so glad, 
When no flowers, calls or cards came, not a visitor he had. 
      The minister stayed by his bed, he voiced the nurse's concern: 
No friends came to show they cared. He had nowhere to turn. 
      Looking surprised, old Jim spoke up and with a winsome smile; 
"The nurse is wrong, she couldn't know, that in here all the while, 
Everyday at noon he's here, a dear friend of mine, you see, 
He sits right down, takes my hand, leans over me and says to me: 
      "I just came again to tell you, Jim, how happy I have been, 
since we found this friendship, and I took away your sin. 
Always love to hear you pray, I think about you everyday, 
and so Jim, This is God checking in."

Thanks for that poem ..it is new to me but like you said earlier ,..it brought tears to my eyes and a grateful heart. Years ago when I was Eingland I attended church with the lady I was staying with. Coming from a time when people dressed in their best to attend church I was surprised to see the church full of people in working clothes. Especially the men ..who looked like they had just come in from laboring in a factory or mine. Something special happened that day..because I was reminded God doesnt care what we look like outside, or what kind of clothes we wear or the kind of car or house we have...HE cares about what is in our hearts...Now I attend a church that is what is called a diversified congregation and some people dress up and others come in vary casual clothes.. jeans etc ..I have never been in a church I loved more or people I have appreciated more. So your poem reminded me of so much ..thanks again....anna

Ginger: thank you for your wonderful poem.

I didn't expect Holloween to be so hard for me. My daughter and family recently moved from this area across the country, and I missed seeing my grandchildren on Holloween-- the excitement, and joy-- so much. I have been thinking all day of Buson's lovely haiku:

I go,

thou stayest.

Two autumns.

I am so glad that you liked it as much as I do.

I loved that ...and relate to it more than I could tell. Thanks for posting....

Google and I are chums..and tonight I looked for something that spoke to me about the coming winter..here is what I found..the writer said it was a poem from an old book of children's poems her grandmother read to her. So I cant give you and authors name but hope you like it too. anna

The Snow-Bird

When all the ground with snow is white, The merry snow-bird comes, And hops about with great delight To find the scattered crumbs. How glad he seems to get to eat A piece of cake or bread! He wears no shoes upon his feet. Nor hat upon his head But happiest is he, I know, Because no cage with bars Keeps him from walking on the snow And printing it with stars.

Just love that last line...anna

A wonderful warm day here, sunny, low humidity ..leaves drifting down like birds on the wing....squirrels filling thier nests, windows open for soon they will be closed for winter time...This is the poem I found ...I keep thinking I shared it before..but a good poem can be re read a hundred times and never grows old...anna
Vachel Lindsay - An Indian Summer Day on the Prarie
(IN THE BEGINNING)

THE sun is a huntress young, The sun is a red, red joy, The sun is an indian girl, Of the tribe of the Illinois.

(MID-MORNING)

The sun is a smouldering fire, That creeps through the high gray plain, And leaves not a bush of cloud To blossom with flowers of rain.

(NOON)

The sun is a wounded deer, That treads pale grass in the skies, Shaking his golden horns, Flashing his baleful eyes.

(SUNSET)

The sun is an eagle old, There in the windless west. Atop of the spirit-cliffs He builds him a crimson nest.

Beautiful just Beautiful and so true, Thanks.

I'm going to blow my own horn here. "A Century to Remember" a collection of my short stories and poems was recently published. If you have any poetry lovers on your Christmas lists perhaps you will remember me. Here ae a few excerpts:

NIGHT WINDS

Lost Winds howled Slashing winds Cold winds Alone in the darkness

ODE TO SUPER BALLS

They skip, spring and seem to pirouette around the living room walls not unlike happy children at play. Vibrant colors swirl around - Blood colored, ruby and maroon. Prussian blue and robin's egg blue, canary, one is white and one coal black. Some have stripes that seem to twirl as they bump and crash. Each seems to have a mind of their own as they bounce in crazy unpredictable ways.

SUNRISE, SUNSET

Together we waited for the morning sun A sun that would bring us another day We both wanted relief You from your pain and I from my fear

During those last days we talked And you would tell me about Other sunrises and other sunsets And I would listen

You would speak of the dawns of your youth That changed from gold to pink to red And back to gold again Over the mountains of New Mexico

Then with sadness you would speak Of a red and burnt orange sunset That painted the rivers and land of Vietnam a blood red

Together we remembered the morning sun As it filtered through the stain glass windows Casting shadows of pink and yellow The day we took our vows

I alone watched that last sunset with you But you did not see it for you were gone Now I think about you every time I see a Sunrise, Sunset

A Century to Remember can be found at: Amazon.com, Borders.com, Barnesandnoble.com and your local book store.

Thanks in advance.

Scrawler (Anne Of Oregon)

All of the poems are beautiful. Thank you.

Anne of Oregon thank you for sharing some of your work. And it is okay to "blow ones own horn" Why because my mother told that was so! I am a November child and soon it will be my birthday...What amazes me is age has nothing to do with how old you are..it is how you feel. For three days I have been painting and making curtains for the little screened in porch I am turning into a glassed oasis ...today I had to go out and in the interim I found my nieghbors lawns are covered with a carpet of leaves. What beauty of color and pattern. No weaver could ever duplicate that casual comforter...such a riot of patterns....it just took my breath away.

Since I can always find a poem by Robert Frost to share I share this one....anna

Robert Frost - My November Guest

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 grady Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky, The beauties she so ryly 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.

No sun—no moon—no morn—no noon,
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day,
No warmth—no cheerfulness—no healthful ease,
No road, no street, no t’ other side the way,
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

Thomas Hood

Although here it will have to be closer to December for all of that to be true. Today I was eating lunch in glassed in area at the restaurant and over head a flock of birds were heading south. Geese and ducks seemed to have done this earlier. I have seen flocks resting in watered area but these were smaller. I am seeing different birds at my feeders but I do have to say as soon as the day is shorter and the night longer.. I feel captured by the night and hate to go out...As soon as it is dawn I am awake I dont want to miss any of the daylight. It seems strange to be eating dinner when it is dark and at seven pm I feel I should be thinking of bedtime...thanks again..and from the weather map it seems winter has arrived in your area for sure...anna

Found a collection of poems by an English Lady Mrs John Hunter...Will have to do a search to see if I can find more about her...but for now from her book of poems...NOVEMBER ...anna

NOVEMBER, 1784

NOW yellow autumn's leafy ruins lie In faded splendor, on deserted plains, Far from the madding crowd, alone I fly, To wake in solitude the mystic strains. On themes of high import I dare to sing, While Fate impels my hand to strike the trembling string.

Bright on my harp the meteors gleam, As through the shades they glancing shine; Now the winds howl, the night birds scream, And yelling ghosts the chorus join: Chimeras dire, from fancy's deepest hell, Fly o'er yon hallow'd tow'r, and toll the passing bell.

I love all your poems. Frost especially spoke to me.

My first poetic love is haiku, I love its outer simplicity and inner depth. All haiku celebrate a season, but the Autumn haiku are all sad and lonely like our November; the end of a year and by extension of a life.

A crow

has settled on the bare branch.

Autumn evening.

Basho

And a second:

Deep Autumn.

My neighbor,

how does he live, I wonder.

Basho

(translations Robert Haas)

I was looking for a poem that would help me see the beauty in this sadness, and Frost has done it. I will treasure it.

This was just a numbered poem with no title..but to me it could easily be Novemeber..especially here in Southeast Virginia ..where fall arrives late. The ground is covered with leaves but the trees are still full....I hope you enjoy ..anna

The morns are meeker than they were -- The nuts are getting brown -- The berry's cheek is plumper -- The Rose is out of town.

The Maple wears a gayer scarf -- The field a scarlet gown -- Lest I should be old fashioned I'll put a trinket on.

My kids had to memorize that poem in first grade. Now I can't hear it without seeing earnist six year olds trying to remember words they didn't understand.

It is also in a great book of Emily Dickinson poems for children with beautiful illustrations. My 4 year old grandson loves it. I think little kids like poems naturally, and it's sqeezed out of them at school.

Greetings to you Annafair and my sincere and loving admiration for all the wonderful poetry I have been reading from you all. I have had to take a spell from some of my connections .. but I am here once again to share. Yes we do have Hallow'een and the children enjoy themselves immensely .. this year in our small country area we have also been treated to something quite lovely with children appearing dressed in white and wearing little crowns .. bearing small gifts and messages of love to whoever opens the door to them. Many of us are saying how much we hope that they continue each year.

We, down here in the southern hemisphere are just saying hello to summer .. in contrast to many of you who are heralding winter. When in Scotland I found a small book of Scottish poems written by Frances Reed and for you who are facing the winter here it is.

HIGHLAND AUTUMN

The gold and red of dying bracken kindles every glade,

The rocks are rich with coloured lichen, white and brown and grey.

In the rays of wintry sunshine, the frost glints on every blade,

And the grouse and the pheasant call stridently at the ending of the day.

The mouth of the bouldered corrie gapes black against the crags

Where the lonely golden eagle proudly swoops and soars;

And the red deer browse on the hillside while suddenly a stag

Lifts his antlered head to the crags and eerily bellows and roars.

There have been many of Emily Dickinson's poems for us to read and enjoy. What a solitary life she lived .. withdrawing herself at the age of 23 to live as a recluse .. writing over a thousand poems in secret .. poems which were not read until after her death when her sister Lavinia brought out three volumes of her poems .. and Emily was acclaimed as a poetic genius. Here is a small and gentle poem about a caterpillar from one of the many poems Emily wrote about "living things'.

CATERPILLAR

How soft a caterpillar steps ..

I found one on my hand

From such a velvet world it comes

Such plushes at command

Its soundless travels just arrest

My slow terrestial eye

Intent upon its own career

What use has it for me?

Love to all and let us continue to enjoy poetry

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/2003/11/09/BAGO22TPHD1.DTL

A group of noted authors, including the current Nobel Prize winner for literature and J.M. Coetzee Nobel Laureate 2003, wants the California Supreme Court to come to the aid of a 15- year-old San Jose boy who was prosecuted and convicted of making criminal threats for writing a violent poem.

Poems, even violent and scary poems, are creative works that should be cut some slack by the legal system, they say.

Not this poem, say prosecutors and the courts that have reviewed it. Titled "Faces,'' it begins as a lonely teenager's lament ("Who are these faces around me? . . . I wish I had a choice on what I want to be like they do'') but takes a sinister turn with the lines "I am Dark, Destructive & Dangerous. .

. . I can be the next kid to bring guns to kill students at school.''

Just a quick response to Barbara's post about the 15 years old San Jose boy's poem. I do think that because of the violence and the threats of violence in the world today, we have become very sensitive to anything that suggests threats to our lives and those surrounding us. Private thoughts are one thing and we cannot stop those .. but hopefully there will not be a trend towards such writings as "Faces" There are many unacceptable things in society today and I think that such poetry is among them.

Oh my we could really have a discussion on that alone - at first I thought his problem was bringing the poem to school and making it public - but then I thought isn't a poetry class supposed to be a safe place to experiment - creativity comes from experimentation - and then I realized that if he was an adult and the poem was read at a poetry reading no one would bat an eye - especially with the in vogue ranting and shouting that most young poets face off on stage often accompanied by drums. And so the sensibilities or fears of two young girls is what we must be concerned about when a young poet in the making is experimenting -

I also understand from my children and their children that most schools are not at all the place of learning that I experienced. The student experience is more like the boys of "Lord of the Flies," not exactly places of creative learning.

How does the Donne poem go...something...perfection thy name is women --

Sometime in August 1977 I picked a book from a full cardboard box waiting to be put on the shelves of a used book store. I don't recall the name of the book but the sheet of paper that was stuck between it's pages with a poem typed on it made a deep impression on me. I carried it my wallet for years. I only recently found out who the author was while surfing the internet.

Please Hear What I'm Not Saying

Don't be fooled by me. Don't be fooled by the face I wear for I wear a mask, a thousand masks, masks that I'm afraid to take off, and none of them is me.

Pretending is an art that's second nature with me, but don't be fooled, for God's sake don't be fooled. I give you the impression that I'm secure, that all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well as without, that confidence is my name and coolness my game, that the water's calm and I'm in command and that I need no one, but don't believe me. My surface may seem smooth but my surface is my mask, ever-varying and ever-concealing. Beneath lies no complacence. Beneath lies confusion, and fear, and aloneness. But I hide this. I don't want anybody to know it. I panic at the thought of my weakness exposed. That's why I frantically create a mask to hide behind, a nonchalant sophisticated facade, to help me pretend, to shield me from the glance that knows.

But such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only hope, and I know it. That is, if it's followed by acceptance, if it's followed by love. It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself, from my own self-built prison walls, from the barriers I so painstakingly erect. It's the only thing that will assure me of what I can't assure myself, that I'm really worth something. But I don't tell you this. I don't dare to, I'm afraid to. I'm afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance, will not be followed by love. I'm afraid you'll think less of me, that you'll laugh, and your laugh would kill me. I'm afraid that deep-down I'm nothing and that you will see this and reject me.

So I play my game, my desperate pretending game, with a facade of assurance without and a trembling child within. So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks, and my life becomes a front. I tell you everything that's really nothing, and nothing of what's everything, of what's crying within me. So when I'm going through my routine do not be fooled by what I'm saying. Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not saying, what I'd like to be able to say, what for survival I need to say, but what I can't say.

I don't like hiding. I don't like playing superficial phony games. I want to stop playing them. I want to be genuine and spontaneous and me but you've got to help me. You've got to hold out your hand even when that's the last thing I seem to want. Only you can wipe away from my eyes the blank stare of the breathing dead. Only you can call me into aliveness. Each time you're kind, and gentle, and encouraging, each time you try to understand because you really care, my heart begins to grow wings-- very small wings, very feeble wings, but wings!

With your power to touch me into feeling you can breathe life into me. I want you to know that. I want you to know how important you are to me, how you can be a creator--an honest-to-God creator-- of the person that is me if you choose to. You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble, you alone can remove my mask, you alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic, from my lonely prison, if you choose to. Please choose to.

Do not pass me by. It will not be easy for you. A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls. The nearer you approach to me the blinder I may strike back. It's irrational, but despite what the books say about man often I am irrational. I fight against the very thing I cry out for. But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls and in this lies my hope. Please try to beat down those walls with firm hands but with gentle hands for a child is very sensitive.

Who am I, you may wonder? I am someone you know very well. For I am every man you meet and I am every woman you meet.

Charles C. Finn September 1966

For the story behind the poem see: http://www.poetrybycharlescfinn.com/

Marjorie I am so glad to see you here. I was just about ready to email you for I was concerned whether you were okay...Thanks so much for both poems..the autumn poem really fits here in SE Virginia..we have had a terrible wind today and many leaves descended but still the trees have many left. Almost all have changed colors and the variety always amazes me.

Vicki that poems leaves me breathless...I think we can find a little bit of ourselves in its lines. And perhaps some courage to be a friend ...accepting, helping, encouraging...and perhaps to find a friend who will give us the same.

Barbara it is hard in today's terrible news not to cringe at a poem by young man that seems threatening...Yet when I was young I used to write rather dubious stories and poems my self. No one ever saw them as they were not assignments but something I needed and had to write. I certainly hate to discourage someone from writing especially a young person. How can they not write about what they hear and see on TV it is so vivid...and yet I see a dilemna for the school and teachers If he or someone should act on his poem...then all would say WHY DIDNT YOU DISCOURAGE HIM OR PUNISH HIM >>or whatever was needed to stop this. I guess I have lived long enough to know that most things cannot be stopped. TV and stories are so detailed anyone with a grudge can find how to "take care of a so called enemy" it is my hope we can encourage would be poets and writers even when their poetry and writings scare us.

Marjorie thanks again for both those poems ...Barbara for telling us about this young man and Vicki for the introduction to Mr Finn...anna

The ninth month of the old Roman year which began with March. The 11th day of November was held to mark the beginning of winter. The Anglo Saxon name for November was 'Blotmonath' (Blood-month). The latter name probably alluding to the custom of slaughtering cattle about Martinmas for winter consumption. (Anc. Brit)

From Edmond Holmes comes ..

Like as the thrush in winter, when the skies
Are drear and dark, and all the woods are bare,
Sings undismayed, till from his melodies
Odours of spring float through the frozen air, ..
So, in my heart when sorrow's icy breath
Is bleak and bitter and its frost is strong,
Leaps up, defiant of despair and death
A sunlight fountain of triumphant song.
Sing on sweet singer till the violets come
And south winds blow, sing on prophetic bird!
Oh if my lips, which are forever dumb
Could sing to men what my sad heart has heard
Life's darkest hour with songs of joy would ring,
Life's blackest frost would blossom into Spring.

And from Robert Browning

'These early November hours
That crimson the creeper's leaf across
Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt,
O'er a shield; else gold from rim to boss
And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped
Elf-needled mat of moss.

Some inspiration from Edith Holden's "The Diary of an Edwardian Lady"

Much love .. Marjorie

MARJORIE: As one who loves birds,I loved the poem about the thrush. But do they really sing in Winter? Here in Maryland, we have a sparrow that sings all winter long. I really look forward to his arrival.

The penguins in your biography made my day. I've never seen a little blue penguin, but from their names, I could imagine them vividly. Do you ever write about them?

November seems to me to be a month that cant make up its mind. One day it is frigid ane the next day only a light sweater is needed. I love the poems Marjorie....a bird singing in winter. What a lovely thought. Now I have to keep my feeders full for all sorts of birds come there. I imagine they are heading south and need to store the oil packed sunflower seed to help them on thier way. The view from my windows allows me to be among the leaves. With so many already raked and put at the curb for pick up or piled to make compost I wonder how can there be so many still on the trees, Most have changed colors but my favorite are the half green and half yellow.. undecided and that suits me as well. Since there is so much about Sylvia Plath I decided to share one of her poems. anna

Winter Landscape, with Rooks

Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone, plunges headlong into that black pond where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind which hungers to haul the white reflection down.

The austere sun descends above the fen, an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look longer on this landscape of chagrin; feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook, brooding as the winter night comes on.

Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice as is your image in my eye; dry frost glazes the window of my hurt; what solace can be struck from rock to make heart's waste grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place?

Sylvia Plath

For Thanksgving...Today it is in the 60's ...and I am glad but still I am ready for winter to arrive so it can be over. For I know by New years the days will be getting longer and I will feel better. Shorter days always makes me sad it seems a day is over before it begins...and the weather is warm enough so I feel there is something wrong...shouldnt it be spring? Hope all of you are fine and here a poem by Sara Teasdale...anna

I Have Loved Hours At Sea Sara Teasdale

I have loved hours at sea, gray cities, The fragile secret of a flower, Music, the making of a poem That gave me heaven for an hour;

First stars above a snowy hill, Voices of people kindly and wise, And the great look of love, long hidden, Found at last in meeting eyes.

I have loved much and been loved deeply -- Oh when my spirit's fire burns low, Leave me the darkness and the stillness, I shall be tired and glad to go.

I found this poem about Novemeber. I am not sure when it was written but it must have been a long time ago. These are the kind of November days I remember from my childhood. Although we lived in a city coal was the choice for heating then. And in November day was often obscured by smoke and haze and yes it seemed to me my home was all the world. anna

November

The shepherds almost wonder where they dwell, And the old dog for his right journey stares: The path leads somewhere, for they cannot tell, And neighbour meets with neighbour unawares. The maiden passes close beside her cow, And wanders on, and thinks her far away; The ploughman goes unseen behind his plough And seems to lose his horses half the day. The lazy mist creeps on in journey slow; The maidens shout and wonder where they go; So dull and dark are the November days. The lazy mist high up the evening curled, And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze; The place we occupy seems all the world.

John Clark

Here in SE Virginia November isnt really bad. The trees are still covered with leaves, now all golden so when the sun shines on them it is like looking at a golden sky. The grass is still green and lush and my roses still offer blooms, no frost to kill the annuals who have kept growing and blooming. But this poem reminds me again of the Novembers of my childhood. anna

NO!

No sun-no moon! No morn-no noon- No dawn-no dusk-no proper time of day- No sky-no earthly view- No distance looking blue- No road-no street-no "t' other side the way" No top to any steeple- No recognitions of familiar people- No courtesies for showing ‘em- No knowing ‘em! No traveling at all-no locomotion- No inkling of the way -no notion- "No go"-by land or ocean- No mail-no post- No news from any foreign coast- No park- no ring-no afternoon gentility- No company-no nobility- No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member- No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruit, no flowers, no leaves, no birds. NOVEMBER!

Thomas Hood

Two haiku from Basho:

That road.

No one walks on it.

Autumn evening.

-----------------

Deep autumn.

My neighbor-

how does he live, I wonder?

In my poetry class I tried my hand at haiku ...it was a lesson so I had to. but to be truthful I am just not that good at terse verse ...I admire those that can and enjoy theirs...but I guess I am too Irish to be so brief. anna

am grateful for all poets but Frost always touches me ...I hope you enjoy this one...anna

After Apple-Picking

By Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well

Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing dear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much

Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.

That's beautiful, Robert Frost always chooses the right words, thanks for posting it.

He surely does...I am glad you enjoyed it...Virginia is known for apples and Winchester holds an apple festival each year. We used to drive there and purchase apples fresh from the trees. They were so good and I would bake apple pies for the freezer....how wonderful they tasted on a cold winter's eve warm from the oven with a slice of cheddar cheese melting on top....anna

Spending an hour looking for just what I wanted to say about today...a lovely warm. Novemeber neath a golden sky...golden leaves shaking in a gentle breeze...drifting, covering ground just cleaned yesterday ...I ended up writing my own thoughts and share with you..anna

My Dilemma

Yesterday I swept my deck Swept away its leafy blanket Left it bare, its worn grey wood showing This morning I found the trees were busy Through the night Shaking their branches saying goodbye To leaves remaining Looking down from the upstairs window I see the deck again carpeted A colorful mosaic of autumn's hues Should I use this warm November day Sweep them again, leave my deck bare Or let winter winds blow them away?

anna alexander November 23, 2003©

THANKSGIVING SONG

As The Great Dynamo Who Powers The Wheels Of Seasons And Years
Turns Autumn Once More Into Winter,
At This Season Of Thanksgiving,
We Give Thanks For All Seasons.

For Winter, Who Strips Trees To Their Basic Design,
For Stark, Minimalist Winter,
We Give Thanks.
May We Let Go, And Grow Bright As Stars In A Clear, Frosty Night,
The More We Are Stripped Of What We Thought We Could Not Do Without.

For The Springtime That Bursts Forth, Just When We Think Winter Will Never End,
For Irrepressible Springtime
We Give Thanks.
May We Never Forget The Crippled, Windbeaten Trees, How They, Too, Bud, Green And Bloom,
May We, Too, Take Courage To Bloom Where We Are Planted.

For Summer, When Fruit Begins To Ripen More And More,
For The Green, Swelling High Tide Of Summer
We Give Thanks.
May We Trust That Time Is Not Running Out, But Coming To Fulfillment,
May We Wait Patiently While Time Ripens.

For Autumn And Its Slow Growing Fruition
For That Season Of Ultimate Rise And Fall
We Give Thanks.
May We Gracefully Rise To The Occasion Of Our Own Falling,
Giving Ourselves Just Enough Time To Go Beyond Time
To The Great Now
At The Quiet Center Of The Turning Wheels.

We Give Thanks For All Seasons
At This Season Of Thanksgiving.

- Bro. David Steindl-Rast O.S.B.

Thanks so much for your post.....it is perfect for Thanksgiving ....and I will remember it on Thursday when I give the blessing at our family dinner....I read your history and say you are one great lady ..so glad to have you here. anna

Found this today ....

Thanksgiving
The year has turned its circle, The seasons come and go. The harvest all is gathered in And chilly north winds blow. Orchards have shared their treasures, The fields, their yellow grain, So open wide the doorway~ Thanksgiving comes again! ~author unknown~

This is a poem originally written in 1844 by Lydia Marie Child....She was the earliest known American woman to earn a living through her writing. Among her writings were popular domestic advice books. She established a magazine where this poem was first printed. It was also published in one of her poetry books for children. She was very popular until she took up the cause of the African-American and Native American peoples. I never knew it as a poem but as a song. My mother used to sing-recite it to us at Thanksgiving...Although my only living grandmother lived near, this poem seemed to capture the emotions and feelings of our Thanksgiving Days....I am sure most of you have heard it , remember it but it is always appropiate to remember the things from our past. Happy Thanksgiving to all....anna

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A Boy's Thanksgiving Day

Lydia Maria Child -

Over the river, and through the wood, to Grandfather's house we go; the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood, to Grandfather's house away! We would not stop for doll or top, for 'tis Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river, and through the wood- oh, how the wind does blow! It stings the toes and bites the nose, as over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood and straight through the barnyard gate. We seem to go extremely slow- it is so hard to wait!

Over the river, and through the wood- when Grandmother sees us come, She will say, "o, dear, the children are here, bring a pie for every one."

Over the river, and through the wood- now Grandmothers cap I spy! Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

PS My grandmother was Irish and wore a cap, always...and the original had 12 verses but these are the best known.....

What a pleasure to have that poem to read and thank you for the history of it too.

I clicked on your home page ...I love to read my poem you have posted there, especially now we have had our first hard freeze and several fires in my little stove. it is called a BABY BEAR stove..yes there is a Papa and Mama Bear stove as well. It does have a more business like name but I am so glad the company gave it these names.

I know I am hurrying the season but my home is decorated now for Christmas..it is a fake tree which may be the thing of the future. The fire department will not allow anyone who lives in an apartment , condo, etc..places that connect to other living quarters to have live trees. Single family homes are exempt. I love the real trees but no long can handle the bringing home, setting up etc from years past. This way I can get help from my son's when they arent busy with thier own tree....and can enjoy it longer...also takes longer for me to do all of this as well....(VBG)

Hope everyone has a special place and someone to share a Thanksgiving Day....While we do it for historical reasons it seems to me everyone should have a day dedicated to remembering the many things we have to be thankful for. GOD BLESS....anna

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was one of the first poets I read...and memorized. I can still quote from The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, Hiawatha and The Village Blacksmith....his description of the smithy was so forceful my mind could SEE him and Hiawatha again seemed real to me....today I found a poem of his to share,,,, I hope yesterday was a good day for everyone....and whether you celebrated Thanksgiving Day or just found something to be thankful for I hope you found joy in the day,

Six adults and two grandchildren dined early and then had a long time to visit and chat. My guests cleared the table and washed the dishes...NOW THAT WAS SOMETHING TO BE THANKFUL FOR!!!! Here is Longfellows poem...anna

WOODS IN WINTER

When winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long.

How different from yesterday when we had a record high of 74 ...this morning the windchill is 24 and the temperature 34. The windows clouded with moisture and the sky a faded blue. The trees bare now reveal a house across the way and even the sun seems faded from rose to soft yellow morn, The summer annuals have given up and fall blacken and limp where they stood tall and need to be replaced. I found a poem by Keats about winter and share it with you....Marjorie and Trevor perhaps you have a summer poem somewhere for us..to remind us winter is but the portal to spring. anna

December
John Keats

In drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime.

In drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writhed not at passed joy? The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it, Was never said in rhyme.

This is a small poem about snow which is predicted for this weekend. anna

Dust Of Snow

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.

Robert Frost

I like your small poem.

With all the snow falling in the Northeast a snow poem is needed. Although I am not sure the folks where it is snowing would agree it is a Winter Eden....anna

A Winter Eden

by Robert Frost

A winter garden in an alder swamp, Where conies now come out to sun and romp, As near a paradise as it can be And not melt snow or start a dormant tree.

It lifts existence on a plane of snow One level higher than the earth below, One level nearer heaven overhead, And last year's berries shining scarlet red.

It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast Where he can stretch and hold his highest feast On some wild apple tree's young tender bark, What well may prove the year's high girdle mark.

So near to paradise all pairing ends: Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends, Content with bud-inspecting. They presume To say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.

A feather-hammer gives a double knock. This Eden day is done at two o'clock. An hour of winter day might seem too short To make it worth life's while to wake and sport.

There is a part of me that loves it..especially when it is falling. I love the way it turns the ordinary into sculptures...and find it amazing how beautiful they are. When it has finished and I have enjoyed it for a day...I think oh I wish it would go away....anna A short poem to give one something to think about....

Dreams
by Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow.

Dear Annafair .. I have been just content to read the wonderful poetry which has come through. Sometimes I am just a listener .. experiencing blanks when no matter how I try to find a poem to suit how everyone is feeling it doesn't come. I loved the Thanksgiving poems .. what a wonderful day to be able to celebrate and say thankyou for your many blessings.

Christmas is nigh and I thought that this poem is just right for this gentle time.

THE OXEN by Thomas Hardy

Christmas Eve and twelve of the clock
"Now they are all on their knees"
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease

We picture the meek and mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel
If someone said on Christmas Eve
"Come see the oxen kneel

In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,"
I should go with him in the gloom
Hoping it might be so.

Some lovely Christmas poems to be found and enjoyed.

Thank you Annafair for all the poems you have made possible for us to read.

The fall than thanksgiving and the first snow storm of the year - you have brought us so many great gifts Anna - I was suprised to realize I like Longfellow - always think of him as a childhood cutsie poet but his words are more expressive than I gave him credit.

Well Mancunian started us on Christmas with the Thomas Hardy poem - and since I just came back from our monthly poetry group I thought I would share my offering for that group...

Christmas Eve
The Christmas wreath wrapped in joyous red ribbon,
secure in wood scent of moss and fir
still green and soft, affixed like forest lichen
upon my door, heralds timeless vigil
for Mary’s baby, swaddled in sweet gauze,
laid with care in the old broken crèche
beneath our lighted tree.
Shepherds watch stars hung by Santa Klaus -
woolgathered bemused, I wander Marrakech,
where veiled memories of family traditions
revealed in gilded glass globes,
reflect the twilight fires, merrily plait
grandma’s blue willow and lace dinner cloth
upon our festive midnight feast.

Christmas is special to me in so many ways as it is to many. The warm memories from my childhood, the memories from the days of my marriage, the memories when our children's laughter filled the house. The memories when we lived in foreign lands and still found Christmas was everywhere. My home is ready for Christmas again and it will be filled with the love and laughter of my children now grown and the grandchildren...How BLESSED I AM....and this morning I was again blessed to find your gifts of poems. Thank you...anna

After your contribution this poem has a veiled sadness. I chose it becaue when I was growing up in St Louis we had furnace heat. We did not have an automatic stoker so each morning my father would get out of bed in the cold house and go down to the basement and shake down the coals banked for the night, add new coals and get a good fire going. I remember laying in bed, hearing those sounds and know soon I could put my feet on a warm floor. Now if I have any regret in my life it is I never let my parents know how much I appreciated them. Yes they knew I loved them...but when I think of all the things they did to give us a home filled with love, laughter and joy ..the warm house, the wonderful smells of a kitchen, the gathering over the years for birthdays, holidays and just every day I wish with all my heart they could have known how much I appreciated them. So this poem is a reminder to me of the kindness of my parents...anna

Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house,

speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices?

Thankyou Annafair for "Those Winter Sundays" .. I had been reading that poem just a few days ago .. bringing back memories of my own father who would rise so early .. disturb the fire which had been banked up the night before to be ready for the morning. The porridge oats too had been simmering in the double pan all night and would be ready for breakfast. The memory of those cold winter mornings are so precious. We would walk to school through the snow feeling all warm inside. The fireplace was the central part of home. I remember too coming home to the warm smells of cooking and, through impatience and hunger would sit toasting bread with a long handled toasting fork on the glowing embers. It sure had a wonderful taste. I have a rather lovely poem for Christmas .. I have to go now and search for I cannot trust my memory. See you very soon.

Annafair: I too loved that poem. When my children were little, we would turn the heat down at night to save money. I would get up early, to turn it up. My young daughter would get up with me. We would sit snuggled together on the floor with our backs tight up against the grill where the first heat came out, and watch the sun come up together. The feeling of snuggling there while the first heat went through us is a precious memory for both of us.

Just looking back on my last post .. I must add that it is now 56 years since I saw or experienced any snow. I'm going back to England again next year (all being well) and will be there for Christmas .. just wondering if there will be any snow.

This poem by Robert Louis Stevenson is high up on my favourite list. Perhaps because of my connection with the sea. It is about a young man's first trip to sea.

"CHRISTMAS AT SEA'

Tghe sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide where a seaman could hardly stand.
' The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But t'was only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the main tops'l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tack'd and tack'd between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tack'd from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard.
So's we saw the cliffs and houses and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;
The windows sparkled clear and the chimneys volley'd out
And I vow we sniff'd the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it's just that I should tell you how (of all the days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn.
And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.
O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My Mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair.
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves
Go dancing round the china plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household, and the son that went to sea,
And O the wicked fool I seem'd, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea light and the dark began to fall.
'All hands to loose topgallant sails!' I heard the Captain call.
'By the Lord she'll never stand it,' our first mate Jackson cried
...'It's one way or the other, Mr Jackson,' he replied.

She staggered to her bearings but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward, just as though she understood.
As the winter's day was ending in the entry of the night,
We clear'd the weary headland, and pass'd below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

Robert Louis Stevenson (1896)

I remember my dad starting the furnace in the morning, stoking the coals. That steel arm on the side that had to be moved back and forth. The smell of the coal burning. I remember at night before he went to bed he used to bank the coals. He kept our house warm in the winter and I don't think I ever thanked him either. What a hard job that must have been day after day.

Some would find it odd that the poem Winter Sundays affected us much the same way ...Life has changed so much since I was a little girl ...it was simpler in many ways. Nothing was easy but I think my parents felt it was so much better than when they were young..I would think that as well using this wonderful computer to talk to you, except I am not sure it is better. Each time you post I think I hear your voices and your post often makes me nod my head and say I know ..that is the way it was with me too.

Marjorie I loved that poem and it makes me remember the day we left to drive to NY and take a ship to Europe for four years. My mother was standing on the steps and I thought at the time will she be here in four years? Will we see each other again? And suddenly I realized my mother was old. My father had already died and now Mom was growing old. I think Robert L Stevenson said it so well ....and thanks for sharing a favorite of yours...it is now a favorite of mine. anna

One advantage of hosting poetry I get to meet old friends. Poets and poetry read ages ago..Not forgotten entirely but never the less not read in a LONG time..This is the one I found today hope you find it is a friend as well..anna

Winter: My Secret
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I: Perhaps some day, who knows? But not today; it froze, and blows and snows, And you're too curious: fie! You want to hear it? well: Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there's none: Suppose there is no secret after all, But only just my fun. Today's a nipping day, a biting day; In which one wants a shawl, A veil, a cloak, and other wraps: I cannot ope to everyone who taps, And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall; Come bounding and surrounding me, Come buffeting, astounding me, Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all. I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows His nose to Russian snows To be pecked at by every wind that blows? You would not peck? I thank you for good will, Believe, but leave the truth untested still.

Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust March with its peck of dust, Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers, Nor even May, whose flowers One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day, WHen drowsy birds sing less and less, And golden fruit is ripening to excess, If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud, And the warm wind is neither still nor loud, Perhaps my secret I may say, Or you may guess.

Somehow I found a web site ...and already I have forgotten...but it had a lot of poems by Scottish poets...Robert Service was one of my favorite poets when I was young...and I have never fulfilled my dream to go to Alaska..Enjoyed reading all of his poems again but found another poet and a poem I liked..hope you do too...anna

Frank McNie's Poems

The Sons of the North Wind

Winter is coming try to stay warm, up in the North there’s a gathering storm. Boarialis is warning with his flickering light, The Sons of the North Wind are restless tonight.

White Feet and White Hands are anxious to go, they just wait for their brother White Wings to blow. Beyond the gates of the Sunset, their northern home. tonight is the night they’re ready to roam.

The brothers of winter, Wind, Ice and Snow, can kill Earthbound Mortals with their radiant glow. El Ninio is dead La Ninia is Gone, only the Trade Winds left to fight on .

Take to the woods and your homes stay out of sight, The Sons of the North Wind are restless tonight.

I wrote the following poem based on a true experience that my daughter had when she was five years old when our house burnt down.

A Christmas Past

A Christmas tree bursts into flame

Blue velvet bows crinkle in the glow

Christmas wrapped gifts whoosh in the flame

Daddy drags in the garden hose

Escape the fire with just our clothes

Fire engines clank in the night

Good neighbors bring food and clothes

Holding my mother tight I cry

I see my house a shadowy orange

John, my neighbor, carries me away

Kathy, his wife, seems to be glowing gold

Lion is with me, stuffed and smelling of smoke

My fingers touch the needles as they crumble

"No, don't touch!" My father shouts the next day

"Ouch!" The needles are still hot as they crumble

"Put your hand in mine," cries my mother

Quickly I ran from the house

Running as hard as my small legs will carry me

Strangers sell us a new house

"Tell me please will Santa come?"

Unusual gifts are under our new tree

Velvet dresses, a rocking horse, and a new TV

With wide eyes I look up and up at the enormous tree

Xylophone, a yellow-eyed bear and huge box zoo to name be a few.

Anne M. Ogle

SCRAWLER .. what a Christmas memory that is for you. But out of that must have come love and friendship from friends and neighbours who helped you in your sad plight. That would be true Christmas spirit. Beautifully written and thank you Scrawler. None of us really know do we what is round the corner for us.

Thankyou Annafair for your poem and yes I too love Robert Service poetry. I think I may have mentioned it before but his poems were a favourite with the late Queen Mother. Shall we find some?

I agree with Marjoirie that is Christmas memory to both cherish and recoil...a fire at any time is bad but to survive and then have the memories of the goodness of people help also has to remind us the world is full of good folks...and it reminds us to be one as well....thanks for sharing the poem....

Marjorie I think you did mention Service was a favorite of the Queen Mother ....I tried to find the one I loved so much years ago and I think this may be it.. it says it is a fragment...but I suspect it is the part I read then...I dont recall it being overly long....I think my favorite line was about the hollow being full of hush to the brim...that has always overwhelmed me...anna

The Spell of the Yukon
(Fragment)

I wanted the gold, and I sought it; I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy – I fought it; I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it – Came out with a fortune last fall, - Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it, And somehow the gold isn’t all.

No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?) Its’ the cussedest land that I know, From the biggest, screen mountains that screen it To the deep, deathlike valley below. Some say God was tired when He made it; Some say it’s a fine land to shun; Maybe, but there’s some as would trade it For no land on earth – and I’m one.

You come to get rich (dammed good reason); You feel like an exile at first; You hate it like hell for a season, And then you are worse than worst. It grips you like some kind of sinning; It twists you from foe to a friend; It seems it’s been since the beginning; It seems it will be to the end.

I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow That’s plump-full of hush to the brim; I’ve watched the big husky sun wallow In crimson and gold, and grow dim, Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop; And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming, With the peace o’ the world piled on top.

There’s a land where the mountains are nameless, And the rivers all run God knows where; There are lives that are erring and nameless, And deaths that just hang by a hair; There are hardship that nobody recons; There are valleys unpeopled and still; There’s land – oh, it beckons and beckons, And I want go back – and I will.

They’re making my money diminish; I’m sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God, when I’m skinned to a finish I’ll pike to the Yukon again. I’ll fight – and you bet it’s no shame-fight; Its hell, but I’ve been there before; And it’s better than this by a damsite – So me for the Yukon once more.

There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting; It’s luring me on as of old; Yet it’s not the gold that I’m wanting So much as just finding the gold. It’s the great, big, broad land ‘way up yonder, It’s the forests where silence has lease; It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder, It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

Robert Service

Annafair .. that is absolutely Robert Service poetry. Not relying very well these days on my memory for the right words .. I shall look some more up of his which I do love.

Christmas Eve shall soon be upon us and this is very much one of my favourite Christmas poems. It was written by Clement Clarke Moore and he published it in the Troy Sentinel (Troy New York) in time for Christmas 1823.. I love reading this aloud. I get full of the spirit of Christmas when I do.

A VISIT FROM ST.NICHOLAS

T'was the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chinmney with care
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugarplums danced in their heads;
And Mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now DASHER! now DANCER! now PRANCER and VIXEN!
On COMET! on CUPID! on DONDER and BLITZEN!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house top the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes ... how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eyes and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

"HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT."

You are so right it is a Christmas poem beloved ...and best read out loud I think. there was a time when I had memorized the whole poem and LOVED to read it dramatically ...thanks for posting it...will look forward to what you post from the pen of Robert Service...I am having some trouble staying on line and hope it resolves itself soon..anna

"A Cup of Christmas Tea," written by Tom Hegg and illustrated by Warren Hanson is a simple, heartwarming story of how one man's reluctant visit to an elderly aunt's house renews his holiday spirit and brings him unexpected joy.

A Cup of Christmas Tea
by Tom Hegg

The log was in the fireplace, all spiced and set to burn
At last the yearly Christmas race was in the clubhouse turn.
The cards were in the mail, all the gifts beneath the tree
And 30 days reprieve till VISA could catch up with me.

Though smug satisfaction seemed the order of the day
Something still was nagging me and would not go away
A week before I got a letter from my old great Aunt
It read: Of course I'll understand completely if you can't
But if you find you have some time how wonderful if we
Could have a little chat and share a cup of Christmas tea.

She'd had a mild stroke that year which crippled her left side
Though house bound now my folks had said it hadn't hurt her pride
They said: She'd love to see you. What a nice thing it would be For you to go and maybe have a cup of Christmas tea.

But boy! I didn't want to go. Oh, what a bitter pill
To see and old relation and how far she'd gone downhill
I remembered her as vigorous, as funny and as bright
I remembered Christmas Eves when she regaled us half the night.

I didn't want to risk all that. I didn't want the pain.
I didn't need to be depressed. I didn't need the strain.
And what about my brother? Why not him? She's his aunt, too!
I thought I had it justified, but then before I knew
The reasons not to go I so painstakingly had built
Were cracking wide and crumbling in an acid rain of guilt.

I put on boots and gloves and cap, shame stinging every pore
And armed with squeegee, sand and map, I went out my front door.
I drove in from the suburbs to the older part of town
The pastels of the newer homes gave way to gray and brown.

I had that disembodied feeling as the car pulled up
And stopped beside the wooden house that held the Christmas cup.
How I got up to her door I really couldn't tell...
I watched my hand rise up and press the button of the bell.

I waited, aided by my nervous rocking to and fro
And just as I was thinking I should turn around and go
I heard the rattle of the china in the hutch against the wall
The triple beat of two feet and a crutch came down the hall.
The clicking of the door latch and the sliding of the bolt
And a little swollen struggle popped it open with a jolt.

She stood there pale and tiny, looking fragile as an egg
I forced myself from staring at the brace that held her leg.
And though her thick bifocals seemed to crack and spread her eyes
Their milky and refracted depths lit up with young surprise.
Come in! Come in! She laughed the words. She took me by the hand
And all my fears dissolved away as if by her command.
We went inside and then before I knew how to react
Before my eyes and ears and nose was Christmas past, alive, intact!

The scent of candied oranges, of cinnamon and pine,
The antique wooden soldiers in their military line,
The porcelain Nativity I'd always loved so much,
The Dresden and the crystal I'd been told I mustn't touch.
My spirit fairly bolted like a child out of class
And danced among the ornaments of calico and glass.

Like magic I was six again, deep in a Christmas spell
Steeped in the million memories the boy inside knew well.
And here among old Christmas cards so lovingly displayed
A special place of honor for the ones we kids had made.
And there, beside her rocking chair, the center of it all
My great Aunt stood and said how nice it was that I had come to call.

I sat and rattled on about the weather and the flu
She listened very patiently then smiled and said, "What's new?"
Thoughts and words began to flow. I started making sense
I lost the phony breeziness I use when I get tense.
She was still passionately interested in everything I did.
She was positive. Encouraging. Like when I was a kid.
Simple generalities still sent her into fits
She demanded the specifics. The particulars. The bits.

We talked about the limitations that she'd had to face
She spoke with utter candor and with humor and good grace.
Then defying the reality of crutch and straightened knee
On wings of hospitality she flew to brew the tea.
I sat alone with feelings that I hadn't felt in years.
I looked around at Christmas through a thick hot blur of tears.

And the candles and the holly she'd arranged on every shelf
The impossibly good cookies she still somehow baked herself.
But these rich and tactile memories became quite pale and thin
When measured by the Christmas my great Aunt kept deep within.
Her body halved and nearly spent, but my great Aunt was whole
I saw a Christmas miracle, the triumph of a soul.

The triple beat of two feet and a crutch came down the hall
The rattle of the china in the hutch against the wall.
She poured two cups. She smiled and then she handed one to me
And then we settled back and had a cup of Christmas tea.

I enjoyed that so much Vicki Vera .. I hope that Christmas will always be with the world.

Even if it's only for the moment .. it is wonderful the feelings of joy it brings to so many.

Yes Annafair .. reading poetry aloud is the way I think it is meant to be. Let's find some more.

Vicki Vera thanks so much ..there is nothing a poetry lover loves more than to find a poem never read before...it reminded me of my great aunt who kept Christmas right to the end...and she too was a tea drinker.. if it wasnt so late I would make myself a cup right now..I have the lovely china teapot she used and the china cups...and doesnt it taste better in a porcelain cup? the only think I lack is a tea cozy ..she always used one to keep the tea hot for that second cup......thanks so much ...put me in a good mood ...anna

Thought you might appreciate some Australian humour for the holiday season

A Bush Christening

by A. B. "Banjo" Paterson

On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten-year-old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.

And his wife used to cry, "If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognize him."
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptize him.

Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin';
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
"What the divil and all is this christenin'?"

He was none of your dolts -- He had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.

So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened --
"'Tis outrageous," says he, "to brand youngsters like me;
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!"

Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the "praste", cried aloud in his haste
"Come out and be christened, you divil!"

But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
"I've a notion," says he, "that'll move him.

"Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy -- don't hurt him or maim him;
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.

"Here he comes, and for shame, ye've forgotten the name --
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?"
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout --
"Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis'!"

As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled "Maginnis's Whisky"!

Now Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened Maginnis!

Thanks so much for posting it..started my day with a smile and a laugh .The only way we know of most poets from another country is by someone like you sharing...Please share some more. We will all enjoy them....anna

Today I did a thorough search of his poems and much to my surprise it would seem he has written dozens of poems...on nearly every subject. A prolific poet ...I can see an introduction to his poetry really doesnt show the extent of his writing.The list was long over 800 poems..Here is one I found today...anna

The Trapper's Christmas Eve
Robert Service

It's mighty lonesome-like and drear. Above the Wild the moon rides high, And shows up sharp and needle-clear The emptiness of earth and sky; No happy homes with love a-glow; No Santa Claus to make believe: Just snow and snow, and then more snow; It's Christmas Eve, it's Christmas Eve.

And here am I where all things end, And Undesirables are hurled; A poor old man without a friend, Forgot and dead to all the world; Clean out of sight and out of mind . . . Well, maybe it is better so; We all in life our level find, And mine, I guess, is pretty low.

Yet as I sit with pipe alight Beside the cabin-fir take to-night The backward trail of fifty year. The school-house and the Christmas tree; The children with their cheeks a-glow; Two bright blue eyes that smile on me . . . Just half a century ago.

Again (it's maybe forty years), With faith and trust almost divine, These same blue eyes, abrim with tears, Through depths of love look into mine. A parting, tender, soft and low, With arms that cling and lips that cleave . . . Ah me! it's all so long ago, Yet seems so sweet this Christmas Eve.

Just thirty years ago, again . . . We say a bitter, last good-bye; Our lips are white with wrath and pain; Our little children cling and cry. Whose was the fault? it matters not, For man and woman both deceive; It's buried now and all forgot, Forgiven, too, this Christmas Eve.

And she (God pity me) is dead; Our children men and women grown. I like to think that they are wed, With little children of their own, That crowd around their Christmas tree . . . I would not ever have them grieve, Or shed a single tear for me, To mar their joy this Christmas Eve.

Stripped to the buff and gaunt and still Lies all the land in grim distress. Like lost soul wailing, long and shrill, A wolf-howl cleaves the emptiness. Then hushed as Death is everything. The moon rides haggard and forlorn . . . "O hark the herald angels sing!" God bless all men -- it's Christmas morn.

That's so funny! hahaha... and I'll raise a cup to salute Maginnis!

how poignant, wonder how many people feel like this at Christmas.

Anneo

My boss always says no organization can work without an Anne, guessing this ones is in good shape with Annafair, Annie3 and anneo.

I am fond of my name and think all Annes, Annies, Anna's are greatLOL That is a poignant poem and I suspect there are many who feel lost and lonely at Christmas...it is a short day and a long night...and to be alone at that time is very painful indeed..and if you have memories of happier times with family all about then it is the longest day of the year...and the sadest....I am sorry the singing of Christmas carols in a nieghborhood seems to have fallen by the wayside. I enjoyed doing it when I was young and now miss the singers ....anna

This is a tender little poem. I think all here in their senior days will find some echo from their thoughts and hopes of earlier years.

THE HOUSE OF MEMORIES

There's a little house in a little street,
A little way from the sea,
And, O, when I am weary of all the world
It's there I fain would be!

For the world is full of sorrows and care,
And the darkness lies before;
And the little house is full of the dreams,
That were ours, but are ours no more.

In the little street, in the long ago,
In the little house by the sea,
We dreamed of the days that have had no dawn,
Of the years that shall never be.

But you were young, and I was young,
And we dreamed and had no care,
And dearer and better than life has been
Were the dreams that came to us there.

And so when I'm weary of all the world,
Of its sordid hopes and its pain,
I think of the little house that was ours,
And sigh to be there again.

A. St. John Adcock.

That poem certainly hits home to me ...for some reason, my age? I have thought so much lately of the house where I was born ( which no longer exists) and my life there. It was such a good life, and special in ways it would take a book to tell. With Christmas near I keep returning to that house and the Christmases we shared. I am now the oldest remaining, my three older brothers gone and my two younger ones and I talk about those days and how special they were.....and each home my husband and I shared still holds a place in my heart and mind. The poem you shared is one I can say I understand...thanks...anna

The weatherman promised snow today..not a lot but perhaps 3 inches ...with Christmas just around the bend I think we would like to see a bit of snow...not a lot ..we dont enjoy it enough to be inconvenienced any more...but for those who once lived where it snowed a lot...we like to see it fall ....anna

The wintry mind

Witter Bynner

Winter uncovers distance, I find; And so the cold and so the wintry mind Takes leaves away, till there is left behind A wide cold world. And so the heart grows blind To the earth's green motions lying warm below Field upon field, field upon field, of snow.

All those years ago .. we never do forget do we about our childhood and the home we lived in. So warm, safe and sound. Thankyou Trevor. When I was in my home town in 2002 I revisited the house I grew up in. I was taking a picture when the people came out and invited me in for afternoon tea. I felt quite breathless I assure you. It was such a pleasure.

When reading Robert Service's poems such as 'The Shooting of Dan McGrew' (extremely long) I have always been reminded of some of Banjo Paterson's poetry. The following one is quite unusual for him I feel but reminiscent I'm sure of how things were in those earlier days. Not really a favourite poem of mine.

The Girls of Long Ago ..

I rate the girls of long ago
Ahead of those today;
They used to sit and knit and sew
Where now they want to play.
I may be stuffy in my ways,
Old fashioned and uncouth,
Yet let an aged codger praise
The lasses of his youth.

At home how gladly they would wait
To entertain their beaus;
When now what they appreciate
Are cars and picture shows.
With crochet, lace and fancy work,
They made the parlour gay;
The household chores they did not shirk,
Those maids of yesterday.

My mother was that kind of girl,
She had no wish to roam;
Despiteful of the social whirl
Her heart was in her home.
It used to be her happy boast
To keep the hearth aglow,
So now let this old codger toast
The girls of long ago.

by Robert Service.

He died in 1958 at the age of 84 .. I do wonder what he would have written today comparing the girls of today and the girls of long ago?

Well Marjorie I am one of them but I didnt wish to stay in my home town ..it was my desire to travel and see the world. No one discourged me for I am sure they thought it was a childish dream ..and I would forget about it..lucky for me I met a man who became a pilot in the USAF and my dreams were fulfilled ....When I returned a number of years ago to my 40th High School Class reunion it was interesting to see how the girls of yesterday had turned out. Some had never married, they were happy with their chosen work. Nurses, teacheres, real estate agents...others were the old fashioned girls..married happily, mother and grand mother for some. In the class picture they looked more mature..some were very sophisticated ( not the old fashioned girls.) they were all a real mix and some showed signs of keeping up with the new thinking..it was interesting. so I suspect even the girls of yesterday werent as settled as the poem would indicate...thanks for posting it thoogh I love to see the world through others eyes and especially a poet......anna

I keep looking for poems about winter and snow ...in the 30 years I have lived in SE Virginia we have had blizzards and lots of snow..but only sporadically ...most years we are promised more than we ever get. Since snow when I was young was a treat ..I still suffer from snow hunger ..but have to say I am satisfied with just watching the flakes fall and then melt on the ground...anna

The Snowfall Is So Silent

Miguel de Unamuno Translated by Robert Bly

The snowfall is so silent, so slow, bit by bit, with delicacy it settles down on the earth and covers over the fields. The silent snow comes down white and weightless; snowfall makes no noise, falls as forgetting falls, flake after flake. It covers the fields gently while frost attacks them with its sudden flashes of white; covers everything with its pure and silent covering; not one thing on the ground anywhere escapes it. And wherever it falls it stays, content and gay, for snow does not slip off as rain does, but it stays and sinks in. The flakes are skyflowers, pale lilies from the clouds, that wither on earth. They come down blossoming but then so quickly they are gone; they bloom only on the peak, above the mountains, and make the earth feel heavier when they die inside. Snow, delicate snow, that falls with such lightness on the head, on the feelings, come and cover over the sadness that lies always in my reason.

Candlemas

By Alice Brown 1857-1948

O hearken, all ye little weeds That lie beneath the snow, (So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!) The sun hath risen for royal deeds, A valiant wind the vanguard leads; Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds Before ye rise and blow.

O furry living things, adream On winter's drowsy breast, (How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!) Arise and follow where a gleam Of wizard gold unbinds the stream, And all the woodland windings seem With sweet expectance blest.

My birds, come back! the hollow sky Is weary for your note. (Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!) Ere May's soft minions hereward fly, Shame on ye, laggards, to deny The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye, The tawny, shining coat!

I found this one by Longfellow

The Three Kings By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere, And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of the night, over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well.

"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain; We know of no King but Herod the Great!" They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain, Like riders in haste, who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king."

So they rode away; and the star stood still, The only one in the grey of morn; Yes, it stopped --it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David, where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little child in the manger lay, The child, that would be king one day Of a kingdom not human, but divine.

His mother Mary of Nazareth Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King, The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone, Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way.

Oh, Annafair... I remember that poem... having heard it in grade school... but had no idea who wrote it... I learn something here on SeniorNet every day

I didnt know it was by Longfellow either..It seems I read a lot of his poems but am finding there were a lot more...like you I read these in grade school ..as I grew older ( not wiser) I felt he was out of date but now I am finding him again and there is much I enjoy recalling from those early times and some I am discovering....anna

Reading many Senior Netters' posts telling of the snow arriving .. brings to mind this small poem by Robert Frost.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost. 1874 -1963 .. Pulitzer Prize winner 1924

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow certainly was a much acclaimed author and poet wasn't he? 'The Wreck of the Hesperus'; 'The Village Blacksmith' 'Evangeline' being some of his well known poems along with 'Hiawatha'and of course 'Paul Revere's Last Ride'.

My very best wishes to you Annafair and all the others who have made this site so enjoyable. May the new season be extra kind and Christmas a happy time for all.

Voices in the Mist
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The time draws near the birth of Christ:
The moon is hid, the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,
From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fail, as if a door
Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes on the wind,
That now dilate, and now decrease;
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.

MARJORIE That poem by Robert Frost," Stopping by woods on a snowy evening," is a favourite of mine. Some think it is a poem about death, but I have never thought that. Do you think that it is ? I have always felt it to be what it says in the heading, a story about a late night horse ride, just before Christmas.

What do you think Anna, and any others here ? === Trevor

And have always felt that way..but most teachers etc insist it means death...perhaps they are not as positive as some of us. I cant tell you how pleased I am you think the same way....what about any others? anna

Thanks so much for those posts. Marjorie you posted one of my favorite poems by Frost...There is such a beauty in falling snow ..the way it changes even ugly things into marvelous sculptures. He paints such a peaceful scene ...and is enjoying it so much ...to me it says he will move on, take the horse home and put it to bed but he still has a lot to do before he can do the same. He is enjoying this break , this beauty , this peace.

Vicki there is just something about Christmas poems that touches me...the promise, the idea of peace on earth....it may never come but Christmas always gives us hope....anna

I always learn something new about some of my favorite poems..This is one know as I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day...John Baptiste Calkin took five of the stanzas from Longfellows poem, rearranged them slightly and gave us one of my favorite Christmas carols.

Longfellow wrote the poem December 25th 1864. It was called Christmas Bells ....it had seven stanzas and two gave reference to the American Civil War. It was when I read the information his acceptance of two tragedies he endured. In 1861 his beloved wife died in a fire. She had cut the hair of their 7 year old daughter and decided to preserve the locks by encasing them in candle wax. Some of the hot wax dripped on her gown and caught the light fabric on fire. When she couldnt beat it out she ran to Longfellow study where he tried to smother it with a rug...failing that he sought to embrace her and smother the flames. Instead he was burned severely and the next morning his wife died. The beard you see in his portraits was the result of the fire..he could no longer shave. His oldest son Charles was severely wounded in battle and his journal indicated he was in a state of despair. But Lincoln had been re-elected and the he felt the Civil War was coming to and end and thus wrote this poem. I have posted the original as I think it is especially pertinent to our own time ..anna

Christmas Bells" (The original poem, complete with all seven stanzas)

"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!

And 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!

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!

Then from each black accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born 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!"

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .

The following was written by Alfred Burt who followed his father in sending a new poem or carol each year as a Christmas card. Many of the special songs sung at Christmas were from this talented and special man. His father was the pastor of a church and wrote the lyrics and music to many song-poems as Christmas cards.

His son and his wife continued the practice and this one is my favorite. Hope you enjoy the words ...and the meaning ..anna

Some Children See Him By Alfred Burt

Some children see Him lily white the infant Jesus born this night Some children see Him lily white with tresses soft and fair

Some children see Him bronzed and brown the Lord of heav'n to earth come down Some children see Him bronzed and brown with dark and heavy hair (with dark and heavy hair!)

Some children see Him almond-eyed This Saviour whom we kneel beside Some children see Him almond-eyed With skin of yellow hue!

Some children see Him dark as they Sweet Mary's Son to whom we pray Some children see Him dark as they And, ah! they love Him so!

The children in each different place Will see the Baby Jesus' face Like theirs but bright with heav'nly grace And filled with holy light!

O lay aside each earthly thing and with thy heart as offering Come worship now the infant King 'tis love that's born tonight!

'tis love that's born tonight!

ANNA Thank YOU for those two poems. They are new to me,( shows you how little I know ! ) and I have printed them out to keep. I'm pleased you share my view about the Frost poem. I see nothing about death in the work.

Greetings for Christmas, and a safe and happy New Year to all who visit these pages..== Trevor

That is what makes doing this special to me. I become reacquainted with a poet from my past and often find works that I missed. And hopefully I give the readers here something new as well or a memory from their past.

And then I am blessed again when someone posts a poem they love and it is new to me. Or touches me with a golden memory from my past.

It is still Tues night here ...just a wee past 10:30PM I finished most of my shopping today. Usually it is just my Christmas dinner for the family I provide and of course preparing everyone's favorite recipes. This year the grandchildren are old enough to buy special things for and the rest of the family has as always helped me with some things around the house and I decided to buy everyone gifts this year.

How is it there? Shopping crowds? stalled traffic, slow moving everywhere? I wish I had made the decision earlier I could have avoided the crowds..but I did find perfect gifts for everyone..Things I know they will like and have them wrapped and ready to put under the tree. It is the first time since their dad died I have done this ...and it was so special to recall the joy we had finding just the right gift for everyone...and the day will be special for it was a holiday that meaning more than just presents ...love, sharing, attending church as a family...I just hold those memories close ...

For everyone who visits here I too wish you a Merry Christmas, or whatever holiday you celebrate I wish it is exactly as you hope it will be. I wish for everyone PEACE> I believe it is what most people would be satisfied with most of all. If your family cant be with you then may you have happy memories from the past to warm your heart. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve here ...All of you will be in my prayers and I will thank God for each of you. We are all one family...God Bless you everyone...anna

Yes Anna we are all one family and it is with those very loving thoughts that I send to you and all the hope for .. "Peace in the world and Goodwill to all who share this yearning for peace."

Vicki .. we do strive for peace don't we and Christmas comes along each year as a very special reminder that we do not give up those hopes. Longfellow shows the way in that beautiful poem.

I do so agree with you Trevor .. I can never help but feel rather akin to Robert Frost's horseman .. he wants so much to stay to enjoy the snow in the woodlands but finds that there is so much he has to do and must go. That seems to happen so much in life. Sometimes no time to stop and stare.
In Christmas Bells Anna .. the words

"The wrong shall fail
The right shall prevail"
are so true but with so much sacrifice .. ever since the world began.

I certainly can sense little children's minds as they see the little infant Jesus .. he looks just like they do. rightly so too.

O Yes, Anna .. there is so much hustle and bustle in these days before Christmas .. I am so pleased to stay home .. regain some strength frommy own rushing around. Trevor and Wisia will be joining me and many others in listening to our favourite broadcaster Ross Browne .. his wonderful knowledge of literature .. the poets and poetry .. his renditions are a joy to listen to.

My love to you all for a wondrous Christmas time and a 2004 filled with good health and happiness.

The temperature is still warmer than normal....59 at 6PM..from my front window I can see the decorations on homes around me and my tree is winking welcome. I have some Christmas records on and making pie crusts so tomorrow I can make the pies fresh ...the crusts chill overnight in the fridge and I think produce a crisper crust...

I will miss the Christmas eve service at church ...which I deeply regret but am trying to avoid too many people so I can stay well. Tomorrow my neighbor across the street will host dinner at 5 for some of my family, some other friends and me. My family will be here Saturday for our annual dinner. Three of my four children and all six grandchildren live in the area so we have to share with the other families...I like doing it after the day itself...seems to make a special holiday even better.

I found a poem in a collection of cowboy poems. It reminds me of Edgar Guest who published in the St Louis Globe Democrat when I was a little girl Homey , plain spoken, it appealed to that little girl.

Hope all of your days are good ones..anna

Bunkhouse Christmas Eve

It was a cold December evening In the bunkhouse shut up tight With the cowboys sleepy talkin' Whiling 'way the hours of night They remembered things they'd done, Talked of places where they¹d been, And they questioned one another 'Bout the tales that they would spin.

They all started reminiscin' Of the things they'd read about Of places they would like to see And the trail's they'd like to scout. One wished he'd been with Washington On that Christmas long ago When they rowed across the river Into history's golden glow.

They talked of grand historic things And of things they'd like to do 'Till a top hand in the corner Said "I'd like to tell you true: If I could be where I would wish At any time of night or morn; I wish I'd been in Bethlehem On the night that Christ was born."

One wished he'd been with Teddy's boys As they charged up San Juan hill. Another thought an ocean trip Would bring him a lifelong thrill. But the old man in the corner Said "a wish I'd like to claim Was to have been in Bethlehem On the night our savior came."

My mind can see the narrow streets Of that small Judian town, And I feel the stillness of the night As the world turned up-side-down. Ya' dream of grand historic things And life's changing things of earth, But the grandest of creation Was the night of Jesus' birth.

I'd like to hear the angels singin' To the shepherds there at night, And I'd walk along beside 'em As the stable came in sight. Just to see the star a-shinnin' 'Fore the breakin' of the morn; I wish I'd been in Bethlehem On the night that Christ was born."

They asked him why he'd like to be In such a far and distant place; Why his strange compelling ache To see a little baby's face. He said: "I've always been a cowboy, Often took a dangerous stand, God has carried me here safely In the palm of his kind hand.

You know I've rode the western trails, Seen all the sights of these great lands, But I wish I'd seen the baby, Seen the Savior's scarless hands. Just to pledge Him my devotion Before He bore that cross of scorn. Yes, I wish I¹d been in Bethlehem On the night that Christ was born."

And we pray that you have peace; His peace

by Gail T. Burton

What a beautiful poem Anna .. one that must too be read aloud. Thank you so much. A very happy day to you. Here in New Zealand it is 7.15pm. We at home here have had a very quiet day just three of us. Turkey for dinner. Sparkling wine to drink and the weather being so very warm I shall shortly be having some rather special icecream. The trifle will have to wait I'm afraid until my appetite returns after so large a dinner.

Tomorrow I shall be sailing across the five miles to Kawau Island my former home, to be with friends for Boxing Day dinner .. up in their almost secret hideaway cabin in the bush where we will be hearing the tuis and other native birds happily going from tree to tree enjoying THEIR festive fare.

Much love Marjorie

I have pictured you there....enjoying a secluded holiday with friends...and the birds singing because they have a song to share. My Christmas day was perfect , with family and friends and some new friends I met today..The food was good , the prople were sharing this special day and I will have pleasent dreams tonight.

I came across a poem by Billy Collins who was the US Poet Laureate and I loved what he said because I think a lot of people do this ..not just to poetry but to stories and music and plain conversation as well ...something to think about....anna

Introduction To Poetry Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means.

That was my search ...but instead I came across a poem by Lord Byron....it speaks to me of choices ...shall I weep because the old year ends or sing because a new year begins...that is what it says to me..any other ideas...anna

My Soul is Dark

My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear, That sound shall charm it forth again: If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep, Nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nursed, And ached in sleepless silence, long; And now 'tis doomed to know the worst, And break at once - or yield to song.

Lord Byron

"Tis my hope you have all enjoyed a wonderful holiday season. It is 11:11 AM here in SE Virginia and I am thinking ahead to midnight tonight...we will be singing the traditional verses of Auld Lang Syne but I decided to print out the translated ones...It has been a good year and I thank all the posters that have contibuted and all the lurkers who say they find this a warm and serene place. GOd Bless You ALL >>.anna

Times Long Gone

Should old acquaintances be forgotten, And never brought to mind? Should old acquaintances be forgotten, And days of long ago !

Chorus: For old long ago, my dear For old long ago, We will take a cup of kindness yet For old long ago.

We two have run about the hillsides And pulled the daisies fine, But we have wandered many a weary foot For old long ago.

We two have paddled (waded) in the stream From noon until dinner time, But seas between us broad have roared Since old long ago.

And there is a hand, my trusty friend, And give us a hand of yours, And we will take a goodwill draught (of ale) For old long ago!

And surely you will pay for your pint, And surely I will pay for mine! And we will take a cup of kindness yet For old long ago!

In a note to George Thomson in 1793, Burns describes Auld Lang Syne: “The air is but mediocre; but the song of itself – the song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man’s singing – is enough to recommend any air.” Part of the song is older than Burns but Burns did take credit for at least the two verses beginning, “We twa hae ran...” and “We twa had paidl't....”
The Poet

Rabbie Burns Although Robert was his name he was known as Rabbie ....sounds like Scottish for Robbie .. .my oldest sons name. b. Jan 25, 1759 d. July 21, 1796

Was nice to see the words and know for sure what they meant. Just returned from our towns street party, with 600 people singing loudly with joined arms, is a lovely celebration really. 2:15am new years day here and bed beckons.

Anneo

Wishing a happy new year. Thank you for the words, I always wondered what they meant. So nice to know.

I found copies of poems we studied in one of my classes. The poet is R.S.Thomas, a Welsh poet who wrote poems for 50 years ..He was a Pastor and creator of his own form of bleak Welsh pastoral ..streaked with indignation ofver the history of WAles and the Welsh. He ranks with the greatest poets of the century. His stature is that of Yeats and Eliot. Here is one for you ...anna

Children's Song R.S. Thomas

We live in our own world, A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees, The adult subterfuge. And though you probe and pry With analytic eye, And eavesdrop all our talk With an amused look, You cannot find the centre Where we dance, where we play, Where life is still asleep Under the closed flower, Under the smooth shell Of eggs in the cupped nest That mock the faded blue Of your remoter heaven.

staying warm with memories of the past, thoughts of the present and hopes of things to come....
Here are two poems that are meaningful to me this January day.....

To The Brim

January, on the surface, is a darkness.
Holidays are past,
cold settles in,
spring is remote.
Oh, it could depress, this month, if you let it,
if you don't look beneath the surface.
But multiple richnesses if you do:
year's brand newness,
winter's midpoint,
time to turn inward,
nurture seed,
worship fire,
sing to see white magic falling.
Mystic within is brought to the brim
with the crystalline fullness of winter.

~Charles C. Finn

There Will Be Fire!

For the first time since my muscle pull,
I can split wood!
And none too soon what with woodpile low
and January advancing.
Stumps from fallen hickory stand ready
to receive maul's decisive ringing.
And what would I do without son of six
astounding us both with unguessed strength
stacking even the big ones?
Shoulder mending,
hickory stumps waiting,
monster maul thundering,
son stacking higher--
by God, let January advance,
there will be fire!

~Charles C. Finn

Hope all had a wonderous Christmas and wishing all a Happy New Year!

Those are perfect for January....My firewood is stacked and ready but the weather has been so finicky...too warm for January. I have only had one or two fires in my little stove.

Today looks wintery , grey, stark sky with nude trees and branches making a harsh pattern against that threatening sky. Funny in summer we think of trees as gentle but winter changes things doesnt it?

Loved the poems and thanks for posting them. It is always a joy to read from a poet new to me...I re read them to see if one line stood out but you know each was strong and perfect! I loved them all. anna

Can it be January when the temperature is in the 60's even at night and today's high will be 75? I am suspicious of temperatures out of season. My mother always said this kind of weather was pnuemonia weather. Let us hope she was wrong and we will survive summer in January.

In looking for a poem to share I checked out Pablo Neruda and found one that spoke to me. Writing poetry seriously only came to me after my husbands death. It was the only thing that helped me to survive. One of my professors in my poetry class asked us Why did we write poetry ? My reply was I cannot not write. Which was and is true but Pablo Neruda says it far better and I suspect every one who writes poetry feels the same. Here is his poem on the subject. anna

PABLO NERUDA

POETRY

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth had no way with names my eyes were blind, and something started in my soul, fever or forgotten wings, and I made my own way, deciphering that fire and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing, and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open, planets, palpitating planations, shadow perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke free on the open sky.

Here is one of his poems ..hope you like it ....anna

A Fire-Truck

Richard Wilbur

Right down the shocked street with a siren-blast That sends all else skittering to the curb, Redness, brass, ladders and hats hurl past, Blurring to sheer verb,

Shift at the corner into uproarious gear And make it around the turn in a squall of traction, The headlong bell maintaining sure and clear, Thought is degraded action!

Beautiful, heavy, unweary, loud, obvious thing! I stand here purged of nuance, my mind a blank. All I was brooding upon has taken wing, And I have you to thank.

As you howl beyond hearing I carry you into my mind, Ladders and brass and all, there to admire Your phoenix-red simplicity, enshrined In that not extinguished fire.

Robert Hass served two terms as our Poet Laureate. This is one of his poems... Reminds us that poetry was originally an oral art form. Then it went to a written form but was still read aloud for programs and events. Today it is usually read silently by the reader. In my thinking it is really meant to be read aloud. Try it ...studies show it helps us feel better ...I know it does that for me...anna

Robert Hass

Happiness

Because yesterday morning from the steamy window

we saw a pair of red foxes across the creek

eating the last windfall apples in the rain—

they looked up at us with their green eyes

long enough to symbolize the wakefulness of living things

and then went back to eating—

and because this morning

when she went into the gazebo with her black pen and yellow pad

to coax an inquisitive soul

from what she thinks of as the reluctance of matter,

I drove into town to drink tea in the café

and write notes in a journal—mist rose from the bay

like the luminous and indefinite aspect of intention,

and a small flock of tundra swans

for the second winter in a row was feeding on new grass

in the soaked fields; they symbolize mystery, I suppose,

they are also called whistling swans, are very white,

and their eyes are black—

and because the tea steamed in front of me,

and the notebook, turned to a new page,

was blank except for the faint idea of order,

I wrote: happiness! It is December, very cold,

we woke early this morning,

and lay in bed kissing,

our eyes squinched up like bats.

More on Robert Hass"Poetry's basic material," Hass says, "is the voice in which we talk to ourselves in our heads. Against all the noise and fury and pressures and deadening routines of external reality, poetry functions as that still, small voice of what it would feel like, were it not buried under the circumstances of our lives, to be our true and authentic selves. " Poetry is an intimate art!

I love Robert Hass, not for his poetry, but for other things he has done and written. He turned me "on" to Japenese haiku with a wonderful anthology (called "Haiku") and also wrote a book "How to Read Poetry" (I don't have it here-- may have the name wrong) which is an all time favorite of mine. He also when he was poet laureate) started a column in our local paper (the Washington Post) on poems which was excellant when he did it, and started a program of poetry readings in the park where ordinary people can meet and listen to poems. Truly an exceptional man.

I am completely embarrassed. The book "How to Read a Poem" which I said was by to Robert Hass is not, although it discusses him. With age, I find more and more I am mixing people up. The book is "How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry" by Edward Hirsch, and I highly recommend it to everyone. As an aopogy to Mr. Hirsch, here is a poem from the book by one of my favorite poets, Wallace Stevens. It very much reflects how I feel tonight (even though it is not summer), lying awake, unable to sleep, and reading poetry. (I'm still having trouble with posting. Please excuse the format)

The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm

by Wallace Stevens

.

The house was quiet and the world was calm.

the reader became the book; and summer night

.

Was like the conscious being of the book.

The house was quiet and the world was calm.

.

The words were spoken as if there was no book.

Except that the reader leaned above the page,

.

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be

The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

.

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

The house was quiet because it had to be.

.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:

The acess of perfection to the page.

.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,

In which there is no other meaning, itself

.

Is calm, itself a summer and night, itself

Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

No need to be embarrassed ....we all have these little mistakes...I have reached a point where I realize my mind is like a computer...full of bytes and sometimes I cant locate the right file...I am glad you admire Robert Hass because he is really remarkable...and thanks for the poem..

You must read poetry like I do ..aloud to yourself...and for the time you are reading ...you and the poet become one and the world is calm...anna

especially thanks for the poem ...this cold weather is playing havoc with my sinus and my head hurts too much to even think...

Perhaps you live somewhere where winter has yet to arrive ...and this poem will speak to you...here winter seemed delayed so this poem reminded me of the waiting...and now it has arrived ...the warm days of summer that stayed too long have been displaced by bitter cold. Hope you enjoy it...anna

A Spell before Winter

After the red leaf and the gold have gone, Brought down by the wind, then by hammering rain Bruised and discolored, when October's flame Goes blue to guttering in the cusp, this land Sinks deeper into silence, darker into shade. There is a knowledge in the look of things, The old hills hunch before the north wind blows.

Now I can see certain simplicities In the darkening rust and tarnish of the time, And say over the certain simplicities, The running water and the standing stone, The yellow haze of the willow and the black Smoke of the elm, the silver, silent light Where suddenly, readying toward nightfall, The sumac's candelabrum darkly flames. And I speak to you now with the land's voice, It is the cold, wild land that says to you A knowledge glimmers in the sleep of things: The old hills hunch before the north wind blows.

Howard Nemerov Poet Laureate 1988-1990

I have been looking for months for my book of Wallace Stevens poetry so I could post one of my favorite winter poems. We had a moving crisis a few months ago and it left my books in a shambles. It occurred to me today that "I bet it's on the web. Sure enough, I found several copies. So, if it's not cheating to post a link and not the poem, here is "The Snowman" by Wallace Stevens. Click, and it will take you there.

http://www.english.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/stevens-snowman.html

It is not cheating and thanks for the link...I loved that poem....the best part of hosting this discussion ..which I think I have said many times ...you uncover gems you would never have known...my books are in a shamble ..all over the house...and I rather like it that way. When a free moment arrives I can pick up a book wherever I happen to be and enjoy. Those moments are gifts in my routine....and I cherish each one...good to see here and thanks for sharing...anna

This one is by Anthony Hecht...when I asked Google to find a poem by him I wrote Heche ...now let me tell you ..I found sites that would curl your hair...wow but I also changed the request and found this poem...anna

A Letter
Antony Hecht

I have been wondering

What you are thinking about, and by now suppose

It is certainly not me.

But the crocus is up, and the lark, and the blundering

Blood knows what it knows.

It talks to itself all night, like a sliding moonlit sea.

Of course, it is talking of you.

At dawn, where the ocean has netted its catch of lights,

The sun plants one lithe foot

On that spill of mirrors, but the blood goes worming through

Its warm Arabian nights,

Naming your pounding name again in the dark heart-root.

Who shall, of course, be nameless.

Anyway, I should want you to know I have done my best,

As I'm sure you have, too.

Others are bound to us, the gentle and blameless

Whose names are not confessed

In the ceaseless palaver. My dearest, the clear unquaried blue

Of those depths is all but blinding.

You may remember that once you brought my boys

Two little woolly birds.

Yesterday the older one asked for you upon finding

Your thrush among his toys.

And the tides welled about me, and I could find no words.

There is not much else to tell.

One tries one's best to continue as before,

Doing some little good.

But I would have you know that all is not well

With a man dead set to ignore

The endless repetitions of his own murmurous blood.

IT cant compare to other poems but when I awoke this morn ..I found my yard transformed and wrote this poem about it...anna

Anatomy of a winter morn

No rosy rays to launch the day Or announce the morn But bright gray light to tell Another day is born From gray banks Of endless clouds Snow gently rains down Silently, making it's architect proud Building a fairy land In my back yard Like a frosted wedding cake It decorates my lawn Mounds of snow blossoms Transform the shrubs Icing outlines each Limb and branch and bud Tightly closed waiting For Spring to come Birds and squirrels Seek seed and nuts Dropped upon the lawn Bare beneath the trees Where green grasses can Still be found No wind disturbs my fairy land How long I do not know Still I will enjoy it Until weather warms And south wind blows and Melts my fairy land of snow...

anna alexander January 9, 2004©

I emailed my poem to a local poet ..a good friend of long standing..and she emailed me a poem she wrote in 2001 ...it is really superior to mine and has consented to allow me to share it with you...anna

The Snowfall

The snowfall came quietly and quickly changed my world into a fairyland dressed everything in white reshaped each object it touched.

My scalloped birdbath a frosted pie the picnic table set for a feast shrubs bowed gracefully as pink camellias peeked out from under white bonnets.

Oregon Holly along the fence row looked like a Yeti with spiked hair, outstretched arms ready to embrace it all.

Once again I felt the joy and wonder as feathery flakes fell on upturned face but joy is often fleeting when snow changed into rain my Cinderella fairyland was back in rags again.

Alma-Feb 27, 200l

When I close my eyes and dream of spring and warmer days it pleases me to know that in other parts of this old world the sky is blue and birds sing> Tonight I share a poem from Shakespeare because I had need to be outdoors in this bitter weather and had to remove my gloves...to keep my fingers warm I did as the shepard did I blew on my nails until I could get indoors...anna

Spring and Winter By William Shakespeare 1564-1616

WHEN icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whit! To-who!--a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doe blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whit! To-who!--a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Nice poem -- except I don't like being called greasy (just kidding). Apparently in England, Joan is a name given to servants, and I have seen many such slighting references in British literature-- the name Joan is assumed to be a stupid servant. I don't care. I'm named after Joan of arc, and the name comes from the Hebrew word for the Dove of peace, so I bear it proudly, greasy or not.

It does sound unkind but when I cook ( something I love and do a lot ) I am apt to be greasy, and must wear older clothes since whatever is in the pot seems to make a spot on my garments.

We had a row of icicles along the garage eaves and as the melted made a patch of ice on the driveway...and it was hard to open the car door since it was frozen a bit. At least I didnt have to bring out the hairdryer.

No I dont have room in my garage for a flea let alone my car and since MOST YEARS any snow we have is short term.

To a Dove of Peace from a "messy" if not greasy anna

Hi--

I just might have to come to this discussion.

Just read the post with the January poem by Finn. That touches me just right today.

I keep feeling this darkness of the soul try to creep in. REcently dx with some heart disease and there are times when I feel despaired and times not. The poem reminds me we have a richness of self no matter what burdens get loaded...that we are more than the pain or the disease.

I belong to a small group of women who discuss by e-mail the poems of Emily Dickinson, a different one weekly. We have great fun.

~Marj

Welcome we are delighted you stopped in...as a senior I think we all have days when depression slips in ...I have a poem I wrote a long time ago about that ..and the end is positive...we need to remember to hold hands and that is easy across the miles with a computer.

In November I celebrated my 76th birthday ...and my family gathered..we had some new members added this year and they were not used to my using my Holiday Plates for every family dinner regardless of the season..for as I told them at 76 EVERY DAY IS A HOLIDAY...

Keep thinking positive...and celebrate your life. It has been my thinking for years and it takes me through the dark days ...hugs across the miles. anna

Why dont you post your weekly Emily Dickinson poem here...Just a suggestion but she is one of my favorite poets...seems to always have a poem needed for every need or mood...anna

I will.

I tried to do this weeks but it would not copy & paste correctly. So I'll have to learn how to do that.

I finally have it figured out except the font transferred so small. I took an online course at the Barnes & Noble Univ. last winter and a spinoff was the group of women that weekly discuss a poem. So here is this week's offering.

Poem #362 1862

 
It's thoughts - and just One Heart - 
And Old Sunshine - about - 
Make frugal - Ones - Content - 
And two or three - for Company - 
Opon a Holiday - 
Crowded - as Sacrament - 
 
Books - when the Unit - 
Spare the Tenant - long eno' - 
A Picture - if it Care - 
Itself - a Gallery too rare - 
For needing more - 
 
Flowers - to keep the eyes - from going awkward - 
When it snows - 
A Bird - if they - prefer 
Though winter fire - sing clear as Flower - 
To our - ear - 
 
A Landscape - not so great 
To suffocate the eye - 
A Hill - perhaps - 
Perhaps - the profile of a Mill 
Turned by the wind - 
Tho' such - are - luxuries - 
 
It's thoughts - and just two Heart - 
And Heaven - about - 
At least - a Counterfeit - 
We would not have Correct - 
And Immortality - can be almost - 
Not quite - Content -

MarjV: what a good poem: beautiful and thought provoking as hers are. The lines:

A Landscape - not so great To suffocate the eye -

reminded me of Dickenson, with her circumscribed life-- do you agree that a great landscape suffocates the eye?

And the kicker at the end:

And Immortality - can be almost - Not quite - Content -

What a universe lies in that "not quite.

I really related to your discussion of depression. I have been ill almost constantly the past few years with big things and little things and, while they have left me standing, I get tired and depressed sometimes. Seniornet has been a great help in this. At times when I was restricted to the house, I always had contact with wonderful people who share my interests. If you haven't, I urge you to explore as many of the discussions and courses as match your interests. Many of the book discussion groups especially are lively, fun interesting, engaging, and full of great people like our "almost greasy Anna" here.

I am reminded of a haiku by Basho:

Tired after a journey, my soul wanders the withered fields

Thank you both ...for the poem for the thoughtful comments.. Depression is with us all in some degree...as seniors we have lost so much...and I dont mean beauty but family and friends...age often takes away our ability to do all the things we have in the past..and that can be depressing...winters are depressing to me...and it is important I keep myself busy ...to ward off those sad thoughts...and as Joan says Seniornet is a blessing...My only regret is I cant seem to convince friends I know who would benefit by joining us here to give it a try.

The line regarding a landscape that is not too suffocating immediately brought to my mind this poem.....there is so much sometimes in a landscape it does seem to suffocate the viewer ..still if I must suffocate let it be enjoying the beauty of the world...here is the poem...anna

'The World is too much with us'

William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea her bosom to the moon; The Winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Super instructions, Ms Anna!

Poem #362 1862

 

It's thoughts - and just One Heart - 
And Old Sunshine - about - 
Make frugal - Ones - Content - 
And two or three - for Company - 
Opon a Holiday - 
Crowded - as Sacrament -   

Books - when the Unit - 
Spare the Tenant - long eno' - 
A Picture - if it Care - 
Itself - a Gallery too rare - 
For needing more -   

Flowers - to keep the eyes - from going awkward - 
When it snows - 
A Bird - if they - prefer 
Though winter fire - sing clear  as Flower - 
To our - ear -   

A Landscape - not so great 
To suffocate the eye - 
A Hill - perhaps - 
Perhaps - the profile of a Mill 
Turned by the wind - 
Tho' such - are - luxuries -   

It's thoughts - and just two Heart - 
And Heaven - about - 
At least - a Counterfeit - 
We would not have Correct - 
And Immortality - can be almost - 
Not quite - Content

JoanK... I sure do agree that a landscape can suffocate the eye. And dear Emily must have had a specific in mind when she had the speaker say that

That Haiku is great. I like them.

I do participate in some of the Sr Net book discussions now and then. I love my computer. I consider it an investment in stretching my mind, a hobby, fun, creative, and on and on. I have met so many people this way thru one means or another.

~marj

You do not like? I have tried to think of some but honestly I just love poetry..in all its forms. I enjoy the way the ideas and thoughts flow. I love looking into the soul of the author and finding a bit of mine.

Being an only girl I had a lot of lonely time and poetry filled it ...yes I read books but there is a subtle difference..When I read a book I am taken to places by the author. It is the authors thoughts I read but when I read a poem a transformation takes place. Suddenly the words allow me to take myself somewhere...inside my heart and soul...so for me ....I LIKE POETRY >>>.period...anna

---and I found this on the web

Falling Snow

 

by Sondra Ball  

I hear the snow 
ticking off dry branches. 
I hear its soft breath 
sliding through buttonwoods. 
Alone, on a winter's night, 
I listen to the snow

between snowflakes the call and response of chickadees

With all the snow we've had in the Northwest one of my poems came to mind:

Night Winds

Lost

Winds howled

Slashing winds

Cold winds

Alone in the darkness

That one sure has a sense of real storm,rather dangerous, Anne.

~Marj

I love the poems ...and will look for another tomorrow ..I have taken on some unplanned tasks but am getting them lined up ..so tomorrow which I see my the clock is only an hour away I will find a poem to share...There is one that is gnawing at the back of my mind. I need to find the first line so I know what to look for.

I love the haiku line about the chickadees since early this am there were several at the feeders..and while I enjoy snow I dont enjoy a snowstorm....my idea of a perfect snow is gentle falling flakes ..no wind ...and the streets remain clear...later ...anna

Lovely to be online again. Catching up with and so enjoying all the poetry.. I often wonder about favourite poetry and conclude that because there are so many that I love .. I have no favourite one. Just many.

A new poem Anna for you is one from my "Poems of the Highlands and Islands" written by Frances Reed .. a little book I purchased while on the isle of Mull in the Scottish Hebrides just a few months ago.

THE HEBRIDES

Isles of the misty west
Set in the sapphire seas
Out where the swift tide flows
Green are the Hebrides

Ringed with the soft white sand
Rocks where the grey seals lie
Clear runs the ebbing tide
O'er which the sea gulls fly

Soft is the scented breeze
Whisp'ring 'cross the hill
Sheep crop the short sweet grass
And clover is blooming still

Blue in the distant haze
Afloat on the sparkling seas
Quiet lie the isles, asleep
Lulled by the whisp'ring breeze

Barra, Mull, Colonsay
Staffa, Iona and Rhum
Magic is in their names
And they call to me to come.

FRANCES REED

Another new poem is from Barbara Beatty .. a dear friend who writes so prolifically .. this one is for thoughts of Tom her late husband.

NIGHT'S CURTAINS

Night's curtains draw to a close
Diminishing bright and busy day
Memories still live in her velvet folds
You're still with me I hear you say
I will never forget your accepting love
In all I think and say and do
I want to hear your voice to prove
You are with me still in the lovely blue

Happiness from bright days of gold
Sadness remains deep in my heart
I would not forget you, the love of old
Always remains in every part
I lose myself in the motley crowd
I am anonymous without you so
Lost I am, a swaying reed
The winds of time forever blow.

Barbara Beatty Auckland New Zealand

Thank you Anna and all who send such wonderful and so often inspiring poetry to your site. Marjorie with love.

I am glad to see you here....I was just about ready to go to bed and decided to check once more ..and here I found you and your gift of two great poems...I love THE HEBRIDES...it is so visual I can see everything as clear as if I were there.. and of course the second one speaks to me too.. I know what she is saying..in fact any widow would or even someone who has lost a loved one...Thank You again ..I will go to bed and dream of green isles and blue skies and seals and gulls and also remember my lost love..thanks so much ...anna

How wonderful to sign in and find so many poems waiting for me. I had said I wouldn't post any more haiku, but you started it. Here are two winter ones. I can't read the first without shivering. Somehow that crunch brings the dark night, the moon and the cold right into my bones. The second gives me a feeling of vastness and peace.

By Buson

Winter moon. The stones on the path crunch underfoot.

By Basho

Winter storm. In a world of one color the sound of wind.

The last post didn't come out exactly as I wanted, but I'm getting there. I'll try with a longer poem.

This odd two thousand year old Chinese poem is not great poetry, but for some reason I find it oddly endearing. I think it is because it comes to us across such vast reaches of time and space, yet is so homely I feel I am leaning over the back fence listening to my neighbor complain. I get a strong feeling that I knew these 2000 year old people.

From “The Book of Songs”

c. 800-500 B.C.

SHU IS AWAY

Shu is away on the hunting fields, There is no one living in our lane. Of course there are people living in our lane: But they are not like Shu, So beautiful, so good.

Shu has gone after game. No one drinks wine in our lane. Of course people do drink wine in our lane; But they are not like Shu, So beautiful, so loved.

Shu has gone to the wilds, No one drives horses in our lane. Of course people do drive horses in our lane; But they are not like Shu, So beautiful, so brave.

JoanK .. had a little chuckle about Shu .. I have a friend who sent me some Haiku she has written .. I must find it .. in fact two friends .. both in their nineties .. very special people. Off to bed now but certainly in the morn I shall look. Much love Anna and all

to wake and find these lovely thoughts waiting for me...I loved the Winter Storm and Shu too...

Joan that is such a wonderful thought ..you feel connected to a poet of 2000 years ago..Poetry does that..For me it puts me wherever the poet is, feels what the poet feels and sees what the poet sees...POETRY SPEAKS ...I have read it when I needed to cry and couldnt, when I needed a laugh, when I needed to get in touch with some inner feeling that required recognition..poetry has always come through..A book could do the same but a poem gives us the essence ..the core without having to read 500 pages...it gets to the heart of the matter...and gives me in a few words what I am seeking...now the next post I will share a poem I found this am. You all have a great day..anna

Here is the poem I found and a brief biography of the author...anna

Snow

By John Davidson

'Who affirms that crystals are alive?' I affirm it, let who will deny: Crystals are ebgendered, wax and thrive, Wane and wither; I have seen them die.

Trust me, masters, crystals have their day, Eager to attain the perfect norm, Lit with purpose, potent to display Facet, angle, colour, beauty, form.

Water-crystals need for flower and root Sixty clear degrees, no less, no more; Snow, so fickle, still in this acute Angle thinks, and learns no other lore:

Such its life, and such its pleasure is, Such its art and traffic, such its gain, Evermore in new conjunctions this Admirable angle to maintain.

Crystalcraft in every flower and flake Snow exhibits, of the welkin free: Crystalline are crystals for the sake, All and singular, of crystalry.

Yet does every crystal of the snow Individualize, a seedling sown Broadcast, but instinct with power to grow Beautiful in beauty of its own.

Every flake with all its prongs and dints Burns ecstatic as a new-lit star: Men are not more diverse, finger prints More dissimilar than snow-flakes are.

Worlds of men and snow endure, increase, Woven of power and passion to defy Time and travail: only races cease, Individual men and crystals die.

John Davidson (1857-1909) was a Scottish poet who after trying his hand at teaching came to London a little after his thirtieth birthday. Unfortunately, even in London he continued to struggle, but nevertheless remained a busy writer with various poetry collections, literary dramas and novels to his name. He established a small reputation as a lyric poet, but earned little money. Despairing, he drowned himself in the ocean near Penzance in 1909.

PS I found this on a science page .. and they called all their poems Science Poems interesting...anna

Red is for warmth

Those Haikus were just wonderful. The essence in so few words.

I can get the same feeling about listening to the story of Shu. A person who was deeply missed by the narrator.

And the crystal poem is amazing. I remember showing my kids how to catch a snow crystal on a black piece of paper.

We hope you will return and share a poem with us...there are so many we will never have the time to read so it is wonderful when a new poem of an old author or a new author ..or an old poem from an old author ..or any poem is here for us to enjoy...and we do enjoy them ...most give us a warm smile or stirs our memories and gives us a special moment...

Hope to see you soon...anna

What a wonderful crystal poem!! If I save ie to my favorites, will it stay at the same address?

I have a book ("A Guide to Nature in Winter" I block out the author's name -- see the Alzeimer site)) that explains how to know from a snow crystal's shape, what atmospheric conditions it had to fall through to get to us, and my children and I used to enjoy doing this. But even after you do this, each crystal is still an individual.

Well I am a first time grandmother today and I am wondering if anyone has a poem for the occasion. I'm making the new baby boy a web page to put his picture on and I thought a poem would be nice too.

Congratulations, Annie. Here is an anonymous poem my mother sang to me and my brother and sisters when we were small.

Baby's Boat

Baby's boat's a silver moon,
sailing in the sky;
Sailing o'er a sea of sleep,
while stars float slowly by.

Sail, baby, sail,
out upon that sea.
Only don't forget to sail
back again to me.

Baby's fishing for a dream,
fishing near and far;
Her line a silver moonbeam is,
Her bait's a silver star.

Sail, baby, sail,
out upon that sea.
Only don't forget to sail
back again to me.

Thank you Mal, that's the sweetest poem, I'm going to use it. I'll post a link when I get a little further along with the web page.

thank you for the warm welcome, annafair. the only poetry i read on a regular basis is what is published in the "new yorker" and that's not enough for my soul -- including the baby poem of yours, mal. how lucky you were to have a mother who sang poetry to you.

Here is a poem for you....

Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get your eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
Some of the starry spikes left in.

Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?
I saw something better than any one knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pearly ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into hooks and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?
From the same box as the cherubs' wings.

How did they all just come to be you?
God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear?
God thought about you, and so I am here.

~ by George MacDonald ~

from G M's book: At the Back of the North Wind ...Chapter 33

I have read your profile... what an adventurous person you are! Although I have been "offshore" only as far as Catalina Island (California coastline), I grew up on the shores of Michigan's Lake Huron and Lake Superior and always feel a sense of peace near the water... and I love poetry... it's like flowers for my soul....

The poem Snow By John Davidson & his bio at the end mentioning he was Scottish triggered in my mind a poem by Edgar A. Guest.

Sixteen Americans who died on the Tuscania are buried at the water's edge at the base of the rocky cliffs at a Scottish port.-- (News dispatch Detroit Free Press)

Cliffs of Scotland

Cliffs of Scotland, guard them well,
Shield them from the blizzard's rage;
Let your granite towers tell
That those sleeping heroes fell
In the service of their age.

Cliffs of Scotland, they were ours!
Now forever they are thine!
Gaurd them with your mighty powers!
Barren are your rocks of flowers,
But their splendor makes them fine.

Cliffs of Scotland, at your base
Freedon's finest children lie;
Keep them in your strong embrace!
Tell the young of every race
Such as they shall never die.

Cliffs of Scotland, never more
Men shall think you stern and cold;
Splendor now has found your shore;
Unto you the ocean bore
Freedom's precious sons to hold.

Edgar A. Guest

During WW1 the Tuscania was sunk on February 5, 1918 by the German submatine UB-77.

You mentioned previously that you read Guest's poems in your local paper many years ago. I had the homor of personally knowing Mr. Guest. As a very young girl I often went with my grandfather to visit Mr. Guest at the Detroit Free Press Newspaper. Mr Guest would give me a big peice of blank news paper to draw on while they chatted ... then praise me lavishly when we were leaving. Ah, fond memories.

AND I mean that sincerely...Mal my mother sang that to me and I sang it to my children...and my grandchildren...It was the song I used to rock them to sleep...I am so glad you posted it and the George McDonald poem as well ...all familiar to me and loved. What a great gift to Annie3 and congratulations on that new grandbaby....please let us know when the website is up..I know we would like to check it out...several of my friends have websites for the grandchildren...and if I may use a young persons vocabulary THAT IS NEAT!!!

To have met Edgar Guest ...his poems brightened my days when I was young..They were so down to earth...homey I guess is the word...but to me touching would fit best. Thank you , thank you for sharing that one.

And thank you all for sharing here. We are connected across the miles with poetry ..and no better way to know and care for each other..Thank you each...anna

Vicki what an apt way to describe poetry ...thank you ...anna

Vicki, thank you so much, that is beautiful.

Since we are thinking about babies ..and dont we always ? I thought a poem by RLS would be appropiate...Who gave me a Childs Garden of Verses when I was young??I dont recall but they still enchant..anna

Winter-Time From Child's Garden of Verses

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, A frosty, fiery sleepy-head; Blinks but an hour or two; and then, A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies, At morning in the dark I rise; And shivering in my nakedness, By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit To warm my frozen bones a bit; Or with a reindeer-sled, explore The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap Me in my comforter and cap; The cold wind burns my face, and blows Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod; Thick blows my frosty breath abroad; And tree and house, and hill and lake, Are frosted like a wedding cake.
RLS

ANNIE3: how wonderful that you are a grandmother. I have found it one of the great experiences of my life. And it just gets better wth time. Wait till he/she puts their little hand in yours and says "I love you grandma".

Funny, I was just planning to post this poem which I heard at a local poetry reading from a young Sikh poet. Although written about his wife and daughter, it expresses how I feel about my daughter and my four year old grandson. (Note: I couldn't get the spacing and capitals exactly as in the poem. I don't know why the first line is a different type.)

 
Doubly Blessed 

by 

Ajit Singh Dutta 

We talk of you 
   Your Mother and I 
         Of the things you say 
               Cute and astute 
         Of the way you look 
               Pretty and perky 
         Of the things you do 
               Wise in their innocence. 

And, yes, 
     We talk of you. 

But, my eyes 
     Are on your Mother 
     On her softened eyes 
     Her graceful smile 
     Her being in love. 

And I am 
     Looking in a mirror 
           For you are her 
           And she is you 

    And I, 
           I am 
           Doubly blessed.

It looks okay to me and is perfect in its form ..a lovely lovely poem....thanks so much for sharing it...anna

And yes being a grandmother is wonderful...my six are still young the oldest being 10 and the youngest 3..and I love their sweet voices saying I love you Nana...a real blessing ...

Late, late last night, when the whole world slept
Along to the garden of dreams I crept.
And I pulled the bell of an old, old house
Where the moon dipped down like a little white mouse.
I tapped the door and I tossed my head: "Are you in, little girl? Are you in?" I said.
And while I waited and shook with cold
Through the door tripped Me - just eight years old.

I looked so sweet with my pigtails down,
Tied up with a ribbon of dusky brown,
With a dimpled chin full of childish charms,
And my old black dolly asleep in my arms
I sat Me down when I saw myself,
And I told little tales of a moonland elf.
I laughed and sang as I used to do
When the world was ruled by Little Boy Blue.

Then up I danced with a toss and a twirl
And said: "Now have you been a good, good girl?
Have you had much spanking since you were Me?
And does it feel fine to be twenty-three
I kissed Me then, and I said farewell,
For I've earned more spanks than I dared to tell,
And Eight must never see Twenty-three
As she peeps through the door of Memory.

By Zora Cross. ( australian poet)

A sweet sweet poem. I should have given the complete citation to "Twice Blessed" above. It is from a book called "A Father's Poems" by Ajit Singh Dutta.

These poems today are so wonderful and evoke such memories as to bring tears to my eyes...a rare occurrance.

Vitai Lampada

("They Pass On The Torch of Life")

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night --
Ten to make and the match to win --
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote --
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

The sand of the desert is sodden red, --
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --
The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the School is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind --
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

Sir Henry Newbolt (1862-1938)

feel really nostalgic today, about the poetry I rote learned in school, and how it is still there inside, shaping my views on things that happen on a day to day basis.It pops up when you least expect it, offering answers to difficult questions.

Anneo

And add a few tears and tugs at my heart strings....The poem about the little girl is new to me..but only the poem..the feelings are there and the other one >>>Play Up and play the game is a long time favorite of mine ...and brings back memories of all the poems I memorized...when I was young ...and they creep back quite often...and I am glad once again I loved poetry enough to put them to memory...thank you all ...I am sending you each a hug...anna

... for sharing the wonderful poems.... Annie3 ... yes let us know when your web site is up so we can all share your new adventures as a grandmother... P.S. check out the cards and graphics discussion... I posted a card for you....

Vicki thank you so much for the card. I have added two poems and some music to the pictures of my grandchild. It looks like I have room to add more as he grows. http://www.geocities.com/gramofowen

A wonderful gift Annie3 for you and your family to receive. Reading the poems brought back a very precious wartime memory to me. I looked after a little boy whose dad was lost at sea after his minesweeper was torpedoed off the African coast. That little boy's favourite song which I would sing to him when putting him to bed was:

An Irish Lullaby

Over in Killarney many years ago
Me Mither sang a song to me in tones so sweet and low
Just a simple little ditty in her good old Irish way
And I'd give the world if she could sing that song to me today.

Toora-loora-loora -toora-loora- lie
Toora-loora-loora
Just an Irish Lullaby

After about ten repetitions I would see that little boys eyes slowly close and off he would go to sleep.

Toora has always brought goosebumps. I love to sing it.

What a very precious memory. Thanks for sharing it Marjorie!

~Marj

ps....just remembered there were neat little poems and finger plays when my kids were young and also when I worked in nursery schools. I was arranging some books yesterday and this one on a piece of paper slipped out:

 
Thumbs in the thumb place  
Fingers all together   
That's what we do   
In mitten weather.  

Now while i know it is not ice temps for those south of the Northern USA I thought you might smile at that.

I have saved the two new poems and will add them next time I edit my grandson's homepage. Thank you.

I just looked at your website, Annie3. What a beautiful tribute to your grandchild. Those poems fit just right.

~Marj

Annie thanks for the link....and he is a dear baby ...I dont know how you have the time to do all the wonderful things yuo do with your websites...somewhere I have a poem about a baby boy ..and I will post it here and you have my permission to use it if you wish...I have given it to several who have new baby boys and will be happy to give it to you...and all of the poems fit perfectly ..

Marjorie I too sang that song to my children...I must share something funny though..I CANT SING>>.or what passes for singing is off key. When my children were little they loved to be rocked and sang to. However, when they reached about three ..all but one ( she was like me when singing, off key) would say to me "Let's not sing anymore Momma"

My youngest daughter, she is 36, still loves me to play "This Little Piggy" on her toes. Not as much as in the past..but sometimes when she is feeling ill and visiting .she makes her self comfortable and if she kicks off her shoes she will ask if I remember doing that ..and often she will say a bit wistfully ..would you do it again? I can understand that ...when my mother died at 86 I was nobody;s little girl any more as long as she lived I always felt she could solve anything ..even if she couldnt ...I have to go ...love to all here.. KEEP POETRY ALIVE...anna

Annie here is the poem I spoke about ...anna

Knight-Errant

His steed is swift, and faithful. It never tires, but keeps Him company by day, At night when he sleeps. His armor protects him From the dragon's ferocity. His sword, and lance He uses with generosity, Saving maidens in distress. Those who are poor, and meek Welcome his arrival in town. His protection they hopefully seek. He pays homage to his parents Listens carefully to what they say. Lives a life of purest thoughts, Waves his hat to those along his way. He does all this with keenest wit, Admired by all who hear his joy. He gently tugs the bit, Pulls the reins, puts his horse to rest. He watches from his bed roll As the horse becomes quiet and still. Just before he goes to sleep He pats its head. Tomorrow he will Ride it once again to some exotic land, At least until his mom comes in, Takes him by the hand; Whispers, Time for bed my little lad.

He says goodnight to his Wooden steed. His mother sighs, To think one day he will be too old, Will give up his toys; become a man.

And she cries......

anna alexander 9/30/97 all right reserved

Thank you again, I will use the poem thank you so much for your permission. I have loved your writings today.

A dear friend is moving and she worries about her cats. Living alone they mean a lot to her. They are her companions, she needs to be needed, my friend ( DONT WE ALL?) and the cats provide that need. So I decided to look for a poem about cats and the one I found ...spoke to me...anna

Inessential Things

What do cats remember of days?

They remember the ways in from the cold, The warmest spot, the place of food. They remember the places of pain, their enemies, the irritation of birds, the warm fumes of the soil, the usefulness of dust. They remember the creak of a bed, the sound of their owner´s footsteps, the taste of fish, the loveliness of cream. Cats remember what is essential of days. Letting all other memories go as of no worth they sleep sounder than we, whose hearts break remembering so many inessential things.

Brian Patten (b. 1946),

Anna, dear. Thank you for that poem. I would be worried about my kittys also. They have a really difficult time adjusting as routine is essential to the feline friends.

That is so true about essential and inesential. I sure do that at tmes- get to stewing about inessentials.

I might have a disagreement with the poet about calling the birds and irritation to cats. Mine love to watch the birds at the feeders. They don't seem irriated one bit. Tho, if they were divebombed they would be.

There is a classic cat poem that I want to posot but I can't remember it now...have to put on my thinker.

Meow!!!!!

You can have fun thinking about> essential, inessential, nonessential

We will hope you find the poem and share it with us...

Words are fascinating arent they? As a child I read the dictionary ..still do sometimes ..I just love to see what kind of words it holds...and each word is an education in itself. anna

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown---

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

Leaving, as the moon, releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind------

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.

A poem should be equal to:
Not true

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea---

A poem should not mean
But be.

Archibald MacLeish

That is a wonderful poem ...I love the last ...it should be ...says a lot to me ..thanks so much for sharing it ...anna

Since I am leading a discussion on The Mission to Mars...as well as hosting here I decided to see is there were poems about Outer Space and wouldnt you know Robert Frost had a small one..here it is..anna

But Outer Space

Robert Frost

But outer Space, At least this far, For all the fuss Of the populace Stays more popular Than populous

Still thinking of my grandchildren. Although it is nearly a month after Christmas and they have long gone home, their toys are still in the corner of the livingroom. They are very much in the way and the children probably won't be back for a year, but no one wants to put them away. Every time I see them, I am reminded of a poem by the great Inndian national poet Tagore. I finally found it on the web.

Colored Toys

by

Tagore

When I bring to you colored toys, my child,

I understand why there is such a play of colors on clouds, on water,

and why flowers are painted in tints

---when I give colored toys to you, my child.

When I sing to make you dance

I truly now why there is music in leaves,

and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth

---when I sing to make you dance.

When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands

I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers

and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice

---when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands.

When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling,

I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light,

and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body

---when I kiss you to make you smile.

What a lovely poem...in an effort to get rid of "Stuff" I have been going through boxes and boxes of things accumulated over a life time. There are photographs from my childhood all the way to my grandchildren. Christmas photos from friends all over ...I love them all but it is the photos of the children I love best...and "Colored Toys" has captured feelings I have held and showed me why..thanks again...anna

That Tagore poem is just fantastic. Thanks.

Do you all know about the Cowboy poetry and their annual gatherings. There is one starting this weekend in Nevada.

 

http://www.cowboysociety.org/otherevents.htm   

Cowboy Poetry History   
Ever since the early days of trail drives after the Civil War cowboy stories have been written and told. 
 But no historical narratives adequately explain what bonded  
this diverse lot of men working hard in the wilderness - a rich amalgam of life  
that would forever be identified with the American West.

MarvjV: that's amazing. I had no idea.

Yes I am aware of this...in fact I have a small collection of poems from a cowboy poet ..I know his family...and since I had several relatives who were cowboys WAY BACK WHEN ( these were the men my aunts later married) I also had a uncle who was an associate of Phillips. they wildcatted together and broke up when they argued about some property they had an oil lease for ..my uncle lost..although they remained friends ...Phillips struck oil..my uncle in a strange turn of events met and married one of my fathers sisters..and my parents met at an arranged meeting at their house and then they ( my parents) married..Please share any cowboy poems you wish I will try and find my book and share some of the poems from that book...brrrr it is cold here..I waiting to see a robin for seeing one has always meant Spring isnt too far behind...anna

Oh that will be fun to read some. Tomorrow I'll find a good one or two. I know in Australia this is popular also. ~Marj

BULL RIDIN' by Frank "Two Jump" Morris

Ridin' bulls is a fools occupation

Aside from the obvious dangers and hazards

it don't quite fit my station.

Requirements for a bull ridin' are two fold,

that is if you want to be good.

The first bein' a butt made of iron,

and the second a brain made of wood.

The latter is harder to come by, as most start life with some sense.

but it all liquifies and runs out your ears

'bout the time your head hits the fence.

Bull riders are masochists.

I can prove it beyond doubt's last trace.

Fer who else would climb up on a vision of death,

and then slap his-self in the face?

Who else loves the tase of fear,

so thick in his mouth he could chew it?

The most unbelievable part is still on the way.

He pays fifty dollars to do it!

Now that last line was a surprise and a very funny ending....I confess to watching rodeos and marveling at all of them but the bull riders ..wow ...now thanks to the poem by Frank "Two Jump" Morris I understand what it takes to become one...

anna

PS I cant seem to find my copy of the cowboy poems I have...will research later and see what I can come up with..anna

I forgot about this one to post at Christmas.. but it's message is still good any time of the year.

A Cowboy's Christmas Prayer
By S. Omar Barker

I ain't much good at prayin' - Lord,
and You may not know me.
For I ain't much seen in Churches,
where they preach Thy Holy Word.
But you may have seen me, Lord,
out here on the lonely plains.
A-lookin' after cattle, and feelin'
thankful when it rains.
Admirin' Thy great hanidwork.
the miracle of the grass -
Aware of thy kind Spirit,
in the way it comes to pass -
That hired help on horseback,
and the cattle that we tend -
Can look up at the stars at night,
and know we've got a Friend.
So here's Ol' Christmas comin' on,
reminding us again
Of Him whose coming brought good will
into the hearts of men.
A cowboy ain't no preacher, Lord,
but if you'll hear my prayer -
I'll ask as good as we have got -
for all men everywhere.
Don't let no hearts be bitter, Lord.
Don't let no child be cold.
Make easy the beds for them that's sick,
and them that's weak and old.
Let kindness bless the trail we ride,
no matter what we're after.
And sorta keep us on Your side,
in tears as well as laughter.
I've seen old cows a-starvin' -
it ain't no happy sight.
Please don't leave no one hungry, Lord,
On Thy Good Christmas Night.
No man, no child, no woman,
and no critter on four feet.
I'll do my doggone best to help You
find them chuck to eat.
I'm just a sinful cowpoke, Lord,
ain't got no business paryin'
But still I hope You'll ketch a word
or two, of what I'm sayin'.
We speak of Merry Christmas, Lord,
but I reckon You'll agree -
There ain't no Merry Christmas,
for nobody that ain't free!
So one thing more I ask of You, Lord,
just help us what You can
To save some seeds of freedom -
for the future Sons of Man.

We do so often relate to the poetry we read. I look at our eleven cats here .. so beautiful .. all saved from all sorts of sad situations. There is Sooty, Marmite, Jellybean, Stringbean, Mouse, Siegfried, Winky, Oscar, Lucy, Emily and dear little Tripod who only has three legs but can run like the wind.

A favourite with me is the poem by Don Marquis .....

The Tomcat

At midnight in the alley
A tomcat comes to wail,
And he chants the hate of a million years
As he swings his snaky tail.

Malevolent, bony, brindled
Tiger and devil and bard,
His eyes are coals from the middle of hell
And his heart is black and hard.

He twists and crouches and capers
And bares his curved sharp claws
And he sings to the stars of the jungle nights
Ere cities were, or laws

Beast from a world primeval
He and his leaping clan
When the blotched red moon leers over the roofs
Give voice to their scorn of man.

He will lie on a rug tomorrow
And lick his silky fur
And veil the brute in his yellow eyes,
And play he's tame, and purr.

But at midnight in the alley
He will crouch again and wail
And beat the time for his demon's song
With the swing of his demon's tail.

Don Marquis

Years ago when I had the General Store on Kawau Island .. all who visited came by boat. The excursion boats laden with passengers, mainly tourists would call and I do vividly remember so many of them. One especially was a middle aged American. A huge fellow wearing a big stetson. He eyed me quite studiedly and then said " Say, ma'am would you happen to have any chewing baccy?" I must confess I was quite taken aback .. never before and never since have I been asked for 'chewing baccy'. And I love the cowboy poems and ballads. One of the most well known Australian poets of the outback was Banjo Paterson .. he wrote 'Waltzing Matilda' and so many other songs and poetry.
When I look through his book I feel a bit daunted by the length of the poems. (Really finger lazy !!)
I certainly am enjoying and savouring the poetry from you all. I agree that it is quite refreshing to hear new poetry we haven't heard before.

God bless everyone till next time and thankyou Anna for such a lovely site and great posters.. Marjorie.. looking for another favourite about an old gentleman.

I had never heard of cowboy poetry. as cowboys in Australia are a different thing. On our cattle stations (your ranches) the cowboy actually milks the house cows and cares for things around the homestead. I guess our cowboy poetry is the bush ballad, which is pretty laconic generally but has a strong following. Waltzing Matilda started life as a bush ballad, by our most famous balladeer Banjo Paterson.

Anneo

I still cant find my little book of cowboy poems so I tried a google search this am...I didnt take time to find a poem though because I was amazed, really amazed at the number of cowboy sites and the number of places where they have a gathering and competition for cowboy poetry. I had to smile since each proclaimed THEY were the best ...

SO, I didnt take the time to find a poem..and am so grateful for yours...Waltzing Matilda ...now I love that song..for someone who cant carry a tune I have a mind full of songs. And am apt to burst into song at any time as I am reminded of one for one reason or the other. It is good only my dog is here to hear...and I think she cringes ..but I do love to sing..of course right now Matilda is cavorting in my mind...

I will share a poem I did find and in any case LET"S KEEP POETRY ALIVE!!! Thanks all who post and all who lurk...anna

Now Close the Windows by Robert Frost

Now close the windows and hush all the fields: If the trees must, let them silently toss; No bird is singing now, and if there is, Be it my loss.

It will be long ere the marshes resume, It will be long ere the earliest bird: So close the windows and not hear the wind, But see all wind-stirred.

I chose this one because it will be bitterly cold this weekend and I long to open my windows for some fresh air...instead I will keep a fire in my little stove and my dog and I will stay near and keep warm.

Very appropriate poem, I have not read that one before. However, even with the coldest of the cold I open a door or window for several minutes each day. I guess I think I'm letting out the germs LOL

Most appropo of the weather, AFair!

Hey, I love that alley cat poem. So you have 11 kittys, Mancunian. What a household

Right you are- bush poetry. I forgot.

Anyway - here's a neat link I found. And it calls Bush poetry the equivalent of American cowboy poetry.

Bush Poetry, etc. http://www.users.bigpond.com/bushie55/links.htm

by Rodney John O'Brien from that site....

 

Another Drought ~~~    

It hasn't rained today at all 
Or yesterday as well, 
The ground is dry and burning hot 
It is a living hell, 
And when the rain is gunna' come 
No-one can really tell.   

This drought's affected all of us 
The crops have all but died, 
The sun it pounds upon our heads 
Until our brains are fried, 
And the Cockie sits and hides his face 
And deep inside he cries.   

The dams are drying up real quick 
The stock are loosing weight, 
Some lay down upon the ground 
Waiting for their fate, 
And the rest have gone to slaughter yards 
Before it is too late.   

The streams that feed the reservoirs 
Have dried up long ago, 
The only thing that follows it 
Is the hot north wind that blows, 
And the mighty gums along that stream 
Have all but lost their glow.   

Water is becoming scarce 
Restrictions have begun, 
The water in the reservoirs 
Is sucked up by the sun, 
And the only time that things will change 
Is, when those streams begin to run.   

So, we all look up and pray to God 
To send us saving rain, 
To make the grasses grow upon 
The mountain and the plain, 
And bring us all some welcome joy 
And free our land from pain.   

© November 27, 2002

http://www.whitehorizon.com/midi/waltzingmatilda.html

Of course I could resist after several of you mentioned it. I love to sing this....always have.

However if you prefer a faster version: http://www.geocities.com/EnchantedForest/Cottage/3192/Waltzing.html

~Marj

MarjV: great!!! I sang it through twice (though the music cuts off before his ghost shows up. When I was a child, my mother used to play folk songs from all over the world, and we would gather round and sing them. Waltzing Matilda was one of my favorites, and I memorized it, even though I didn't completely understand it. I find I almost remembered the words. (How about a translation for us Yanks. What is "waltzing matilda?)

which is the roll of belongings a swaggie carries on his back. We never see swaggies here anymore, but in the old days men used to wander from town to town with their swag on their back, hence the term waltzing matilda, or walking with your swag.

Billabongs are waterholes, squatters are graziers, who in the early days in the colony gained posession by squatting on land, and improving it.My husbands family were actually squatters here in western Queensland, actually just settled the land and registered and thus became owners.They grazed sheep and cattle on the stations, (your ranches) and became quite wealthy over time.

Anneo

The hats of a man may be many

In the course of a varied career,

And some have been worth not a penny

And some have been devilish dear;

But there's one hat I always remember When sitting alone by the fire.

In the depth of a Northern November,

Because it fulfilled my desire.

It was old, it was ragged and rotten

And many years out of mode,

Like a thing that a tramp had forgotten

And left at the side of a road.

The boughs of the mulga had torn it,

It's ribbon was naught but lace,

And old swaggie would not have worn it

Without a sad smile on his face.

When I took off the hat to the ladies

It was rather with sorrow than swank,

And often I wished it in Hades When the gesture drew only a blank;

But for swatting a fly on the tucker

Or lifting a quart from the fire

Or belting the ribs of a bucker

It was all that a man could desire.

When it ought to have gone to the cleaner's

(And stayed there, as somebody said!)

It was handy for flogging the weaners

From the drafting-yard into the shed.

And oft it has served as a dish for

A kelpie in need of a drink;

It was all that a fellow could wish for

In many more ways than you'd think.

It was spotted and stained by the weather,

There was more than one hole in the crown,

And it made little difference whether

The rim was turned up or turned down.

It kept out the rain (in a fashion)

And kept off the sun (more or less),

Bt it merely comanded compassion

Considered as part of one's dress.

Though it wasn't a hat you would bolt with

Or be anxious to borrow or hire,

It was useful to blindfold a colt with

Or handle a bit of barbed wire.

Though the world may have thought it improper

To wear such old rubbish as that,

I'd have scorned the best London-made topper

In exchange for my old battered hat.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I have a dear old hat which I wear on a hot day in the garden with my old gardening clothes .. get caught quite often .. probably looking like a female swaggie !! But oh so comfortable. Yes 11 cats .. really beautiful who are most happy outside among the big trees and their various little baskets here and there in the garden buildings. The north New Zealand climate is comparatively mild .. no snow and maybe one frost a year.

My daughter Lynda spent some years in the Northern Territory of Australia. A Jillaroo on the 1000 sq miles cattle station 'Delamere' she loved every moment of her life there.. 150 miles from Katherine they sure were isolated.

A lot of the early poetry was written about the early settlers .. the hardships they endured and this one I have chosen is about those women of early days who certainly were a big part of the backbone of the nation.

The Women of the West

They left the vine wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill
The houses in the busy streets where life is never still;
The pleasures of the city and the friends they cherished best
For love they faced the wilderness - the Women of the West.

The roar and rush and fever of the city died away,
And the old time joys and faces - they were gone for many a day,
In their place the lurching coach wheel or the creaking bullock chains,
O'er the everlasting sameness of the never ending plains.

In the slab built, zinc roofed homestead of some lately taken run,
In the tent beside the bankment of a railway just begun,
In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man's unrest,
On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West.

The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain
The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again.
And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say,
The nearest woman's face may be a hundred miles away.

The wide Bush holds the secrets of their longings and desires
When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires.
And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast -
Perchance he hears and understands the Women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts -
They only hear the beating of their gallant loving hearts.
But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above
The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our father's creed. No call has passed us by
We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die,
And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o'er all the rest,
The hearts that made the nation were the Women of the West.

by George Essex Evans .. (The Secret Key and other poems 1906)

What a tribute to women! Just great.

And the poem about the hat- so descriptive.

~Marj

Marjorie--- I love the thought of your kittys in the huge trees. Living in the city it is healthiest and safest to keep my 3 indoors unless I go in the backyard with them. And I can't let them climb the tree because it is so straight up they can't get down except by falling.

~Marj

What great posts... and the poems ...I love the one about the hat and the tribute to women...I know when I travel from coast to coast here in America I am deeply moved to know how those pioneers fared in settling the country...for the most part they came from eastern USA and followed their husbands and fathers to places devoid ( in the beginning ) of any comforts...and plenty of hard work...and those that survived they left their family , the friends behind and never saw them again...of course when you realize to settle in other places it requires a great deal of fortitude and hope...

Each Christmas I am flabbergasted when I see all the gadgets being offered for gifts...the one that really got me this past year was a s'mores maker...Sorry that just makes me laugh ..I am off to find a poem to share just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed your posts...anna

Cowboy poems are for the most part simple ..but not simple minded...not pretentious but folksy and a true measure of the poets feelings..I hope you like this one..... This reminds me of my Aunt Mary and Uncle Mac..he was a cowboy and became a farmer after he married my Aunt...they lived on a farm in Illinois ...Salem if I am right and when we would go to see them the sky was always bright with flames from natural gas burning from the refinery...and the smell was acrid and filled the air with the burning fumes...they were the first oil wells I ever saw and the rigs pumping like huge praying mantis...I have no idea how long they lived there..but I was old enough to recall when the state took their farm and gave them an old age pension..they bought a tiny place in Mt Vernon Il and while they had no cattle or chickens they did have a small garden my aunt tended with a strawbery patch and tomatoes and other small vegetables...They missed the farm and to them it was a sad day when they moved into town...anna

The Winds of Time

The winds of time have turned the page and the tale is almost told of snuffy colts and young cowboys ridin' nights out in the cold. For sixty years I've rode the range; I don't envy any man, I've lived where skies are open wide on the trails where cattle ran. Life's sure been good to me 'n mine, I ain't never wore a frown, but today I'm sorta' saddened; 'cause today we moved to town.

We sowed our oats 'n took our licks and we didn't mind the price. 'cause days were always filled with joy where life's fate had cast the dice. Times were when we'd ride for miles without crossing road or fence but now the range is broken up so the trails just don't make sense. I miss the green of springtime range, seems the world has all turned brown, and I miss the quiet of evening; 'cause today we moved to town.

But my woman's still beside me, truest friend I ever had, tho' problems often came our way, times with her were never bad. She's loved me when we've been on top or when we wuz deep in debt, and I'm blessed because I have her 'cause I know she loves me yet. For fifty years she's rode with me whether times were up or down, but we're both a little weary, and today we moved to town.

The pace of life is faster now and we're slowing down a mite. I'm havin' trouble with my eyes, and her hair is turnin' white. We sleep a little restless too, traffic noises bother us, but it's closer to the church-house, and that's gotta be a plus. Heaven's now a little closer, our next move will bring a crown, so we'll camp here 'till He calls us; 'cause today we moved to town.

Gail T. Burton

I feel much sadness expressed there in the midst of counting the joys of the past. Simple and straight forward recounting.

Good one, AF

~Marj

One of the poems I loved from years ago...With even Virginia in a COLD FREEZE and I find it hard to keep warm I stay by my stove and enjoy its heat and am glad it is January with February near...and I watch the birds at the feeders, hoping to see a robin...they wont come near when the weather is bleak so whenever my eyes will spy one I will know that bird is smarter than me...and even though the cold still chills my bones my spirit knows a robin thinks its spring...anna

There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell; Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see; It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan: "It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains; So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail; And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale. He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee; And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven, With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given; It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load. In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow; And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low; The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in; And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay; It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May". And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum; Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire; Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher; The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see; And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee
.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so; And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why; And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near; I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside. I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door. It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm -- Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.

I've always enjoyed Sam McGee. And reading it aloud makes the most fun. The descriptive phrases are great.

Came across this just now.............

Soft Touch

 

Michael "Coyote" Schroll, Wyoming's REsident Cowboy Poet   

She took his hands and held them tight 
Were rough, had worked the land. 
Her fingers touched his caloused palms 
Cracked, they felt like sand.   

His bent right finger, broke on back 
Had somehow mended up. 
Happened 'fore she knew his name 
A dally'd caught it up.   

She stroked the back of his right hand 
Closed her eyes and dreamed. 
Could picture now, just how it felt 
They'd hold her soft it seemed.   

His hands were rough, scarred and bent 
Had seen some better days. 
She held them gentley, soothed them soft 
The Cowgirl had her ways.   

"Hold me Cowboy, your strong hands 
Are rough as they may be. 
I want to feel the strength you have 
I love your touch on me."   

Michael "Coyote" Schroll - 2/99        http://www.cowboypoems.com/

Thanks for that poem and the link...I have always found hands interesting..I think because I only reached 5' when I was grown, I can imagine how small I was when I was young...and my relative's hands alway fascinated me...they were so different from my own...full of callouses, age spots, some touched by arthritis, and strong veins marked the surface...I loved to hold them and look at them ...turning them over to see the callouses , the life lines...I remember wishing I had hands like theirs ..and now I do..and I still find them intersting..they tell the story of my life....

Loved the line in Sam McGee where he described the cold going through his outer garment like a nail...I understand that! Had to be out the other day and I was dressed for the weather with a warm coat. The collar was high and I pushed my head into its warmth...still it felt like the wind was a cold knife and it went right through all those layers and stabbed my face...will stay indoors today for sure..and will be "Anna sit by the fire" anna

In the discussion on "Thew Story of Civilization" we are studying the Roman poet Virgil. I posted this fragment of his there, and will post it again here.

He was writing in a period of history when Rome had just undergone a period of twenty years of civil war, with complete chaos at home. I feel for the increasing number of peoples throughout the world who must live with this kind of chaos. Mars, of course, is the Roman god of war.

The translator is David R Slavitt.

From GEORGICS I

by Virgil

I feel the dread, and the sun burns me, burns like a fever. The world is full of war, and at home, crime resembles a war. Men flock to the city leaving their fields to weeds, their tools to rust. Plowshares now are beaten into swords. It’s bad in Asia, bad in Europe, bad... No treaties hold, no laws hold, nothing But Mars, blood red ... He holds it all hurtling through the sky in his chariot. I feel those wheels rumble. I feel the sway of speed. The horses are mad and running faster. They ought to check. They ought to answer the reins. There ought to be reins.

But there are none.

Joan thanks so much for that translation...it sounds like it could have been written this morning...a powerful poem ...almost an indictment of mankind...anna

The cowboy's hands .. a lovely poem Marj .. I know just what hands like that look and feel like. Beautifully written. And the world hasn't changed Joan has it? The translation of Virgil's GEORGICS 1 could have as Anna says, been written today.

I have "The shooting of Dan McGrew" Anna .. has it been posted? if not I will attempt to do so. It is a mammoth piece but so worthy of being printed. Meanwhile I have this little poem .. sad but so true, by Ralph Hodgson .. please forgive if it has been posted or if I have done so.

T'would ring the bells of Heaven
The wildest peal for years,
If Parson lost his senses
And people came to theirs.
And he and they together
Knelt down with angry prayers
For tamed and shabby tigers
And dancing dogs and bears,
And wretched blind pit ponies
And little hunted hares.

Ralph Hodgson

Margorie: that's great. I like the poem on the hands too.

I agree The SHooting of Dan McGrew should be posted..I cant think of any Service poem that shouldnt be posted. I never fulfilled my dream of going to Alaska and that is okay because Service took me there. We did have military friends who were stationed there that retired there. They just couldnt leave ...it was such a magnificent place.

And thanks for that poem by Hodgson. St Louis, had one of the first natural habitat zoos...which I visited often when I lived there..but even then I felt such a sadness for the animals. Years later when we were home we took the children to the zoo. The wonderful seal pool had been closed. Visitors, I cannot call them people, had killed them by tossing popscile sticks to them and other things that destroyed them.

And I never have enjoyed watching trained bears etc ...I always wanted to treat the trainers the same way...it isnt a lovely poem but a powerful one and I can only wish everyone felt the same. anna

I too agree- the Virgil excerpt could have been written today. What force in it.

I was reading the Shooting of Dan MaGrew just yesterday online.

The Hodgson poem is powerful in its yearning for peace.

~Marj

"Icicles"

 

Slender beards of light 
hang from the railing.   

My son shows me 
their array of sizes:  

one is oddly shaped, 
its queer curve   

a clear walrus tooth, 
illumined, tinseled.   

We watch crystal cones 
against blue sky.   

Suddenly some break loose, 
an echo of piano notes.   

The sun argues 
ice to liquid.   

Tiny buds of water 
pendant on dropper tips   

push to pear shapes, 
prisms that shiver silver   

in a slight wind 
before falling.   

Look, he says laughing, 
a pinocchio nose,   

and grabs one 
in his small hand,   

touching the clear carrot 
cold to his lips.   

I enjoyed reading this when I found it.   Wonderful images bring you right there.   It was on this website   

http://www.everypoet.org/pffa/showthread.php?s=&threadid=9965 

~Marj

Thanks for that poem and yes it is a clear image of icicles. The other day I had a row of small ones hanging from the eaves. They looked like crystal ones I hang on the tree each Christmas....crystal by nature not by Waterford!!! And that is a good link for poetry ..I have used it myself many times... It will be warmer today but our worst winter storms begin in the southwest and move to the east coast and come up and meet a Canadian cold front ..that is a possibilty early next week so I am crossing my fingers and thinking positive thoughts...hoping we wont get a BIG STORM>..take care ..back later...anna

And found a poem about winter nights...Sara Teasdale ...not as beautiful as yours MArj but we did have some articles in our paper regarding shelters for the homeless. Our church takes turns helping out with cooking the meals for the shelters and collecting food from various places that provide it.....anna

A Winter Night

My window-pane is starred with frost, The world is bitter cold to-night, The moon is cruel and the wind Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

God pity all the homeless ones, The beggars pacing to and fro. God pity all the poor to-night Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.

My room is like a bit of June, Warm and close-curtained fold on fold, But somewhere, like a homeless child, My heart is crying in the cold.

Absolutely poignant; point blank. Our night was like that last night...and the news has been talking about the homeless. There are churches in the Detroit area that house people for the night, I think it is for week & provide an evening meal, etc. during that week. An organized thing with transport.

Talk about thankful for a new furnace in "this old house"!

~Marj

I loved both those poems on winter.

I like the mid-western poet, James Wright, although his voice is quite different from other poets that I like, and much grittier (I ---ed out an expletive in the poem below). But the themes we've been talking about: (hands, cold, homelessness) all meet in this poem. Here for those of us who have spent much of our lives in cities is an urban winter poem with a different kind of hand.

Hook

By

James Wright

I was only a young man in those days. On that evening The cold was so ----- ----- Bitter there was nothing. Nothing. I was in trouble with a woman, and there was nothing There but me and dead snow.

I stood on the street corner In Minneapolis, lashed This way and that. Wind rose from some pit, Hunting me. Another bus to St. Paul Would arrive in three hours, If I was lucky.

Then the young Sioux Loomed beside me, his scars Were just my age.

Ain’t got no bus here A long time, he said. You got enough money To get home on?

What did they do To your hand? I answered. He raised up his hook into the terrible starlight. And slashed the wind.

Oh that? He said. I had a bad time with a woman. Here, You take this.

Did you ever feel a man hold Sixty-five cents In a hook, And place it Gently In your freezing hand?

I took it. It wasn’t money that I needed. But I took it.

By the way, in today's NYTimes crossword puzzle, one of the clues is "how Waltzing Matilda should be played", seven letters. Any ideas?

that was a powerful poem ...enjoying my nice warm home I always feel sorrow for those that are not doing the same.

AND my idea for a 7 letter response to how to play Waltzing Matilda ..how about briskly ? that is the way it makes me feel...peppy , ready to do or dare...let me know if it fits...anna

This may not be exactly a "cowboy poem" but it does reflect the miners life in the mid-1800s and the early part of the 20th century:

I Know a Golden Canyon Low:

I know a golden canyon low

Where gold is never found

Men dig with pick and shovel

But they never look around

The wind blows; the sun is hot

Men struggle with their tasks,

The bear, fox, and antelope do ponder

The swinging of the axe

The men soon leave their camp

Never finding what they seek

The gold is all around them

Even far beneath their feet. ~ Anne M. Ogle

MarjV I love your icicle poem. Thanks much

Oh JoanK-- that is quite a piece. Thanks. Sure does reflect the city and I feel sad for these homeless and he sure does capture the feeling of the cold and wind and destitute. And what a sense of sharing! \\

The Gold is in the Canyon.....a metaphor for searching for the perfect thing in life????

Enjoying so much the poetry coming through .. just now my life seems to be taken up with visitors .. meals and all the things that go with "having nice people around". It is always a delight to meet up with folk from overseas. I think that quite rightly we have a tendency to show off a little about the country we live in, wherever that is. I guess it's coming together that is so important.

Robert Service wrote poetry that appealed to just about everyone .. his stirring ballads about life in the Klondike during the gold rush of the late 1800s fired the imagination of those who read his poetry .. especially "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" and the "The Cremation of Dan McGrew". The appeal of his poems spread all over the world .. they were easy to recite ih such vim and vigour. He was referred to as "The Bard of the Yukon" and the "Canadian Kipling" although he was actually born in Preston, Lancashire (15 miles from where I was born). His life story certainly is a very interesting one.

The Shooting of Dan McGrew

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up
in the Malamute Saloon,
The kid that handles the music box
was hitting a rag time tune.
Back of the bar in a solo game,
sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching watching his luck was his light-o'-love,
the lady that's known as Lou.

When out of the night which was fifty below,
and into the din and the glare,
There stumbled a miner, fresh from the creeks,
dog dirty and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave
and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar
and he called for drinks on the house.
There was none could place the stranger's face
though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink
was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

There's men that somehow just grip your eyes,
and hold them like a spell;
And such was he, and he looked to me,
like a man who had lived in hell.
With a face, most hair, and the dreary stare
of a dog whose day is done,
As he watered the green stuff in his glass,
and the drops fell one by one,
Then I got to figgering who he was
and wondering what he'd do.
And I turned my head - and there watching
him was the lady that's known as Lou.

His eyes went rubbering round the room,
and he seemed in a kind of daze
Till at last that old piano fell
in the way of his wandering gaze.
The ragtime kid was having a drink,
there was no one else on the stool,
So the stranger stumbled across the room
and flops down there like a fool.
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt
he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then he clutched the keys with his talon hnds
- my God, but that man could play!

Were you ever out in the Great Alone,
when the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in
with a silence you 'most could hear;
With only the howl of a timber wolf,
and you camped there in the cold,
A half dead thing in a stark, dead world,
clean mad for the muck called gold,
While high overhead, green, yellow and red
the North Light swept in bars?
Then you've a hunch what the music meant,
-hunger and night and the stars.

And hunger not of the belly kind,
that's banished with bacon and beans,
But the gnawing hunger of lonely men
for a home and all that it means.
For a fireside far for the cares that are
four walls and a roof above,
But oh! so cramful of cosy joy
and crowned with a woman's love.
A woman dearer than all the world,
and true as Heaven is true -
(God! how ghastly she looks through
her rouge - the lady that's known as Lou.)

Then on a sudden the music changed,
so soft that you scarce could hear;
But you felt that your life had been looted clean
of all that it once held dear;
That someone had stolen the woman you loved,
that her love was a devil's lie,
That you guts were gone, and the best for you
was to crawl away and die.
'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair,
and it thrilled you thro' and thro' -
"I guess I'll make it a spread misere",
said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

The music almost died away,
then it burst like a pent up flood;
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay,"
and my eyes were blind with blood.
The thought came back of an ancient wrong,
and it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust awoke to kill, to kill ...
then the music stopped with a crash.

And the stranger turned, and his eyes they
burned, in a most peculiar way;
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt,
he sat, and I saw him sway.
Then his lips went in, in a kind of grin,
and he spoke, and his voice was calm;
And, "Boys", says he, "you don't know me,
and none of you care a damn;
But I want to state, and my words are straight,
and I bet my poke they're true,
That one of you is a hound of hell ...
and that one is Dan McGrew."

Then I ducked my head, and the lights went
out, and two guns blazed in the dark;
And a woman screamed, and the lights went
up, and two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his head, and pumped with lead
was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks lay clutched to
the breast - of the lady that's known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case,
and I guess I ought to know,
They say that the stranger was crazed with
hooch, and I'm not denying it's so,
I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys,
but strictly between us two -
The woman that kissed him - and pinched his
poke - was the lady that's known as Lou.

Robert Service (1874 - 1958)

MARJORIE: I'd forgotten how good Service is. Thanks.

Icicle: I hadn't seen them all winter, but just after reading the poem, I looked and there they were. Either the poem summoned them, or I needed the poem to open my eyes.

When talking about Robert Service .. I should have said "The Cremating of Sam McGee" not "The Cremation of Dan McGew .. a slip of thought.

Thanks so much for your contributions...they were all powerful poems...I can relate to all ..the waiting at a bus station..and also finding out times change and stops are often omitted ..had that happen last fall when my brother came to visit ..he came by bus but the station (which was really small ) had moved..I went to the place I thought was the right place and had to drive a bit out of the way to get to the new place..he was late arriving so he wasnt left to wonder what happened to me.

The poem about the gold ..a metaphor about life...I too felt perhaps it was a way of saying we search for the good life and it is often as near as under our feet...in our own back yards..etc...

Marjorie thanks for taking the time to post The Shooting of Dan McGrew...oh I read that when I was very young and may I share a bit of humor with you..it the last verse where it says the lady who kissed him and pinched his poke was the lady named Lou...now I wont tell you what I thought he meant by that but it was many years later when I found out a poke was the sack of gold dust...and I did have a rollicking time reading it out loud...

HOpe you are enjoying your company in spite of the extra work it always entails...and to all of you ...I appreciate your sharing the poems you find ...and love the different kinds we find...thanks..anna

Anna .. I had quite a chuckle .. (the poke). I do love humour and now I am thinking that I should find some humorous verse. I know there is some in my anthology of 'porcine poesy' .. Take care

Your post sent me on a mission to find some humorous submission and here is one from Ogden Nash ...anna

The Tale of Custard the Dragon by Ogden Nash

Belinda lived in a little white house, With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse, And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon, And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink, And the little gray mouse, she called hum Blink, And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard, But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth, And spikes on top of him and scales underneath, Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose, And realio, trulio daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs, Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful, Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival, They all sat laughing in the little red wagon At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house, and Blink said Weeck! which is giggling for a mouse, Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age, When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound, And Mustard growled, and they all looked around. Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda, For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right, And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright, His beard was black, one leg was wood; It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried Help! Help! But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp, Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household, And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard snorting like an engine, Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon, With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm, He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon, And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon, He fired two bullets, but they didn't hit, And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him, No one mourned for his pirate victim. Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate Around the dragon that ate the pirate.

But presently up spoke little dog Mustard, I'd been twice as brave if I hadn't been flustered. And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink, We'd have been three times as brave, we think, And Custard said, I quite agree That everybody is braver than me.

Belinda still lives in her little white house, With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse, And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon, And her realio, trulio little pet dragon.

Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs, Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.

Giggle--- I'll have to admit to not knowing the proper definition of "poke" either. >ggggg Thanks for posting Dan McGrew!

Giggle, giggle. Alright, you guys. And I thought I was the one with a dirty mind. It tells you what a poke is earlier in the poem.

"Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar "!!!!!

I loved the dragon!!! I'll send it to my grandson.

How Waltzing Matilda should be played turned out to be "allegro". Bummer. I thought I was going to learn on of those cool Aussie slang terms!!!

Isnt it great to giggle? You have to realize I was very young when I first read The Shooting of Dan McGrew...and while it was explained in one of the verses ...'twas the pinching that intrigued me and wonderin' Oh my ...am glad you enjoyed the Nash poem ..it is a charming one for children isnt it?

Now off to find something to share. I love this part because as I research I come upon such interesting bits of poetry. Sometimes an old friend with a poem I had never read, or a new poet...it is somewhat like going to a flea market ..you never know when you will find a real treasure...back later..and 1 ..Keep poetry going and 2....enjoy those giggles...both do wonders for the soul..anna

I do love to laugh .. my day is never complete without a laugh .. and I do find that visitors are put absolutely at ease if you start off with some humour. I will print the Ogden Nash along with all the others I have been printing .. he's one of my favourites. In my little book of porcine parodies for pig lovers I have chosen

"IF" by Rudyard Pigling (An inspirational Pig Poet)

If you can hog the trough when all about you
Are missing out and blaming it on you
If you can use your stiffened upper snout too
And snuffle out some nuts and roots to chew
If you can mate and not be tired by mating
And sire half the pigs along the Ouze,
And bite the loved ones' tails while you are waiting,
And make a gilt feel guilt should she refuse.

If you can sleep and dream and think it jolly,
And eat and sleep and dream and feel no shame
If you can meet with cabbage and broccoli,
And treat those 'Cruciferae' just the same,
If you can scoff your swill in half a minute
While half the other pigs are in the hay,
Yours is the Pigfield chum, and all that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a PIG, OK!?

The Ouze is a river flowing through Pigling's beloved Sussex England
"Cruciferae" .. an order of Hypogeous exogens including the cabbage and all its varieties.

Now that did make me laugh...there is nothing better than to awake with a laugh and go to bed with one too...it is after midnight here in SE Virginia and the weather man has just predicted our temperature will continue to drop and perhaps by Sunday we will have a snow storm...they keep saying MAYBE it will only be rain...but it will be a cold rain that is for sure.. This is the first winter I have lived in sweatsuits ..from am to pm...spoke on the phone to an old friend this am and she confessed both of them have just given up dressing for the day with this cold. Instead they wear warm sweats and sit in bed and read...I spent an hour trying to convince her to get a computer and I hope I have succeeded. If they would visit here they would have a great time reading the poems ....thanks for that bit of fun ...anna

I hope you like this one...it caught my eye since while we never planted something when one of our children were born..we did plant trees when we lost a loved one. A few are still standing, some we had to cut down, they were too close to the house..and had suffered from some blight. Still when they were still growing it was special to think of the person we were remembering...This is that sort of poem...anna

Planting a Sequoia by Dana Gioia

All afternoon my brothers and I have worked in the orchard, Digging this hole, laying you into it, carefully packing the soil. Rain blackened the horizon, but cold winds kept it over the Pacific, And the sky above us stayed the dull gray Of an old year coming to an end.<pre.

In Sicily a father plants a tree to celebrate his first son’s birth– An olive or a fig tree–a sign that the earth has one more life to bear. I would have done the same, proudly laying new stock into my father’s orchard, A green sapling rising among the twisted apple boughs, A promise of new fruit in other autumns.

But today we kneel in the cold planting you, our native giant, Defying the practical custom of our fathers, Wrapping in your roots a lock of hair, a piece of an infant’s birth cord, All that remains above earth of a first-born son, A few stray atoms brought back to the elements.

We will give you what we can–our labor and our soil, Water drawn from the earth when the skies fail, Nights scented with the ocean fog, days softened by the circuit of bees. We plant you in the corner of the grove, bathed in western light, A slender shoot against the sunset.

And when our family is no more, all of his unborn brothers dead, Every niece and nephew scattered, the house torn down, His mother’s beauty ashes in the air, I want you to stand among strangers, all young and ephemeral to you, Silently keeping the secret of your birth.

Coal
Audre Lorde

I
is the total black, being spoken
from the earth's inside.
There are many kinds of open
how a diamond comes into a knot of flame
how sound comes into a words, coloured
by who pays what for speaking.

Some words are open like a diamond
on glass windows
singing out within the crash of sun
Then there are words like stapled wagers
in a perforated book - buy and sign and tear apart -
and come whatever will all chances
the stub remains
an ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge.
Some words live in my throat
breeding like adders. Other know sun
seeking like gypsies over my tongue
to explode through my lips
like young sparrows bursting from shell.
Some words
bedevil me

Love is word, another kind of open.
As the diamond comes into a knot of flame
I am Black because I come from the earth's inside
Now take my word for jewel in the open light.

Phyllis was born in Africa and captured by slave traders at the age of eight years. She was brought to America and sold to the Wheatley family of Boston, Massachusetts, where she began writing poetry when she was 13, imitating popular poets of the day, Alexander Pope and Thomas Gray. When she accompanied a member of the family to England in 1773, she gained notoriety in literary circles. Her most well-known poems are "To the University of Cambridge in New England" and "To the King's Most Excellent Majesty."

On Being Brought from Africa to America.
Phyllis Wheatley

'TWAS mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither fought now knew,
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
"Their colour is a diabolic die."
Remember, Christians, Negroes black as Cain,
May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.

AND introducing me to Audre Lord...since she was new to me I reseached her biography and share it below. Her desrcription of words is so special and for someone who writes , even poorly, it makes you want to nod your head and say YES< YES ...I understand....anna

BIOGRAPHY Audre Lorde (1934-1992). Born to middle-class, West Indian immigrant parents in New York City, Lorde grew up in Harlem and attended the National University of Mexico (1954), Hunter College (B.A., 1959) and Columbia (M.L.S., 1961). Her marriage in 1962, which produced two children, ended in divorce in 1970. During these early years, she worked as a librarian, but in 1968 her growing reputation as a writer led to her appointment as lecturer in creative writing at City College in New York and, in the following year, lecturer in the education department at Herbert H. Lehman College. In 1970, she joined the English department at John Jay College of Criminal Justice and in 1980 returned to Hunter College as professor of English.

Besides teaching, Lorde combined raising a son and a daughter in an interracial lesbian relationship with political organizing of other black feminists and lesbians, and in the early 1980s, helped to start Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press. In 1991, she was named New York State Poet.

Lorde is probably best known for her prose writings, among them two collections of essays, Sister Outsider (1984) and Burst of Light (1988), and the autobiographical Zami: The Cancer Journals (1980), a chronicle of her struggle with the breast cancer that ultimately claimed her life. Her poetry publications include The First Cities (1968), The Black Unicorn (1978), and Undersong: Chosen Poems Old and New (1993). Near the end of her life, Lorde made her home on St. Croix, U.S. Virgin Islands, and adopted the African name Gamba Adisa ("Warrior, She Who Makes Her Meaning Known").

Marjorie:

Thanks for the poem "If" by "Rudyard Pigling" I am a lover of pigs... having raised them for some 30 years.. I have forwarded in on to our county Pork Producers.. who like to include such poetry in the monthly news letter

The Ogden Nash Piggly pome is just wonderful.

Planting of a tree at birth time. It is rather a narrative poem the while giving us a clear picture of the planting.

And the poem about words is just great.....rereading it brings it more to life for me. What we do or could do with words!!!! Both that and the Wheatley poem address "black".

~Marj

Pat .. I love pigs too .. they are just so intelligent and quite lovable. The little book I have is called The Pig Poets .. a porcine parody for pig lovers.
Published by Harper Collins of London .. I presume the author is Ralph Rochester. There are some delightful poems designed to tickle the sense of humour at the same time giving the pig's outlook on life at the trough and in the sty.

Anna don't we get some great poetry on this site. Helps us to understand our fellow human beings. Poetry is such a powerful medium.

Boy, the joint is really jumping. I missed a whole day because I was buried in finances (trying to get the stupid computer financial program to be less stupid about money than I am) and come back to giggles and beauty. What a feast!!! The computer drives you crazy, and then gives back with both hands.

Countee Cullen was a poet in the Harlem Renaissance.
INCIDENT
Countee Cullen

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, "Nigger."

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember.

Re Mal's poem..

I thought this was interesting when I looked at Cullen's bio: He was raised and educated in a primarily white community, and he differed from other poets of the Harlem Renaissance like Langston Hughes in that he lacked the background to comment from personal experience on the lives of other blacks or use popular black themes in his writing.An imaginative lyric poet, he wrote in the tradition of Keats and Shelley and was resistant to the new poetic techniques of the Modernists. He died in 1946.

Young children do retain a memory of such incidents. Ugly.

~Marj

JoanK

I read some more of James Wright's work. Thanks again for the poem you posted that lead me to look at him.

When I wrote this poem I was thinking of the "land" itself as being the "gold" that the miners didn't see because they were blinded by the golden metal that they sought. But I like your interpertation of the gold in the canyon being a metaphor for searching for the perfect thing in life. Glad you enjoyed the poem.

Mal thanks for posting the poem by Cullen I have read his before and remember that one especially. I think it is the best way to recognize words can wound. How often have you read or heard someone who is successful tell about being called fat, or ugly or some other hateful word when they were young and how it stayed with them. We really need to be cautious when we choose to label someone.

Scrawler I dont know if I missed your name but I wasnt aware the poem about gold was yours...I am glad you shared why you wrote it and found other intrepretations all right with you. Which shows every poems speaks different languages....but what is important a poem SPEAKS to us...it means something to us...perhaps not what the author meant but what our hearts needed to hear..Thanks again for sharing.

I am going to post a poem I am sure you have all read and heard. It has special meaning to me..My husband was a pilot in the USAF..he loved this poem..it spoke to him and was used at his funeral nearly ten years ago. March 24, 1994 was the date and as that day nears..my mind remembers too well ...so here is the poem...anna

The poem, High Flight, has over the years become a mantra to pilots. It is reproduced here as a tribute to, and in memory of pilots of all generations.

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long delirious, burning blue, I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or even eagle flew - And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod The high unsurpassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee No 412 squadron, RCAF Killed 11 December 1941

Anna: what a wonderful poem and what a wonderful tribute to your husband.

I really related to the Cullen poem, as would all children who were sneered at, in my case because I have a handicap.

You mentioned Langston Hughes. Here are two by him.

I, Too
by
Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong.

Tomorrow, I’ll sit at the table When company comes. Nobody’ll dare Say to me “Eat in the kitchen,” Then.

Besides, They’ll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.

.......

The Negro Speaks of Rivers
by
Langston Hughes

I’ve known rivers, I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled mr to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bottom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers. Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the river.

I love them both but think of the last one often...for years I have been fascinated by man's early history ...and a couple of years ago scientists felt they found our comman ancestor ..EVE they named her..she was thought to have appeared about 150,000 years ago in Africa and using DNA tell us regardless of our coloration etc...we are all related to "EVE" . So when I tell people I love "You are a relative of my heart" I speak the truth...thanks again for those powerful poems...anna

"My soul has grown deep like the river". Marvelous sentence. Beautiful.

I was just browing thru football poetry in thinking about the Super Bowl. I found all sorts of fun things- even a UK poets site devoted to football poems. http://www.footballpoets.org/index.asp

~Marj

Here is a copy of a post I did elsewhere.

Today is a holiday which precedes the Romans: the ancient Celtic holiday of Imbolc. It is the day halfway between the winter and spring solstices. (slightly off from the Roman/Babylonian calendar -- the holiday evidently survived the Roman invasion) Literally, Imbolc means "in milk", the time when animals get their milk for nursing, and we look for the first signs of Spring. Later, the English and Germans celebrated it as Candlemas. As far as I can tell from brief reading, this is when the idea started that if it was fair, Winter would last for six more weeks. The Germans used a bear, seeing its shadow as an indication of this. When they came to the US, it was changed to a groundhog.

In true Imbolc fashion, I saw my first robin today, Now excuse me, I am going to sit with a cup of cocoa by the window next to the field where the groundhogs live and wait.

Now all we need is some good Imbolc poetry.

Your very wish JoanK

--- thanks to Google ---It is really a pretty poem and web site http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewpoetry.asp?AuthorID=14937&id=95215

 

by Alexandra Oliveira Forte 
Monday, January 26, 2004    

Between her eyes 
and the rain 
a poem of multiple hues 
and a clear  
endless sky 
in his eyes 
just bloomed… 
as if the first 
Clematis 
replete 
with smiling 
refracted 
Springs 
had suddenly 
uncovered 
amassed dust of stars 
and magic 
breath of life 
brimming 
within dreams 
in a dance 
of the 
Druid 
with the 
Goddess  
behind 
Winters 
and 
tears…    

Imbolc is impending 
in petals of 
Light 
within 
his eyes 
and 
the forest 
of hers 
refracts 
Sun 
in sprouts 
of 
rainbows 
secret spells 
and 
poetry

MarjV: what a marvelous poem!!! Thank you.

I'm sorry to say my slow browser doesn't seem able to load your football poems. But I'll keep on trying.

You are welcome JoanK

 

This is a short summary of Imbolc to add to what you wrote:   

January 31 -- February Eve -- Imbolc (Oimelc) or Brigid 
As the days' lengthening becomes perceptible, 
 many candles are lit to hasten the warming of the earth and emphasize the reviving of life.  
"Imbolc" is from Old Irish, and may mean "in the belly",  
and Oimelc, "ewe's milk", as this is the lambing time.  
It is the holiday of the Celtic Fire Goddess Brigid,  
whose threefold nature rules smithcraft, poetry/inspiration, and healing.  
Brigid's fire is a symbolic transformation offering healing, visions, and tempering.  
Februum is a Latin word meaning purification -- naming the month of cleansing.  
The thaw releases waters (Brigid is also a goddess of holy wells)  
-- all that was hindered is let flow at this season.   

So I say Brigid definitely belongs in our 
discussion board since she rules poetry/inspiration.

This Rite of Candlemas marks the first stirrings of the new Spring. And, while it may seem strange to be celebrating Spring while snow still covers the ground and the bitter winds of winter still whip around your shoulders, the old name of this Sabbat actually explains the reasoning. Imbolc (or Imbolg) literally means "in the belly;" thus, though the land is still covered with snow and frost, within the belly of the Mother (earth), the first faint stirrings of the seeds of the new season are beginning. A festival celebrating light in the darkness, the Rite of Candlemas is the celebration of the rekindled fire both within ourselves and within the world, as personified by the growing strength of the new Sun God.

MarjV: great. the sites I found differed between those that said "in the belly" and "in milk". They all said February 2nd though. What does it matter? We can celbrate for three days and be full of poetry!!!

OH my I envy you...This has been such a bitter cold winter here and I am ready for the first robin...I watch my feeders every day hoping I will see one ..or on the ground listening to the earthworms waking...the other day I wrote a poem which I will share ..havent had time to do a lot of research but will check out the website..and many many thanks for the poems and information..since I am of Irish ancestory I feel perhaps Brigid has watched over me..anna PS I havent given my poem a title yet ..any ideas/

The snow has melted from the streets Obsidian they gleam in the street lamps Golden glow Even a winter sun has heat enough to Melt the snow ..it has snaked its way through Deep dark ruts and oozed to snow packed curbs In fits and starts it fought its way Through icy edges and disappeared Into dark openings of the underground drain Trees and grass still bear the marks Of once white and innocent snow Trampled now by booted feet or clinging to the bark Of boughs and limbs of tree and shrubs Its progress slow, the remains slithers through Layers of clay and sand and moistened earth To linger till spring for the land's rebirth.

anna alexander January 31, 2004©

Isn't the power of the sun amazing. That it can do that melt even in an extremely cold day. At least in some of our states- now I don't know about Minn. or N Dak, etc. Speaking of precip- we have pouring rain at the moment over the ice and snow and temps due to drop.

Thanks for sharing , Anna. I liked it very much.

~Marj

Any one familiar with or has interest in Robinson Jeffers poetry? Jeffers, lived and wrote his poetry in and about the Big Sur area of coastal California. Big Sur has always been a special land for me: it is difficult to describe, it must be experienced....savored.

Big Sur area is about 60 miles south of Monterrey peninsula on the California coastal highway.

We welcome you and say ALL POETRY IS WELCOME...I googled Jeffers and chose one of his poems for us to read. I checked a couple out before I chose this one...but I felt I HAVE SEEN His work before...thanks for mentioning him...and please share your favorite Jeffers poems..anna

Ascent To The Sierras Robinson Jeffers

Beyond the great valley an odd instinctive rising Begins to possess the ground, the flatness gathers to little humps and barrows, low aimless ridges, A sudden violence of rock crowns them. The crowded orchards end, they have come to a stone knife; The farms are finished; the sudden foot of the slerra. Hill over hill, snow-ridge beyond mountain gather The blue air of their height about them.

Here at the foot of the pass The fierce clans of the mountain you'd think for thousands of years, Men with harsh mouths and eyes like the eagles' hunger, Have gathered among these rocks at the dead hour Of the morning star and the stars waning To raid the plain and at moonrise returning driven Their scared booty to the highlands, the tossing horns And glazed eyes in the light of torches. The men have looked back Standing above these rock-heads to bark laughter At the burning granaries and the farms and the town That sow the dark flat land with terrible rubies... lighting the dead... It is not true: from this land The curse was lifted; the highlands have kept peace with the valleys; no blood in the sod; there is no old sword Keeping grim rust, no primal sorrow. The people are all one people, their homes never knew harrying; The tribes before them were acorn-eaters, harmless as deer. Oh, fortunate earth; you must find someone To make you bitter music; how else will you take bonds of the future, against the wolf in men's hearts?

Poem#922

The Sun is gay or stark According to Our Deed - If merry, He is merrier - If eager for the Dead

Or an expended Day He helped to make too bright His mighty pleasure suits Us not It magnifies Our Freight ~ Emily Dickinson (1865)

MarjV thanks for the information on "Imbolc". I guess we'll have six more weeks of winter in Portland, Orgeon since either the bear or the groundhog saw his shadow. But I have to say the "sun" does feel good after all the rain we've had for the last few weeks. My kitty seems to found the only sun spot in the house and she's not sharing.

That last line in the Jeffers poem is a sad line... there is wolf in men's hearts. I read a few of his poems after seeing Potsherds post.

Oh, Emily and her sun~ Yup, the sun can be gay or stark.

'Tis Leap Year .. what shall we do with the extra day I wonder? So many of our words are derived from the early Romans.. The month of February comes from Februa, the Roman festival of expiation which was celebrated through the latter part of this month.

Feast Days .. Feb 2 .. Candlemas Day
Feb 14.. Saint Valentine
Feb 24.. St Matthias

"If February brings no rain
'tis neither good for grass or grain"

"In February, if thou hearest thunder,
Thou shalt see a summer wonder."

FEBRUARY

"One month is past, another is begun
Since merry bells rang out the dying year,
And buds of rarest green begin to peer
As if impatient for a warmer sun;
And though the distant hills are bleak and dun,
The virgin snowdrop, like a lambent fire
Pierces the cold earth with its green-streaked spire.
And in dark woods, the wandering little one
May find a primrose. "

Hartley Coleridge Feb 1st. 1842

Oh, I like those Feb. words and rhymes. I had to look up lambent. Speaks the description to a T.

 

1 : playing lightly on or over a surface : FLICKERING  
2 : softly bright or radiant  
3 : marked by lightness or brilliance especially of expression   

I know my younger son planted snowdrops in his yard.   
Maybe they will appear later in Feb.     
A strong Emily sun is shining this morning  
and for the whole day.    

~Marj

Oh what a perfect poem ..and I must confess in the 32 years I have lived in this house ...this is the first year in which not one of my crocus failed to nod its golden head to me just before Feb 1....It has been so cold I never gave it a thought..well a very latent one but today I have to go out in a few minutes and will check it out..anna

Thanks all for the welcome.

A poignant poem by Jeffers in memory to his friend Haig.

The House Dog’s Grave

(Haig, an English bulldog)

I’ve changed my ways a little; I cannot now Run with you in the evenings along the shore, Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream; a moment, you see me there.

So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door Where I used to scratch to go out or in, And you’d soon open; leave on the kitchin floor The marks of my drinking-pan,

I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do On the warm stone, Nor at the foot of your bed; no, all the nights through I lie alone.

But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet Outside your window where firelight so offen plays, And where you sit to read-and I fear often grieving for me - Every night your lamplight lies on my place,

You, man and women, live so long, it is hard To think of you ever dying. A little dog would get tired. living so long. I hope that when you are lying

Under the ground like me your lives will appear As good and joyful as mine,

No, dears, that’s too much hope: you are not so well cared forAs I have been.

And never have known the passionate undivided Fidelities that I knew. Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided.... But to me you were true.

You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend. I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures To the end and far past the end. If this is my end, I am not lonely, I am not afraid, I am still yours.

Oh Potsherd .. thankyou for sharing Robinson Jeffers' "The House Dog's Grave" It is very emotional for me and I remember with such love the five dogs I had over the space of 30 years on Kawau Island where they died of old age and are buried there. They were my friends and each had a beautiful identity all their own. So much beautiful poetry for us to love and enjoy .. so hard to think of life without it.

Thanks so much for the poem Potsherd...I have lost and buried so many pet family...each was so unique it has always been hard for me to understand those that see no difference in pets and treat them as sort of it was just a dog or cat or whatever... Please forgive me if I dont post a poem for the next few days. It is almost 1am here and I have had a bad day.. Leaving a doctors appt this am a woman in the parking lot backed into me. ( I was already out of my space getting ready to move forward) no one was injured but she managed to tear part of my bumper away which will require a new one. I have to see the adjuster this am ..and see when they want to fix it ..and of course after I had my conversation with my agent I still had to get my prescription filled and treat myself for an infection...by the time I was finished with everything I just collapsed..when I awoke the hour was late but I felt I needed to check into seniornet and the discussions I have promised to support.

Hopefully by Sat I will feel better healthwise and mentally...take care and KEEP POETRY GOING >>anna

I got this poem from a friend so I thought I'd pass on to you all:

You're My Friend,

my campanion,

through good times

and bad

my friend,

my buddy,

through happy and sad,

beside me you stand,

beside me you walk,

you're there to listen,

you're there to talk,

with happiness,

with smiles,

with pain and tears,

I know you'll be there,

throughout the years!

You are all good friends to me

and I am grateful to you.

Freinds know no distance , no place , even no face but they always know a heart ..thanks

Below is the poem I wrote when my dear cat was very ill and I could see his time on earth was about ready to disappear..anna

Napoleon's Farewell Address

Mistress mine I grieve for thee. My Elba nears. I know you see My coat once smooth and sleek Now rough and dry, matted deep. Your ministrations I appreciate Since no longer can I depreciate The fur along my thigh, and dear I need you now to scratch my ear. My diet severely limited, leaner, Meant for cats who are senior! When I venture forth the birds No longer fear this meek predator. Truth be known I must confess I have forgotten why I did address Them in the past. They safely now Fly near me and I wonder how I had the energy once to pursue. My attack days dwindle to few, Those lackluster in attempt. Once suave I am now unkempt.

Oh dear cat of my home Time is soon when you will roam Elysian Fields, full of birds to chase. Teasing you they will fly in haste Sanguine you nibble on sweet grass, Waiting there for time to pass When in that perfect place We two will gather... by Grace.

anna alexander 7/26/97 all rights reserved

You all are clairvoyant for sure. I spent Wed caring for my elder kitty as she became violently ill and I wanted her just to pass on in our natuaral setting without vet poking and prodding. However, on Thursday morning she became very distressed and was crying. Cats do not cry except in dire need. So I called my son and he came and also spent time with her and then we took her to the vet to be euthanized in the afternoon. And then I come this morning to check poetry and I see these wonderful selections for grief and memory. I miss Ms Neffy in a different way then when Mr Purr died in 2000. I have two brothers who are the love of my life and are 3 1/2 fur years.

 

Here is what I wrote after Purr died.   

Gentle Spirit~ 
     Let thoughts of peace waft softly thru our hearts. 
     Let the light of our candles bring gentle memories of our love. 
     Let the glow of love guide our days; in all  our moments.   

     As we cry, 
     As we smile, 
     As we walk on, 
     As we carry within us the legacy of love we received; 
     Knowing the love we gave; 
     Living in the presence of their spirit 
     With us - 
          wherever we go, 
          however we are, 
          at dawn and at dusk 
          and the deep hours of the night.   

     With thank-full hearts - 
     Amen!               Shalom!    

-In gratitude for the gift of Purr boy (+ April 13, 2000),    Marj

Anna--- your poem touches my heart totally this day. Especially since it is directed toward an elderly lovely kitty. I knew Ms Neffy was reaching her end time the last year as she was more frail, lively at times but still I knew her fragility. She joins the mighty band of kitty angels.

Thanks, Marj

Scrawler--- that is the perfect wording to describe the bond I have/had with kittys. Thanks.

"You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend. I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures To the end and far past the end. If this is my end, I am not lonely, I am not afraid, I am still yours."

Thanks for that poem, Potsherd. These lines are my lines

I sorry to hear about your kitty. I know she'll be missed, but be grateful that you had her for the short time she was with you. I'm convinced that animals pick us not the other way around. They let you into their lives (on their terms of course) but nevertheless they are there for us and we are there for them. That's what friends are all about. Peace always, Anne

I am sitting here thinking of your expressions of love and caring for your pets and want you to know how much I appreciate you.

I have been owned by a number of pets over the years and am grateful they picked me to be their people person. My children ( who are all grown now and married ) benefited by having pets in the house. And of course all have them in their homes. Pets are great teachers. Everyone in a family benefits by having them You learn patience, responsiblity, caring, and love. While the pet is given a home you are given an opportunity to show and recieve love...life just doesnt get better than that...thanks to all ..your words, your thoughts really touched me..anna

That is the title of one of our book discussions. I dont know about any of you ...I hope to always have hope but sometimes it seems so elusive I could weep...here is a poem by James Monroe Whitfield. He was an African-American writer and activist of his time...it says something to me ...there is also a link to his biography...anna

IN the bright days of early youth, Hope told a fond, delusive tale Of lasting friendship, holy truth, And steadfast love which ne'er should fail. I listened to the flattering strain With all the fire of ardent youth; And long I sought, but sought in vain, To find the dwelling-place of truth. Though many in her garb appeared, Assumed her name and simple mien, Ere long the vile deceit was cleared, And all the hypocrite was seen. And friendship, too, though long and loud Her voice I've heard in many a place, Among the fickle, thoughtless crowd, I never have beheld her face. Love, next, its bright and glittering chain Around the captive fancy threw; But soon its vows proved false and vain As the chameleon's changeful hue. Now, when the hopes and joys are dead That gladdened once the heart of youth, All the romantic visions fled That told of friendship, love and truth, Turn we unto that steadfast friend Who guards our steps where'er they rove, Whose power supports us to the end, Whose word is truth, whose name is love.

http://www.iath.virginia.edu/fdw/volume1/levine/bio.html

James Monroe Whitfield African-American writer,poet and activist

I am searching for the Poem, Marco comes Late, by Dr. Seuss. My son memorized it when he was a little boy and now he is 53, and I would love to send the poem to him for remembrance. It told of Marco being late for school, so he was expaining to his teacher the reasons for his lateness...I recall one part when a bird landed on his head or hat, and he had to wait till she flew away.....or something like that. I have searched the internet to no avail. Hope someone here can help me find it. June

I just did an extensive google search ...looking for both the title you gave and poems by Seuss..I even read a lot of poems by school children where the teacher asked them to write a poem ala suess ..I was hoping one would uncover your poem. It sounds so charming ..if anyone knows of it please share it here ...thanks ...anna

The character Marco appears in two of Dr. Seuss' books.

McElligot's Pool (1947)

And To Think That I Saw It On Mulberry Street (1938)

Edit: I found both books were available at my library, so maybe you can find which one has the poem you are looking for. This the URL where I found the reference to Marco. ... http://www.primate.wisc.edu/people/hamel/seuss.html

I know June will appreciate that...I would love to read the poem so if anyone can share it ....make us happy and let us read it..anna

Thank you Anna and Pat.....I will pursue it further, and hopefully someone here will have the answer. What a nice and helpful group you are. June

“Young man!”said Miss Block,
“It ’s eleven o ’clock!
This school begins promptly at 8:15.
Why,THIS is a terrible time to arrive!
Why didn ’t you come just as fast as you could?
What IS your excuse?It had better be good!”
Marco looked at the clock.
Then he looked at Miss Block.
“Excuse?”Marco stuttered.
“Er ...Well,it ’s like this …
Something happened to me.
“This morning,Miss Block,
when I left home for school
I hurried off early according to rule.
I said when I started a quarter past eight
I MUST not,I WILL not,I SHALL not be late!
I ’ll be the first pupil to be in my seat.
Then BANG!
Something happened on Mulberry Street!
“I heard a strange ‘peep ’and I took a quick look
And you know what I saw
with the look that I took?
A bird laid an egg on my ‘rithmetic book!
I couldn ’t believe it,Miss Block,but it ’s true!
I stopped and I didn ’t quite know what to do.
I didn ’t dare run and I didn ’t dare walk.
I didn ’t dare yell and I didn ’t dare talk.
I didn ’t dare sneeze and I didn ’t dare cough.
Because,if I did,I would knock the egg off.
So I stood there stock-still and it worried me pink
Then my feet got quite tired
and I sat down to think.
“And while I was thinking
down there on the ground,
I saw something move and I heard a loud sound
Of a worm who was having a fight with his wife.
The most terrible fight that I ’ve heard in my life!
The worm he was yelling,
‘That boy should not wait!
He MUST not,he DARE not,he SHALL not be late!
That boy ought to smash that egg off of his head.’
Then the wife of the worm shouted back —and
SHE said,
‘To break that dear egg would be terribly cruel.
An egg ’s more important than going to school.
That egg is that mother bird ’s pride and her joy.
If he smashes that egg,
he ’s the world ’s meanest boy!’
“And while the worms argued
‘bout what I should do
A couple big cats started arguing too!
‘You listen to me!’I heard one of them say,
‘If this boy doesn ’t go on to school right away
Miss Block will be frightfully horribly mad
If the boy gets there late she will punish the lad!’
Then the other cat snapped.
‘I don ’t care if she does,
This boy must not move!’So I stayed where I was
With the egg on my head,
And my heart full off fears
And the shouting of cats and worms in my ears.
“Then,while I lay wondering
When all this would stop,
The egg on my book burst apart with a POP!
And out of the pieces of red and white shell
Jumped a strange brand-new bird
and he said with a yell,
‘I thank you,young fellow,
you ’ve been simply great.
But,now that I ’m hatched,
you no longer need wait.
I ’m sorry,I kept you till ‘Ieven o ’clock.
It ’s really my fault.You tell THAT to Miss Block.
I wish you good luck and I bid you good day.’
That ’s what the bird said.Then he fluttered away.
And THEN I got here just as fast as I could
And that ’s my excuse and I think it ’s quite good.”
Miss Block didn ’t speak for a moment or two,
Her eyes looked at Marco
and looked him clean through.
Then she smiled.
“That ’s a very good tale,if it ’s true.
Did ALL of those things REALLY happen to you?”
“Er ...well,”answered Marco
with sort of a squirm.
“Not QUITE all,I guess.But I DID see a worm.”
Dr.Seuss
Marco Comes Late

Thanks so much for that poem. It really gave me a chuckle...my youngest son was like that..once I found him watching a caterpiller moving across the steps..when I asked what he was doing he replied..I was just watching my friend....just thinking of it makes me smile I have printed it out in case my three grandsons have never read that one....anna

I've always loved Dr Seuss. THanks for the Marco rhyme!

And Anna, those words in the poem you posted about love and hope. Quite quite true- reminds me- let go of romantic illusions and search for truth in relationships and if there is none then it is time to let go.

The sun is shining--- it is 10 degrees. ~Marj

That poem was special to me this year since my youngest daughter after ten years of marriage finally got a divorce. Not from a man who was abusive but from a man whom we all still care about but whose negative attitude about life wore us all down.

What he learned he learned from his father who tried to escape his negative home life. I love these people and pray before they die they can find a way to see that the glass is half full and not half empty...I cannot stand to think they will leave this life without at last finding hope...anna

I wanted to see what else he wrote to share with you...this is the one I found..anna

"Lines on the Death of J. Quincy Adams"

THE great, the good, the just, the true, Has yielded up his latest breath; The noblest man our country knew, Bows to the ghastly monster, Death The son of one whose deathless name Stands first on history’s brightest page; The highest on the list of fame As statesman, patriot, and sage.

In early youth he learned to prize The freedom which his father won; The mantle of the patriot sire, Descended on his mightier son. Science, her deepest hidden lore Beneath his potent touch revealed; Philosophy’s abundant store, Alike his mighty mind could wield.

The brilliant page of poetry Received additions from his pen, Of holy truth and purity, And thoughts which rouse the souls of men! Eloquence did his heart inspire, And from his lips in glory blazed, Till nations caught the glowing fire, And senates trembled as they praised!

While all the recreant of the land To slavery’s idol bowed the knee --- A fawning, sycophantic band, Fit tools of petty tyranny --- He stood amid the recreant throng, The chosen champion of the free, And battled fearlessly and long For justice, right, and liberty.

What though grim Death has sealed his doom Who faithful proved to God and us; And slavery, o’er the patriot’s tomb Exulting, pours its deadliest curse; Among the virtuous and free His memory will ever live; Champion of right and liberty, The blessings, truth and virtue give.

Anna,thank you so very, very much for the poem. I do appreciate your thoughtfulness and the time it must have taken too. My Gary will really enjoy receiving this and the memories it will bring back to him. God Bless. June

It was Annie who posted the poem...and I thank her for that but we all thank you for alerting us to this charming poem..it sounded so much like a young boy...I have two grown sons and now three grandsons..3-4-7 and they are so artfully inventive when they do something...It is so easy to distract any child but I do think boys have a special inclination for that...anna

Annie, my abject apologies for not using your name in thanking you. I hope you will forgive me. My 79 years and tending to my 87 yearold husband who just had cataract surgery are telling on me.

Anna......thank you so much for bringing my error to my attention....what a DUH I am at times. I too have two grown sons......55 and 54 years of age, and two Grandsons.....32 and 29, and two great grandaugters, 5 and 2 and one on the way in June so I feel so very, very Blessed. Wonderful daughters in law, and wonderful Grandaugters in law. I am so happy that you too enjoy the poem. It is just so like a child to have an imagination like Marco. God Bless them, and God Bless Dr. Seuss !!

Well I'm a grandmother too, but mine is just three weeks old.
I love reading the poetry on this site and I am happy that I could contribute that wonderful poem by Dr. Seuss.

When life seems too much, when things seem to be going wrong and right seems out of reach and out of touch I turn to the old poems ..the ones I read when I was young..and here is one today..anna

Sonnet 29 William Shakespeare

When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

ANNA: thank you for reminding us how good Shakespeare is.

Joan K! I was curious about your quote. And I looked up David Bader and I see it is from Haikus for Jews that he wrote. Must be super fun to read.

~Marj

Well since my dearest friend when I was young and now another special one is Jewish ..OY is familiar to me...and when I read it ..makes me smile ..for lots of reasons...anna

Marj and Anna: actually, the quote is from another book he wrote: "Zen Judaism". They are both a lot of fun. When I find my copy of "Haikus for Jews", I'll post some (but that may take awhile).

JoanK... good hunting then~

To all: Do you know about Salmonpoetry.com You can subscribe to their Poem of the Week.
I've been getting it for several years now.

SALMON PUBLISHING is based in County Clare, Ireland, half a mile
north of the world-famous Cliffs of Moher - as close as one gets to
poetry in landscape! Taking its name from the Salmon of Knowledge
in Celtic mythology, Salmon was established in 1981 with the publication of The Salmon,
a journal of poetry and prose, as an alternative voice in Irish literature.
Since then over 200 volumes of poetry have been produced, and Salmon has become one of the most
important publishers in the Irish literary world. In 2002, Salmon celebrated 21 years of literary
publishing with a series of nationwide poetry readings.
By specialising in the promotion of new poets, Salmon has enriched Irish literary
publishing and now has the most
representative list of women poets in Ireland.

Here is the one I just received:
POEM OF THE WEEK No. 166 | Monday 10th February, 2004

'Modern Love' by Mary Coll
From Mary's first collection: 'All Things Considered'

Tonight, come courting me
like you have something to lose,
like my father courted my mother.
Shift uneasily on the doorstep
waiting for footfalls on the lino,
swallow hard as the lock turns interminably,
and when I finally stand there
in the faint hallway light, look nervous.
Your certainty bores me,
the weight of your arm on my shoulder,
the way you bound upstairs,
that spare razor waiting by my sink,
too many prescriptions accurately compounded.
Once I would like you to hesitate,
to call beforehand just to make sure,
to cut out the hand-brake turns, and walk,
just walk over here with a packet of toffees
in your overcoat pocket.

thank you for the site and this poem. it's lovely.

Marj: what a wonderful resource. Thanks.

AND I love that poem..I understand her need for a bit of spontenity ...not to be taken for granted...but then smile and think if he did that she might wish it otherwise...anna

I hope there are those of you that are basking in the sun...here they are predicting SNOW ..the only thing that cheers me it is FEB 11 and surely my crocus will smile for me and the birds return to my feeders..but I was reminded of a poem I wrote in 2001 and am sharing it here....anna

Winter is a stone

Winter is a stone around my neck The dark days pull me down My step is slow as I trod The bleak and frigid ground

The sun ,softened by trees in leaf In summer's bluer sky, now Burn the sky and etch with fire The bleak branches on the bough

My spirit sags and bends low It hunkers down to catch the heat From my little stove and wraps A robe and snuggles in a leather seat

Yet even as I mourn and grieve For spring I know some day When I return from a winter walk A golden crocus will light my way

From my second floor I see The dogwood, leaves and berries gone, Clutches tight wrapped buds who Come spring will welcome the robins song

Then this stone will lift from my heart This winter will be past And my spirit lighter, brighter Will fly a flag from my souls mast

anna alexander 1/6/2001 ©

Oh that resonates with me Anna. That last line is great.

 

"And my spirit lighter, brighter  
Will fly a flag from my souls mast"    

I feel like that this morning.  Even tho it is bitter cold  
the sun is shining and I could feel warm on my face 
 when I returned from errands.  We also have snow 
 predicted for later.

Since spring seems just around the corner as see by a few buds in my garden, I thought about this poem of Emily Dickinson that reflects that thought:

Winter under cultivation

Is as arable as Spring.

~ Emily Dickinson (undated)

I appreciate each and every thought , you've mastered how I feel about wintering in Maine.

Thank you from the bottom of my cold icey heart. <grin>

Sorry sometimes I become giggly...I am glad the poem resonates with you..I thought of it today when the weatherman predicted snow..and Scrawler ..I understand only too well what ED is saying...Have you ever marveled how just one of her two line poems carries a book full of understanding???anna

Oh my I am glad it means something to you but cant spring show a peek at what she holds in store for us...I did see a few birds in my back yard near the feeders this am...not sure but it looked like a downy woodpecker...which usually keeps me company in winter...EVERYONE to whom I have mentioned the dearth of birds this year all say YES I NOTICED IT TOO>..we decided the birds were smarter ,.,they went south ..far far south for winter...anna

we have many feathered friends, and I start feeding them the day we move from the cottage to our winter rental home on Nov. 1st. I have one of those feeders that really is squirrel proof....and we refill it every 3 weeks. We get chickadees (state bird here in Maine), tufted titmice, nuthatch, and a few house finch. I miss seeing the downy woodpecker that we used to see in Ct. Yesterday I bought raisin flavor suet (double yuck) to see if that entices the woodpecker to return.

I'd like to be a smart bird next winter and go to Sanibel in Florida, but the hubby is happy here - for now! VBG

We have just waved cheerio to friends from Austria, England and Australia who have been with us for the past two and a half weeks.

Our little fledgling birds are growing up now that summer is indeed moving along. Our starling boxes have been well inhabited .. such good parents seeing that their offspring are well fed and cared for. The swallows still continue to daintily flit from place to place to find a secure and comfortable lodging place.

I am reminded too that it is leap year and all sorts of thoughts tumble through my mind .. visions of maidens on bended knee?

And of course St Valentine's Day is imminent. Reading John Clare's poems and thinking about his sad life brings me to one of the many he wrote whilst in an asylum. (Something that I feel should never have happened.) But here is one that perhaps we can relate to St Valentine.

THE LOVER'S INVITATION

Now the wheat is in the ear, and the rose is on the brere,
The blue-caps so divinely blue, with poppies of bright scarlet hue,
Maiden, at the close o' eve, wilt thou, dear, thy cottage leave,
And walk with one that loves thee?

When the even's tiny tears bead upon the grassy spears,
And the spider's lace is wet with its pinhead blebs of dew,
Wilt thou lay thy work aside and walk by brook-lets dim descried,
Where I delight to love thee?

While thy footfall lightly press'd tramples by the skylark's nest
And the cockle's streaky eyes mark the snug place where it lies,
Mary, put thy work away and walk at dewy close o'day
With me to kiss and love thee.

John Clare 1793 - 1864

ANNA: what a lovely poem. It captures exactly how I feel about February. A friend told me today that she cried when she realized that it is leap year and we will have one more day of it than usual.

I love to hear about your feeders. I haven't been able to feed the birds the last few years for various reasons and I miss them -- the nuthatches especially. If I bundled up and sat on the deck very still, they would crawl right over me.

But also lovely to hear about summer. You have starling houses in New Zealand? Here they are considered pest birds. Did you know that starlings are in the United States because of Shakespeare? A rich man decided he would import to the United States all the birds that are mentioned in Shakespeare. The skylarks and nightengales all died out, leaving only starlings and house sparrows. Those have increased to the point where they have become a problem.

As many times as I've heard the story above, I never looked to see where Shakespeare mentioned starlings. But thanks to GOOGLE, here it is. Sorry, it's not a poem.

"Due to the starling’s ability to mimic human speech Shakespeare chose to include the bird in Henry IV, “The king forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer. But I will find him when he is asleep, and in his ear I’ll holler ‘Mortimer!’ Nay I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak nothing but Mortimer, and give it to him to keep his anger still in motion.” It is the only instance in his life work where Shakespeare mentions starlings". The link below tells the story

As many times as I've heard the story above, I never looked to see where Shakespeare mentioned starlings. But thanks to GOOGLE, here it is.

"Due to the starling’s ability to mimic human speech Shakespeare chose to include the bird in Henry IV, “The king forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer. But I will find him when he is asleep, and in his ear I’ll holler ‘Mortimer!’ Nay I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak nothing but Mortimer, and give it to him to keep his anger still in motion.” It is the only instance in his life work where Shakespeare mentions starlings". The link below tells the story.

http://www.donwesley.com/history.html

Anna, a lovely poem, would like to place it on my Journal. Just noticed buds on the lilac bushes. Also the thorn apples that have been waiting on the tree for the Robins are starting to disappear which may mean Robins, but also may mean geese or squirrels. Spring is always such a welcome sight for me. The sun was still shining after 5 pm today.

Hello Anna .. good to be back again and enjoying the great poems coming through.

Yes Joan we do have starling boxes in New Zealand. Starlings were first introduced in 1862 and for some time were considered quite a pest until the farmers discovered that the starling was keeping the numbers of the grass grub (a bigger pest) down. So now to encourage the starlings, nest boxes can be seen in many places around the rural areas. We seldom see them only when they pop in and out of their little homes.

On Kawau Island where I lived for 30 years before coming over to Warkworth on the mainland here (quite close really to the island), we were very close to the seabirds, the little blue penguins and the native birds .. Tuis, Fantails, White eyes, Bell birds and other native species. Lots of chaffinches, house sparrows, miners too. ..

Good Day-

John Clare's love poem is certaily passionate, filled with yearning. I must read about him.

And Scrawler, that Emily two liner speaks volumes. I do like it . I see winter drear out my window this morning. Tho, if I look at the front maple I can see the swelling of the buds and a tint of redness in anticipation.

~Marj

Thank you one and all for the "tweet" report on what is near and dear to your birdfeeders. I want to thank Scrawler too, I wrote down the ED and will use it for a bookmark to remind me that winter CAN cultivate something. I am thinking of driving an hour away to a big greenhouse (for Maine, that is) and enjoying all the greenery and the sweet smell of soil. Might buy an orchid to tide me over - will leave the car running so as not to shock the poor thing. There is only one kind of phal. that I buy, it keeps the bloom for almost 4 months.

Cabin Fever I used to raise orchids and loved them all since they gave me beauty for a long period of time... With all the "tweet" reports I decided to google and find some bird poetry..found one that posted old Australian poems...I loved this one and Bell Birds are another name for water birds..hope you enjoy it too..anna

There are many beautiful poems about our native birds.
In Gippsland, where I come from bell birds are also known as "water birds".

Bell Birds

By channels of coolness the echoes are calling, And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling; It lives in the mountain, where moss ad the sedges Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges: Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers Struggles the light that is love to the flowers, And softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing, The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.

The silver voiced bell-birds, the darlings of day-time, They sing in September their songs of the May-time. When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle, They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle; When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together, They start up like fairies that follow fair weather, And straightway the hues of the feathers unfolden And the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.

October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses, Loiters for love in these cool windernesses, Loiters knee-deep in the grasses to listen, Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten. Then is the time when the water-moons splendid Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the morning.

Welcome as waters, unkissed by the summers Are the voices of bell-birds to thirsty far-comers. When fiery December sets foot in the forest, And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest, Pent in the ridges for ever and ever, The bell-birds, direct him to spring and to river, With ring and with ripple, like runnels whose torrents Are turned by the pebbles and leaves in the currents.

Often I sit looking back to a childhood Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood, Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of passion -- Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest rafters; So I might keep in the city and alleys The beauty and strengths of the deep mountain valleys, Charming to slumber the pain of my losses With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.

© Henry Kendall

ANNA: what a wonderful wonderful poem. I'm going to keep that one.

The birdwatcher in me takes over. Does anyone know what species the bell-bird is?

For all you lovers out there in honor of Valentine's Day:

Love is like rain

It starts as drizzle

A fine rain falling steadily

Then it begins to pour

Rain coming down in heavier doses

A great raindrop hits you hard

A heavy rain - washes over your head

And down the sides of your neck

And if you're not careful you'll drown.

~ Anne M. Ogle

I found this on google, it has sound effects that really really do sound like a bell. Very interesting - now I wish we had bellbirds. Sigh-<g>

http://home.iprimus.com.au/punkclown/Punkclown/Bellbird.htm

Scrawler, that's a lovely poem, thanx a bunch.

I am not too sure about the Bellbird species in Australia .. I think that they are certainly related to the New Zealand Bellbird.

Anthornis melanora melanora (Makomako .. maori name). They are found here in native and exotic forests, orchards and gardens where they can find the nectar, fruits and insects which form their diet. They are very much treasured here in New Zealand .. their dawn song so sweet and pure .. becoming a little louder during the daytime. One can often mistake the song of the Tui for the Bellbird but the Tui although so beautiful in song too can often utter little guttural sounds in between his songs which doesn't happen with the Bellbird. I don't think the Bellbird is as plentiful in numbers now and I hope that they don't become endangered. He is about 20cm in size and is recognised by the downward curve of his beak and shallow fork in his tail .. his colouring is of different russet shades with almost black top feathers on his wings and tail.

I have always considered the Bell bird native to New Zealand .. we do have some different subspecies and I certainly feel tthat he is related to the Australian Bellbird.

The Tui is another native of New Zealand .. his clear singing voice is heard in many gardens forests where there is access to the fruit and nectar he needs. His distinctive appearance has caused him to be referred to as the Parson Bird .. because of his almost black feathers and the clutch of white feathers on his throat. He is quite territorial and is more aggressive towards other birds that the gentle little Bellbird.

Sorry to ramble on but I know that there is always wonderful interest in birds of another country by birdlovers. I'm wondering now if I can find a poem for the Tui.

I went back to google and typed in "tui bird of New Zealand" and found a treasure trove of info - but have not been able to make the sound work. Have to get my hubby working on that.

In the spring and summer you will hear me talking often of the loons that we have on our lake. The 3 calls they do are so hauntingly beautiful. When we have summer are you busy doing winter then?

Since I cant hear I dont even have sound hooked up....and I cant hear the birds in my yard...and I do miss them...I know when there is a woodpecker only by seeing one..and I am told we have an owl in our yard and the doves of course used to coo...none are available for me...but I do love to hear everyone speak about them ..reminds me when I could hear them...and I am glad I have that memory....anna

Thank you scrawler for that poem. So true.

What a wonderful voice that bellbird has and I love having all that information. I wait the tui bird eagerly.

I havent found a good recording of a loon's cry. But here is a poem about it. Since the book is for sale, I link it, rather than copying it.

Oops' this is the wrong link. This has rather bad loon sound on it. Back in a moment with the poem.

http://www.ns.ec.gc.ca/wildlife/loons/images.html

Hello Anna .. I'm so enjoying these posts. Yes Cabinfever we do have winter when you have your summer. We are a little subtropical here in the North .. we never see snow and have hardly any frosts but we can have some very wet spells. And Cabin Fever I was delighted to read of your Loons. I was sent some years ago by a Canadian friend a beautiful limited edition print of "The Loon" by Sue Coleman. I just love it and it hangs above my bed along with the copy of a Japanese silk print of a lovely pigeon given to me by my son many years ago.

Reading again some of John Clare's poems I think this one is quite touching. He wrote this one too whilst in an asylum .. so sad but being there didn't stop him writing some of his most lovely poetry.

MY FAMILY HOME

Here sparrows build upon the trees,
And stockdove hides her nest;
The leaves are windowed by the breeze
Into a calmer rest.
The black-cap's song was very sweet,
That used the rose to kiss;
It made the Paradise complete,
My early home was this.

The red-breast from the sweet briar bush
Dropt down to pick the worm;
On the horse chestnut sang the thrush,
O'er the house where I was born.
The moonlight, like a shower of pearls,
Fell o'er this 'bower of bliss',
And on the bench sat boys and girls,
My early home was this.

The old house stooped just like a cave,
Thatched o'er with mosses green,
Winter around the walls would rave,
But all was calm within.
The trees are here all green agen,
Here bees the flowers still kiss,
But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then;
My early home was this.

John Clare

It was in the years which followed his death that John Clare was recognised as the finest and most subtly convincing of the English rural poets. He must have felt great yearnings for his early home.

Another wonderful poem.

Here, I hope, is the poem about the loon's cry.

http://www.midlist.org/showbook.cfm?booknum=571

A Supermarket in California
Allen Ginsberg

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for

I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache

self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went

into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families

shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the

avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what

were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,

poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery

boys.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the

pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans

following you, and followed in my imagination by the store

detective.

We strode down the open corridors together in our

solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen

delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in

an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?

(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the

supermarket and feel absurd.)

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love

past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?

Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,

what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and

you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat

disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Berkeley, 1955

Wow, that bell bird does sound like a bell tinkling.

That poem is really neat about them.

I have always been entranced by loons when I would hear them in upper MIchigan.

Petrarca: Love Sonnets Back in the 1300's, before card stores and chocolate manufacturers all conspired to commercialize the true spirit of love, passion, and romance, Francesco Petrarca literally wrote the book on infatuation. The collection of Italian verses, "Rime in vita e morta di Madonna Laura" (after 1327), translated into English as "Petrarch's Sonnets," were inspired by Petrarch's unrequited passion for Laura, his true love. http://italian.about.com/library/weekly/aa021600a.htm

I sure did not know about him. This was in a newsletter I received.

Tho, let us not give up on birds. Scrawler, I'm glad you can imagine their sounds.

Marj

A love poem seems just the thing...

Edmund Spenser

[One day I wrote her name upon the strand]

One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey. Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay A mortal thing so to immortalize! For I myself shall like to this decay, And eek my name be wiped out likewise. Not so (quoth I), let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name; Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew.

Marjorie , Marj, Scrawler, Cabin Fever and Mal and I hope I havent missed anyone...been up nearly all night trying to get my Norton Anti-Virus right... I really appreciate them..There just isnt a poem I dont like. The bird poems let me know SPRING WILL COME and my birds as well. For goodness sake..I just typed that and looked out and saw a starling in my tree. Since they drape themselves over my branches like ambulance chasers or funeral directors seeing them as a rule does not make my heart leap! But today with cold weather predicted this weekend (17 degrees) I am glad to see it here.

And Love poems remind me once I was someone's Special Valentine..I have kept most of the ones he gave me over the years...among other mementos and when I come across one I hug it and smile. Once I shed a tear but now I just rejoice for the years we shared.

And Mal the poem you posted reminded me that a poet sees things differently and the most common places can inspire.

So if there is no one to say to all of you and other posters too

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY FROM ME TO YOU

That was supposed to be RED but for some reason my instructions did not work...so please THINK in color..anna

http://www.backpack-newzealand.com/birds/tui.html

And I second Scrawler's wish....HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! My definite thought is that Friends are Super Valentines.

xoxoxoxo Marj

Anna - I want to thank you so very much for bringing me to this site with all these lovely people. I feel fortunate and lucky, since Anna found me over in the weather site after my first post on SeniorNet.

I'm going to work on my bio this afternoon, because I have had such a nice time reading all of yours.

When I heard the loon tunes last night my heart went into a definate pitter-pat. I just love them. In early May they will sometimes sing for an hour or so around 3AM. I get up, make a cup of tea and go to the lake porch to enjoy them.

Tonight we are going over to the next town (Lovell Maine) -where Steven King was hit by a car while jogging along side the road) Well, anyway - we are going to a very sweet fundraiser that the library is putting on - called a "chocolate buffet." It's $5.00 per person, and that's 8 chocolate things that you can put in a box to take home - or even enjoy on the way home. The newspaper article said it was guaranteed to bring Willy Wonka to his knees. I'm all for that. (grin)

I'm going to buy something I have been wanting to for ages - now that I truly have a reason. It's a poetry book about summers and lakes. I don't know how to cut and paste (I know-I know -I'm sort of a duh!!) I will enjoy the poems first and then type them in here, I promise!!

I'm going to have a chocolate for each and every one of you tonight. Maybe - I'll have 2 for Anna.

Rosemary

I'm green with envy, Rosemary. A chocolate haul! My favorite food.

We'll look forward to your poem about summers and lakes from that book you said you will buy. What's the title.

~MARJ

now see - if I hadn't heard about blue penguins - I never would have found this.

http://www.penguins.co.nz/webcams/index.html

I think Mancunian Marjorie said she had some under her porch - and hears them too. The web cam of the breakwater reminded me that it is night in NZ and Feb. 14th already. Happy Heart Day to you too Marjorie !!

I subscribe to the New York Times Book Review - and already have the Feb. 15th issue that will be in the NYT this coming Sunday, the 15th. There is an article written by Terrence Rafferty on the new John Clare Biography, written by Jonathan Bate.

"I am - yet what I am, none cares or knows" is the first line of John Clare's most famous poem, and a more irresistable invitation to a biographer would be difficult to imagine. Jonathan Bate, an English academic, has responded with a fat tome that lays out a fair amount of what's known about this strange and wonderful writer's life, and - almost in spite of itself - makes us care. Clare, unlike his Romantic contemporaries Byron, Shelley and Keats, lived to the ripish old age (70), but the long tale "John Clare:A Biography" tells is at least as sad as their foreshortened ones, because he spent better than a third of his span in lunatic asylums - where on a good day he might turn out a lyric as starkly beautiful as "Lines: I Am," and on a bad day might cover pages and pages with stanzas from his own "Don Juan" and "Childe Harold," under the delusion that he was in fact Lord Byron.

Although Clare died in the obscurity of a madhouse, he had once been famous. In 1820, his first volume, whose title page read "Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery, by John Clare, a Northamptonshire Peasant," sold out its first printing, went back to press three times before the year was out, and made him, for a while, a literary celebrity. In the Romantic era, when nature was an object of reverence, a rustic bard like Clare was a highly marketable commodity. Whatever the 19th-century rural equivalent of street cred was, he had it. He was born in a small village called Helpston, raised by a farm-laborer and an illiterate mother, and schooled sporadically; until the time of his unlikely success as a poet, he had earned his meager living by casual, seasonal agricultural work and such humble trades as lime burning, and soldiering. He liked to compose rhymes in his head when he was out in the fields , and would write them down later, if he could find any paper. If he couldn't, Bate's tells us, he would sometimes peel bark off trees and write his verses on that. How authentic can you get?

(to be continued later)

CABIB FEVER: thank you, thank you for the penguins. They are as lovable as I thought they would be. Ever since i read about the wonderful blue penguins in your biography, MARJORIE, I've wondered about them. I've told all my friends about them, and you have a little knot of little-blue-penguin lovers here in Maryland.

Truly you all are right. Good friends are the best valentine.

Does anyone mind if I post these great bird links in our birdwatching discussion?

CABIN FEVER, my sister and her retired English professor husband live in Franklin, Maine not altogether far from Ellsworth. Their three daughters live in Lubec. One of them was an M.D. in Bangor for a while. Our roots are in Maine. Our grandfather had a farm in Brooks where our father and aunts and uncles grew up. My former husband's grandfather owned a dairy farm in Unity and was in the Maine State Legislature. We spent a lot of time at his camp at Unity Pond.

Wish I could get up there from North Carolina when the weather warms up. Is the New England Music Camp still thriving? How are the blueberry barrens doing?

Got any Maine poems, CABIN FEVER? ( I can see the reason for your name! )

Mal

To all the wonderful posts...BLue Penguins, a bio of John Clare..and a Chocolate buffet ..and a promise I shall have two!!!!!!!!!!!PLEASE let me know how that buffet works..Several local organizations I belong to are always trying to think of a new ways and means project..and this one sounds like my cup of cocoa!!!

I have ALWAYS known chocolate was a mood enhancer..every since I scoured my cupboards for a bit of chocolate and found in a back corner about 5 grey chocolate chips and devoured like a starving person..there must be poem somewhere about chocolate...and Blue penguins...I love those cam sites...back later I have a half gallon of chocolate rainbow ice crean ( 5 different kinds of chocolate) I think I will have a bit and think of everyone here...will look up a chocolate poem...anna

Oh yes the little blue penguin was very much a part of my life on Kawau Island. Indeed I can only assume that we were the only ones to have a little blue penguin share our bed .. unbeknown to us .. he/she toddled into our house (our doors and windows were never shut so as to allow our little dog and cats to come and go) .. the little fellow found a way into the base of our bed and remained there .. coming in and out without ever being noticed until one morning Dasha and Mitzi became extremely agitated around the bed. So it was that we had to start keeping doors shut at night. He/she was so cozy in that bed .. I developed a kind of guilt feeling having to deprive such a lovely little being the privilege of such comfort.

I was so pleased that John Clare has roused so much interest. I have always felt such regard for his works and sadness for how his life ended. As has been said, his 'Asylum Poems' are a moving testimony to an original mind unfettered by the demands of literary fashion.

FOR VALENTINE'S DAY .. here are two love quotations

Love is life's end (an end, but never ending)
All joys, all sweets, all happiness awarding;
Love is life's wealth
(ne'er spent, but ever spending)
More rich by giving, taking by discarding;
Love's life's reward, rewarded in rewarding;

Then from thy wretched heart fond care remove,
Ah, should thou live but once love's sweets to prove
Thou wilt not love to live unless thou live to love.

ANONYMOUS from 'Brittains Ida' 1628

I couldn't resist this one ....

"There is always something left to love. And if you ain't learned that, you ain't learned nothing.
Lorraine Hansberry (1930 - 1965)

Lots of joy and love to you on this Valentine's Day.

am back from the chocolate buffet, we just enjoyed ourselves to the enth degree. We took our little 85 yr. old friend that owns the summer cabin next to us on the pond. It really is a marvelous idea for a fundraiser. I think the Friends of the Library worked long and hard in their own kitchens baking and whipping up these delicacies. It's a very small library, old colonial home - complete with fireplace and 2 large rooms for books - with the children's room downstairs. They had 2 long banquet (pulled together) tables filled with scrumptious things that you had to pick from. You'd first walk down one side , cross over - and then pick more goodies from the other side. I have to tell you what there was before I forget - choc. chip cookies, 3 or 4 kinds of brownies, 3 different kinds of WARM chocolate bread pudding, choc. toffee squares, choc. ice cream cookies (home made whoopie pies) chocolate haystacks, chocolate cheesecake (2 different kinds) chocolate pound cake....you name it - it was there.

The event was from 6:30 - 8:30 - and we arrived about 6:45. It was $5.00 per person - and that entitled you to 10 different kinds of things. The people that had attended the last two choc. buffets brought their own bakery trays with covers - so that it would be easier to transport home. Pretty smart cookies - I will know better next year. When you pay your admission fee - you are given a voting slip - and you are requested to vote for your 3 top choices and leave the slip in a basket on the table. The winners are announced in next weeks newspaper. The voting was easy - choc. bread pudding, choc. cheese cake and my #3 was a fudge that melted down your throat. Everything on the table was marked with the name of the dessert and a number.

Everyone was having a lovely time, and you heard, Oh my goodness, and M-m-m-m-m-m and wow a lot.

Anna , I will email you the article that was in our newspaper that got my attention and made me want to get over my cold and get the heck over to this choc. event. It's a wonderful way to raise money, I think, I saw many people there, coming and going.

Now - I've got to find some club soda, maybe a tums and get over this.

Oh my!!! My chocolate buds are screaming "feed me, feed me"!! But it's late at night. and there's no chocolate in the house. I'm going to ransack my cupboards.

Loved the tale of the blue penguin sleeping in the bed. How precious.

Thanks for the choc buffet update. Fortunately I bought a bag of Hersey dark choc chips when I was shopping yesterday for my munching.

I love this board. Thanks Women Poet Buffs for the sharing.

Marj

I giggled when I found this because the poet speaks of chocolate chips!!!!!

 

Here I sit, eating chocolate chips. 
To quit eating chocolate, I need more than tips. 
There are so many kinds of chocolate, it's hard to choose. 
No matter which one you pick, you just can't lose.   

There is milk chocolate, sweet chocolate, and semi-sweet. 
I really like dark chocolate!  It's such a treat!!! 
There is also mint chocolate & white chocolate -- I'm not through! 
There is cereal, cake, cookies, candy, pudding, pie & ice cream too.   

Chocolate tastes so rich, and sweet, and sometimes smooth. 
It can help make you feel better, or help your heartache sooth. 
There are many chocolate drinks.  Have some, just for fun -- 
cappuccino, chocolate milk, mocha & cocoa -- try more than one!   

Is chocolate as good as a hug, or a pat on the back? 
What if I'm out of chocolate, when I have my next attack??!! 
I could just imagine that I'm eating chocolate, I suppose. 
If I eat lots of chocolate all day long, would I overdose?   

Where would I go... what would I ever do... without chocolate? 
Nothing can compare.  Not even one word rhymes with chocolate! 
Do I take it for granted that I can always get more? 
I could eat chocolate candies, by the score!   

Is chocolate something to fear -- is it really a curse? 
Is it something to be avoided, or is it much worse? 
Or... is chocolate the eighth wonder?  Is it a total delight? 
Something you savor for so long?  Or love with all your might?   

by Kay Sullivan 
http://www.virtualchocolate.com/chocolatemuse/chocolatepoem1.cfm

I'm not loving chocolate quite as much as I did yesterday. Think I may have had too many pcs. for Anna .

Thank you so much for the choc. poem, Marj - it made me smile loudly.

Here is the continuation of the article written by Terrence Rafferty in the Feb 15th issue of the New York Times Book Review. (John Clare- A Biography, by Jonathan Bate)

Clare might easily have remained unknown to the world: just another flower born to blush unseen, as Gray's elegy had it. But once he was discovered - plucked from the roadside, repotted and given plenty of sunlight by his London publishers - his child- of- nature persona virtually guaranteed that he would flourish, at least for a season. As Bate's welcome new anthology, " 'I Am': The Selected Poetry of John Clare," demonstrates, the early verse that made Clare a star was mostly no better than skillful apprentice work, more conventional and far less confident than his mature poetry. But it was apparent from the start that this poet looked at the natural world rather differently from his Romantic brethren. When Clare went out on a solitary ramble in the fields around his home, he came back not with visions of the sublime but with excuisitely precise images of birds and animals and trees and flowers, and news about changes in the weather. Intimations of mortality were good enough for him.

Clare never presumes to apostrophize nature, as Shelley does: "Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert,"

and so on. Clare's skylark is, irreducibly, a bird - and always was. His skylark poem, which appeared in his last, and best collection, "The Rural Muse" (1835), is about survival. Clare is less interested in the skylark's song than in its nest, which, he tells us rests

"upon the ground where anything/ May come at to destroy";

(after distracting a bunch of marauding boys with some singing and aerial acrobatics, the wily bird returns to the ground, where

"its low nest moist with the dews of the morn/ Lies safely with the leveret in the corn."

You might suspect some irony in a concept like that - a literally down-to-earth skylark - but Clare was not a man of conspicuously ironic temperament. (This is one of the reasons that his later attempts to imitate "Don Juan" seem so daft.) If anything, he identified himself too wholeheartedly with the natural phenomena he observed, sometimes even writing an entire poem in the voice of a ladybug, say, or a field. His obsession with nests - about which he wrote an almost unseemly number of poems - is unique and revealing. He was such a fanatical nester himself that the move from the cottage in which he was born to another, just three miles away, may have been a contributing factor to his madness. In the poem that commemorates that relocation, you can hear him beginning to give way to the "none cares or knows" sort of alienation that characterizes his later work, and to a chronic, incurable nostalgia, which in this poem he still has the self-awareness to be a little sheepish about: "I dwell on trifles like a child,/ I feel as ill becomes a man. And still my thoughts like weedlings wild Grow up to blossom where they can." The weedling thoughts that blossomed in John Clare's madness were often brilliant, in the startlingly direct manner of "Lines:I Am" or, perhaps even more disturbingly, "An Invite to Eternity",

"Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me In this strange death of life to be, To live in death and be the same Without this life or home or name."

Whew - one more section to go and we're done, hope you aren't getting bored. I just may have to have the library put this book on hold for me-when they get it.

Happy Valentine's Day one and all.

More about so much ..the blue penguin..and how appealing that is ..to have one in the house.. Over the years we have raised abandoned birds...a robin who used to sit on the rung of my ironing board while I ironed..another one or two whom I sadly have forgot..the last a mockingbird found in the curb of a street on a very hot summer day. It was really a baby and I called the wildlife museum to find out what to feed (him?) my children called him Petey so I assume he was a he...I was told to feed it tiny pieces of raw hamburger..we made a makeshift home in a cardboard box with tree branches braced inside..made a nest out of amall pieces of old clean rags, added a water dish and a piece of screening for the top..since I was the only one home I was elected MOM Petey would fly to the highest branch and open his beak as soon as he saw me hovering over his box. He survived and we kept him through the winter..in late spring I took his box outdoors and left it open..He would sit on my clothes line or any place where I would be and peep at me ..I felt so bad I really did..in about three or four days another bird was near..and he would disappear..still for the rest of that summer whenever I was out hanging up clothes a mockingbird would appear and sit on the clothes line and chrip at me...funny how a bird can inspire a lovely and warm memory ..it is like a lost love...

Then the chocolate one WOW ..I am going to mention this to the organizations I belong to...even our church could do this...I wonder if we could provide a square paper plate and then plastic wrap for the buyers?

I feel sure I would quickly spend my 5 dollars...by the way I have a wonderful recipe for Meringue Fudge Drops I made for years ,,my daughter entered it in a county fair and took first place..anna

AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE (by Riley, James Whitcomb)

An old sweetheart of mine!---Is this her presence here with me, Or but a vain creation of a lover's memory? A fair, illusive vision that would vanish into air Dared I even touch the silence with the whisper of a prayer?

Nay, let me then believe in all the blended false and true--- The semblance of the old love and the substance of the new,--- The then of changeless sunny days---the now of shower and shine--- But Love forever smiling---as that old sweetheart of mine.

This ever-restful sense of home, though shouts ring in the hall.--- The easy chair---the old book-shelves and prints along the wall; The rare Habanas in their box, or gaunt church-warden-stem That often wags, above the jar, derisively at them.

As one who cons at evening o'er an album, all alone, And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known, So I turn the leaves of Fancy, till, in shadowy design, I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.

The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise, As I turn it low---to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes, And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke.

'Tis a fragrant retrospection,---for the loving thoughts that start Into being are like perfume from the blossom of the heart; And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine--- When my truant fancies wander with that old sweetheart of mine.

Though I hear beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings, The voices of my children and the mother as she sings--- I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream---

In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm,--- For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine.

O Childhood-days enchanted! O the magic of the Spring!--- With all green boughs to blossom white, and all bluebirds to sing! When all the air, to toss and quaff, made life a jubilee And changed the children's song and laugh to shrieks of ecstasy.

With eyes half closed in clouds that ooze from lips that taste, as well, The peppermint and cinnamon, I hear the old School bell, And from "Recess" romp in again from "Blackman's" broken line, To smile, behind my "lesson," at that old sweetheart of mine.

A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace, Floats out of my tobacco as the Genii from the vase; And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies.

I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the caress With the written declaration that, "as surely as the vine Grew 'round the stamp," she loved me---that old sweetheart of mine.

Again I made her presents, in a really helpless way,--- The big "Rhode Island Greening"---I was hungry, too, that day!--- But I follow her from Spelling, with her hand behind her---so--- And I slip the apple in it---and the Teacher doesn't know!

I give my treasures to her---all,---my pencil---blue-and-red;--- And, if little girls played marbles, mine should all be hers, instead! But she gave me her photograph, and printed "Ever Thine" Across the back---in blue-and-red---that old sweetheart of mine!
And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand, As we used to talk together of the future we had planned,--- When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do But write the tender verses that she set the music to ...

When we should live together in a cozy little cot Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine, And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine.

When I should be her lover forever and a day, And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray; And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had come.

But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair, And the door is softly opened, and---my wife is standing there: Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign,--- To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine.

Cabin Fever, thanks for the cont. excerpt from the Clare article.

And Anna, please mail me the meringue fudge drop recipe when you have time. Thanks.

John Clare's love of nature is sure exemplified in this selection.

 

"All nature has a feeling"   

All nature has a feeling: woods, fields, brooks 
Are life eternal: and in silence they 
Speak happiness beyond the reach of books; 
There's nothing mortal in them; their decay 
Is the green life of change; to pass away 
And come again in blooms revivified. 
Its birth was heaven, eternal it its stay, 
And with the sun and moon shall still abide 
Beneath their day and night and heaven wide.   

Even the frost on my house windows this Sunday morning has a feeling. 
Anna, I do not have any daffs peeking out.   

~Marj

Here is the last part of the John Clare article:

Jonathan Bates diligently and sympathetically tries to account for Clare's insanity - bipolarity is his best guess - but, retro-diagnostics aside, the real mystery of this life is how a poet who appeared so attentive to and so at ease with the mutability of nature could lapse so absolutely into the static obsession of nostalgia. Early Clare is rhapsodic; late Clare is a long lament, lightened occasionally by remembered, never immediate, pleasures. Bate has an idea: "Perhaps....he was always doomed to alienation, to a life spent between the two worlds of nature and art, dwelling and writing." But Clare's life wasn't split that way at all. Clare the man might, in fact, have been happier if he had recognized a clearer distinction between "nature" and "art," or rather between the laws that govern the birds and the beasts and the flowers and the clouds and those that govern culture and human relations. His aching, inconsolable later poems seem to proceed from his disappointment that not everything in life is cyclic, as the seasons are - that his first love, his childhood joys, his early fame will not come back like the primroses every spring. The innocence of his identification with nature was his poetry's strength, but it left him unprotected in winter.

Clare's work isn't well known in this country (until Bate's selection, the poems had been out of print here for decades), but in England it has become something of a cottage industry - the cottage in question being inhabited by a chap named Eric Robinson, who has controversially, managed to obtain the copyright on nearly all of Clare's 3,500 or so poems, and issued them in editions that faithfully reproduce the miserable spelling and nonexistent punctuation of the writer's manuscripts. It's like 1820 all over again, the Northamptonshire peasant poet sprung from the earth to gladden the hearts of nature worshipers and class warriors. Even his champions sometimes appear neither to know nor to care what this poetry is about. Bate frequently lapses into critical inanity when he discusses the work:

"And he finds the words to transform the ordinary into something magical" - is fairly typical. And this biography's final, awe-struck judgment on its unhappy subject is that he was "without question the greatest laboring-class poet England ever gave birth to."

Here in the New World, we're less astonished by the existence of unschooled "laboring-class" poets, although we tend to encounter them on discs rather than on the printed page. Clare's work might be understood best, in fact, by those who can hear in it the sort of deceptively simple music we know from the likes of A

Carter, Jimmie Rodgers, Skip James, Robert Johnson and Johnny Cash, all of them in thrall to their muse. Clare was, at heart, a ballad singer, the practioner of a mournful and ecstatic art. One of his lovliest and most disconsolate poems, "Decay : A Ballad," is constructed around the refrain - "O poesy is on the wane" (he means his own, as well as the art in general); and the sentiment expressed there is exactly the one that animates Bob Dylan's great elegy "Blind Willie McTell," whose refrain goes : "I know no one can sing the blues like Blind Willie McTell." There was a time, I think it's fair to say, when no one sang the blues like mad John Clare.

finito

I'll be back later today folks - it's a beautiful sunny day here, and I want to do a little more on my cross-stitch project while the sun is a partner.

I had to smile last night just before I retired for the night - was thinking of chocolate and blue penguins at the same time. An afghan had fallen off at the foot of the bed, and our kitty was all curled up in it - only a bit of her tail exposed. I thought - gee, if I was in New Zealand - that could be one of thos sweet little penguins.

Have spent more time than you will ever know looking at that web cam - waiting-waiting-waiting....<grin>

Mal - I know where Unity and Lubec are , we attend an annual fall fair in Unity.

Marj thanks so much for posting that poem..to me he captures the essence of NATURE..and Cabin Fever I have ...read every word you have kindly posted or us...I started to say enjoyed but it is more than that. There was a line his biographer used ..The innocence of his identification with nature was his poetry's strength, but it left him unprotected in winter. Again I cant say I loved that line but I understand it too well.

I am not sure my daffs will fare well since again the temperature is supposed to drop dramatically and we may get snow again ..as much as 3 inches..I fear my lilacs will not fare well ..these brief spikes in temperature confuses the plants..I am trusting the birds know something we dont know..they are returning to my feeders ..not a robin yet but birds I have not seen all winter. I am told this is the coldest winter we have endured in 25 years and I am convinced that is true.

Will return later with a poem..I need to go out while the sun is shining and get some milk for next week. I dont want to be stuck indoors by icy roads and have no milk..I drink a lot of it ..skim ..have for years.. have a great day...hugs across the miles..anna

PS alas I read last night on the news that chocolate may be a thing of the past >>I am not sure but I think it has something to do with a cocoa bean blight..

Oh My God..................

No---- not a cocoa bean blight.

I'll have to hoard some this week. Can you imagine what will happen to the price?

~Marj

Here it tells about it. Apparently it is not new.

http://www.orlandosentinel.com/entertainment/columnists/bal-te.journal10feb10,0,7508273.column?coll=orl-home-headlines

Who among us will pen the plight of the cocoa bean blight!

Cocoa bean blight. I came on to give you some chocolate history, and here this?? No, no.

My son-in-law, Kevin Mills and his mother, Nancy Mills wrote a chocolate cookbook called "Chocolate on the Brain." Before each recipe, Kevin wrote a little bit of chocolate history. Here are summaries of some early entries.

 
1500-400B.C. The Olmacs of central America are the first to domesticate the cacao plant and turn it into a drink. 

AD 250-900. In the Mayans, chocolate is reserved for the rich. They are buried with their chocolate. 

1375-1521. The Aztecs use cacao beans as money. But counterfeit beans are a real problem. 

1502 “Columbus is the first European to discover chocolate but doesn’t realize it.” He comes across a bag of chocolate, but has his men throw it overboard. As Kevin writes “This cements Columbus’s reputation as the Mr. Magoo of world explorers. First he misses India by 10,00 miles, and now this”. 

“1502 The Axtec emperor Montezuma sets the standard for all future chocoholics. He drinks 50 cups of chocolate beverage each day, has 960 million cacao beans in his treasury, and sends runners into the mountains to retrieve fresh snow for his chocolate ices. And when he conquers a new territory, he demands tribute in cacao beans. It’s one thing to pig out on chocolate, but when you start invading other countries to feed your habit, its time to check into rehab”. 

And I thought I was a chocoholic!!! Chocolate in Europe tomorrow.

it's 14 degrees BELOW zero here this morning, might get all the way up to 10 degrees for a high. I'm thinking of renting a temperature-controlled storage unit to hoard MY chocolate. Makes sense being buried with chocolate, my husband has jokingly (?) said that he wants to be buried with his pute mouse.

When I took to heavy drink...that it would someday be blessed with knowledge of how good it was for you..the cocoa from my youth , simmered on a woodstove in the kitchen of my home. Each morn my mother, ahead of her times sent us out with a bowls of hot oatmeal, hot cocoa and toasted bread in the oven laden with splotches of dark cinnamon..reminds me of the giraffe's sleek and spotted fur..We in our innocence just though it tasted good...How did we know oatmeal was good for the heart , cocoa the same and cinnimon lowered blood sugar levels of the diabetic! Will have to remember what else my mother gave us all those many years ago...sorry dear posters...your posts made me smile ....but I do have a poem share ..from the Atlantic Monthly of the year 1995...smiles to all and since the temperature did sink low and I have huddled by the fire...I will immediately have a cup of hot cocoa and cinnamnon toast...and you do too.anna By the way I chose this poem because this cold winter morn made me recall the times I visited my relatives who lived on farms. I am sorry my children and grandchildren wont know what I learned and felt those many years ago...

DAYBREAK

by Floyd Skloot

The shapes that moved outside our door tonight were four deer come to feed on the last winter weeds. The riot of their flight seemed to echo through the dark when I left my bed to see them.

Now the valley sends its voices up through morning mist. Cows low, the sheep farmer's old border collie barks as she herds strays, and the southbound freight is an hour late. Where our hillside plummets, a fringe of feathery wild grasses webbed with frost bends as though lost in prayer.

My wife built this house round because a clear loop of moonlight found the space for her early on a morning like this. She woke in her down sleeping bag under a canopy of second growth to hear great horned owls call from oaks creaking in a sudden surge of wind. When she sat up, there was a deer standing exactly where a dowser had told her the well should go.

Sorry about my last post. I was in a hurry and didn't check to see what wierd thing html did to it. I'm going to try to post it again.

 
1500-400B.C. The Olmacs of central America are the first to  

domesticate the cacao plant and turn it into a drink. 

AD 250-900. In the Mayans, chocolate is reserved for the rich. They are buried with their chocolate. 

1375-1521. The Aztecs use cacao beans as money. But counterfeit beans are a real problem. 

1502 “Columbus is the first European to discover chocolate but doesn’t realize it.” He comes 

 across a bag of chocolate, but doesn’t recognize it and has his men throw it overboard. As Kevin 

 writes “This cements Columbus’s reputation as the Mr. Magoo of world explorers. First he 

 misses India by 10,00 miles, and now this”. 

“1502 The Axtec emperor Montezuma sets the standard for all future chocoholics. He drinks 50 

 cups of chocolate beverage each day, has 960 million cacao beans in his treasury, and sends  

runners into the mountains to retrieve fresh snow for his chocolate ices. And when he conquers a  

new territory, he demands tribute in cacao beans. It’s one thing to pig out on chocolate, but when  

you start invading other countries to feed your habit, its time to check into rehab”.

ANNA: we were posting at the same time. A lovely poem. Even though we live in the burbs, the deer still follow a path up the creek in back of my house, and sometimes one sleeps in our back yard. Most years I have heard the great horned owl giving his courting cry in February (a true valentine's day bird). This year he was silent.

What imagery- I like that poem, Anna.

Aren't the choc facts just amazing. And the accompanying quips are fun, JoanK

 

Marj

I went looking for poems about deer and found this one.

from Three Poems for Deer
by Tim McNulty

Three mornings now, fresh tracks in the snow where the deer's trail crosses mine. Just a little earlier than me, I can tell. And like me they stop and look at those other tracks-- their loitering prints almost show the large ears leaning forward as they sniff.

A browsed cedar shrub, freshly nipped salal. Where do they go and why such regular hours? I'm sure we wonder about each other every morning, here where the trails cross, mingle, and slip singularly past into the same world.

ANNA you once told me you love lilacs, and I came across this poem. I wonder do you know it ?

Oxford

I see the coloured Lilacs flame
In many an ancient Oxford lane
And bright laburnum holds its bloom
Suspended golden in the noon,
The placid lawns I often tread
Are stained and carpeted with red
Where the tall chestnuts cast their flowers
To mark the fleeting April hours,
And now the crowded hawthorn yeilds
Its haunting perfume to the fields
With men and maidens hurrying out
Along Port Meadow to the Trout,
There, by the coruscating stream
To drink and gaze and gaze and dream;
An ageless dame leaves her abode
To caper down the Woodcock Road
And greet a Dean she used to know
A trifling sixty years ago.
Queer tricycles of unknown date
Are pedalled at a frightful rate
Their baskets bulge with borrowed books
Or terriers of uncertain looks.

Perpetual motion in The High
Beneath a blue and primrose sky
And cherry blossom like a cloud
Beside the traffic roaring loud,
While daffodils go dancing gold
In streets where time runs grey and old
And Poets, sweating in the throng,
Can sometimes hear a blackbird's song.
All Oxford's spires are tipped with rose
A wind full magic sweetly blows
And suddenly it seems the truth
As if the centuries of youth
Are crowding all the streets and lanes
In April when the lilac flames.

TOM LOVATT-WILLIAMS

I think the poem is fairly recent, and has overtones of "Grantchester". Would you agree? ++ Trevor

Perfect concepts of spring and bloom in the lilac poem. And I smiled big at the "ageless dame". And terriers in the bicycle baskets.

Thanks for the deer poem. Can't you just see them!!!

~Marj

Loved them both but Trevor you have my ear and heart with the lilac poem..It is new to me and since today at last is sunny , the predicted snow passed us by...and the we are promised warmer weather AT LEAST FOR THIS WEEK! I will dare to check my lilac bushes out..One was new last year a peach one ..so I am anxious to see if it has survived...................have to leave now...have a doctors appt..you all take care...and thanks so much for the poems...The lilac one made my heart sing...anna

I found this yesterday and thought you'd be interested in it.

For Poets

By Al Young

Stay beautiful

But don't stay down underground too long

Don't turn into a mole

Or a worm

Or a root

Or a stone

Come on out into the sunlight

Breathe in trees

Knock out mountains

Commune with snakes

& be the very hero of birds

Don't forget to poke your head up

& blink

think

Walk all around

Swim upstream

Don't forget to fly

"Don't forget to fly"

Good advice for all of us.

Is that a baby in the little Blue Penguin nest, or am I seeing things?

Very good advice. I am going to share a poem with you I wrote in honor of Lorrie who was a wonderful seniornet volunteer, a very special person, and a sister of my heart...She passed away and I wrote this to express how I felt..I hope you all had a chance to meet her on line. I never knew her outside this medium but the wonder of this medium is you can become the best of friends without ever meeting someone in person or hear thier voice. Ever since I read where she was dying each day came to seniornet with my heart in my mouth, afraid to hear what I knew was coming...the poem was written when we were told there was no hope and her time was limited. From the bottom of my heart here is my poem

For Lorrie

A gentle departure Is all we ask For our sister and our friend A peaceful sleep , A welcome door at the other end Memory means there is no end To what you gave For as long as we survive Memory keeps your caring ,loving spirit alive Tears we shed, they are for us Whose hearts are sore While you dear friend Embrace again the family You once lost With open arms they welcome And say Come in ..Come in For here is home.

anna alexander February 9, 2004

ohhhh, anna. what wonderful words.

How lovely, I had forgotten untill today that I had actually met Lorrie on line. It was certainly my thought how happy she would be again with her family.

Nothing Gold Can Stay. (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.

What lovely tributes

How easily it lights up. How easily it goes out. The firefly.

By Chin-je

Anna,

Your poem about Lorrie is full of beauty and thought. Thank you for sharing it.

I really didnt know what I wanted to post here since I still feel a sadness at Lorries death. I was looking for a particular poem I had written about lilacs but it must be on another disk. I did come across one I wrote after my husband died. He died in 94 but it took me awhile to recognize he was gone and this is a poem I wrote when I finally came to terms with his death..anna

Reunion
floating above earth's atmosphere touching clouds diffused with light caught in the radiant blinding glow of sun drenched might effortlessly drifting through endless sea, ethereal ectoplasm, flowing water o'er a gaseous plain spinning through space past exploding stars, whirling planets, rings of creations debris searching, dreaming of that day when wherever you are in whatever form or shape I recognize the who that was embrace and kiss the known face

anna alexander 11/1/96 all rights reserved

Thank you all for the reflective posts on Lorrie's passing. I too knew her but just a bit. A great woman.

Scrawler- that "come on out" sure made me smile.

~Marj

I thought this Japanese Haiku quite nice

 

Evening rain—  
the downrush of day  
into shadow the plot    

Autumn evening— 
yellow leaves cover 
reserved for me    

Autumn evenings have been used as symbols of death  
in haiku since Bashô’s day, but the phrase “downrush of day / into shadow” and the picture of the poet  
confronting her own gravesite lend a feeling of freshness to the image

And I have something to share..if you will go to the books and literature ( where we are located) and scroll past poetry to recipes you will find mine for the Meringue Fudge Drops. I thought perhaps that was a better place to post it ..although they are really edible poetry...

I apologize for not emailing the recipe but my email is a mess. My son in law ..a computer guru will be here next Monday and will thoughtfully spend the day trying to get everything ship shape..Now I never know whether a sent email has arrived or if it is lost .in cyber space.

Please do check out the recipe site and make a copy of the best cookies ever..anna

Lorrie is indeed blessed to have had friends like you all. I am so sorry I found Seniornet so late, and didn't have a chance to meet her.

I've finally met someone else who likes Basho --- who has even heard of him. Seniornet is wonderful!!

In the "In search of Shakespeare" discussion, this link was posted. It gives all of Shakespeare's sonnets, with scholarly comments on each.

http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/index.htm

Ok, Anna. Thanks for the recipe. I shall go find it.

~Marj

While March waits offstage to enter in...and I wait for bluer skies , for the tight buds on my azaleas to burst forth and paint the landscape scarlet against the new spring green.....and I found a poem ...anna

The afternoon is bright, with spring in the air, a mild March afternoon, with the breath of April stirring, I am alone in the quiet patio looking for some old untried illusion - some shadow on the whiteness of the wall some memory asleep on the stone rim of the fountain, perhaps in the air the light swish of some trailing gown.
- Antonio Machado, 1875-1939 Translated by Alan S. Trueblood

Oh, Anna, that is a beauty~ a touch of mystery to it. A memory, a shadow, an illusion.

Wonderful, Anna.

We all know Wordsworth's poem on Tintern Abbey. Here is a stunnung picture of it with a fragment from a Shakespeare sonnet. The "bare ruined choirs" are thought to refer to abbey ruins. (posted by Barbara St. Aubrey in the Shakespeare discussion).

http://web.uvic.ca/shakespeare/Library/SLT/life/ruinedchoirs.html

INCANDESCENT

She waits...in the darkness of morning, For his smile to light up her day. She smiles...as he shaves in the mirror, With the love that compells her to stay.

She remembers...all the hard times they've been thru, Side by side, they weathered each storm. She blushes...when he catches her watching. Feeling flushed, all tingly and warm.

She swoons...as strong arms gently enfold her, Smiling eyes light up the room. And she knows...that he'll always be with her. But their time was over too soon.

She sways...to the music they danced to, In her mind the band still plays on. And she twirls...in the kitchen with her apron, Tho the people she cooked for are all gone.

She glows...like the lamp in her bedroom, As she dreams of their time long ago. And she smiles...remembering the secrets they both shared, When they were lovers, so long, long ago.

Written by Ray Juliano 10/27/95

I do remember and remember you... funny because just the other day I wondered what happened to you and how you were doing..Ray is a wonderful poet..we exchanged poetry on seniornet on aol and I recall a lot of his poems and his story of how he wooed his wife..please know you are most welcome here....as the heading says share your own poems are those of others. I will email you the way to post your poems so they are in verse form >>It is a lovely day and I am on my way out to enjoy it since the weatherman says snow and COLD temperatures will arrive by Wednesday..OH SPRING WHERE ARE YOU ??????????????Please welcome Ray to this discussion...anna

Joan- thanks for that link. I never read that sonnet before. Perfect with the picture. Rather a desolate feeling/

Well, Hi Ray, thanks for sharing your poem with us. Lovely!

Anna--- it just ain't anything but winter here- snow overnite and dreary outside. However, my soul will entertain thoughts of softness and green.

~Marj

RAY: welcome. What a sweet poem. I look forward to many more.

Dear Annfair...I have added your new e-mail address to my address book and I did send you an e-mail. I hope you got it. A lot has happened since 1995. I was so happy to find this poetry "forum" (that's what it used to be called) and to have found you again after all this time. I am sure that a lot has happened with you as well. "Ain't it funny how time slips away" (Willie Nelson). I am happy to see that you are still writing your wonderful poetry. I never considered myself much of a poet because most of my poems rhyme and that was one of my favorites that did not rhyme too much. I haven't been doing any new writing, but my wife recently started a writer's club here in our area which meets once a month, so maybe that will motivate me to start writing again. But I have a lot of old stuff that I've finally compiled into a big loose leaf binder and encased the papers in plastic. How nice to have most of my stuff in one place and actually know where it is! I would be happy to share some of my older poems with my new friends and look forward to reading their work as well. Thank you for the warm welcome and I am glad to be back. Take care. Ciao...Ray

Let me address you first..I read your welcome and long email and wrote a response but for some reason I am having a terrible time with my email now and when I hit send I got some sort of crazy message that made no sense except my reply is gone... I will write again later from my hot mail site..I only use that to keep from getting junk mail at my out look express where I have verizon and the place that is gobbling up my replies......My son in law will be here Sunday and will spend Monday trying to fix whatever is the matter...There are days when I truly dislike computers but then I get a bonus day when an old friend arrives and says hello...welcome again ..anna

Thank you for welcoming Ray....we go back to when I first went on line and discovered seniornet on aol. I refuse to allow him to belittle his poetry in any way. Ray you must know most of the classic poets wrote in rhyme and it is again finding favor. So you are in the right place at the right time.

Ray and I in order to encourage ourselves would choose a word at random from the dictionary and give ourselves some time to come up with a poem using that word. I dont think in all those efforts we ever wrote a poem using the chosen word that was alike. It was a grand way to open your mind to how others see things...

I am looking forward to you dusting off that manuscript and sharing..and hopefully you will be inspired by your wife's writing group to write again ...anna

Ray what I beautiful poem, I enjoyed it very much and look forward to more.

With a promise of springtime...I saw some geese headed North .I wish I could have heard their cry. Would they have told me spring was near or whispered it is still far behind? This morning the air is cool and the temperature will not rise above 54 ..do I hear winter knocking at my door? The weatherman says BEWARE..for winter is still here.....anna ..well that is how I felt and I found a poem by Robert Frost that sounds like me...PLEADING for spring to come and stay awhile...let me go outdoors !

To The Thawing Wind Robert Frost

Come with rain. O loud Southwester! Bring the singer, bring the nester; Give the buried flower a dream; make the settled snowbank steam; Find the brown beneath the white; But whate'er you do tonight, bath my window, make it flow, Melt it as the ice will go; Melt the glass and leave the sticks Like a hermit's crucifix; Burst into my narrow stall; Swing the picture on the wall; Run the rattling pages o'er; Scatter poems on the floor; Turn the poet out of door.

"Turn the poet out of door." I like that last line of Robert Frost's poem. I am tired of winter and look forward to sunny days even though it is still cold.

Anna, I bet the geese were beautiful. I happened to see three robins in my yard this week.

Welcome, Ray. I am looking forward to your poetry. I very much enjoyed reading INCANDESCENT. What a lovely poem.

Like us all, the poet wanted to get out the door!

JoanK- I am reading the Tintern Abbey poem. I liked this site because it gives a synopsis of each section. Beautiful- so I thank you for mentioning it.

http://www.eiu.edu/~multilit/studyabroad/lyricalballads/wordsworth[tinternabbey].htm

Thank you, MarjV. Now I can have help understanding this beautiful poem.

My oldest daughter and her husband plus 2 dogs will be arriving for two days and I am not ready for them. Of course I have to check out this discussion to see what you are up to. While the temperature outdoors is only 50 the sun is shining ...I havent checked the forecast ...I am fearful of seeing what the coming week shall bring...

Please have a great day wherever you are...and I know when I see robins in my yard my heart sings...they are the harbingers of spring...I havent seen one yet..maybe today.......anna

Thank you MarjV. I need to study that. This has to be a poem everyone holds in their hearts.

The Frost poem is exactly what I feel. Friday, when I went out, for the first time I could smell spring. My heart did a crazy dance, and I've felt happy ever since, even though I know that our worst snowstorms often come in March.

Here, Robins are not really a sign of Spring. As a birder, I know that they often overwinter. But I still feel a lift when I see them.

Which lines speak to you the most, JoanK?

That last section where he is speaking to his sister is almost sad.

~Marj

Dear Anna...what a wonderful surprise to get your phone call the other nite. How great to hear the voice of someone you met so long ago who shares your interest in and love of poetry. Today was my first day back to work since my neck surgery. It went well, altho my first case of the day was a tough one. But I perservered and we were able to do the case. I had a couple of colonoscopies to do in the early afternoon which are short and simple, and then I was able to go home. My neck, upper back, and shoulder muscles did get real sore, but when I got home my wife was able to massage me with a high powered ointment like Ben Gay called "Sombra" and that seemed to help a lot. I got it from a chiropractor friend in Oregon and it is very effective and long lasting. Tomorrow I have a gall bladder in the early a.m. and then a few scopes in the p.m. so it shouldn't be too long of a day. I like what I do and I'm good at it, but I will be ready to hang it up when the time comes. Take care......Your friend...Ray.

MargV asks which lines of "Lines Written above Tintern Abbey" by Wordsworth speak to me most. Hard question, but it would be what the site calls Part 2:

These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:--feelings too 30 Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, 40 Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,-- Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.

The last line I love.........this has been a busy day .....and only now have I been able to even get to my computer so I have no contribution except this little note. It nearly 1am here...but my family were all here for a bean and ham dinner. It was one of my daughters in law birthday and I baked her favorite cake and added 36 candles ..LOL her children were really impressed ...and they helped her blow them out...We enjoy the fancy meals but there is something special about a simple meal. I hope everyone here had a good day...and after my daughter and her husband leave later today I will return with another poem to share. anna

I'd have to say the lines:

While with an eye made quiet by the power of HARMONY, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.

are my favorite. With emphasis on harmony! Without harmony in our lives we have nothing but chaos.

And without joy, we have nothing.

I concur. I liked this section. AND: those last lines are a marvel. I got goosebumps just reading them again.

 

Secondly , where he talks of  
"the weary weight   
Of all this unintelligible world,                       
Is lightened"   
and how that flows into the joy.   

~Marj

We have lots of winter here...at least a foot of new snow in the past few days. But then we are only about 85 miles from Sault Ste Marie Michigan and Ontario Canada. We have about 6 months of winter, then we have black fly, noseeum, and mosquito season...but we love it up here. "U-pers" are a tough lot. It really makes us appreciate our short springs, summers, and falls. People do a lot of ice fishing and cross country skiing up here where it is beautiful and pristine. We also get a lot of snowmobilers, a noisy group, but good for our economy. Every now and then one of them will run into a tree or some other immovable object and become an organ doner. Organ doners are needed too. And it keeps our little hospital viable. Anna was going to write and tell me how to post a poem in the correct format, but if anyone else out there can tell me, I would appreciate it. Thank you.

it has been a long several days as my son in law has tried to get my computer to work ...after lengthy telephone calls it seems I need a new router for my DSL ..until then I am not truly able to use this computer properly. I did find a poem..an old familiar one but it came to me as the weather man is telling us the temperature is going to go down..and I have some new growth on some of my plants and I fear I will lose them...here is the poem I chose ...and wherever there is spring is where I long to be this year...anna
Robert Browning (1812-1889) Home-Thoughts, from Abroad

Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now!

And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

No poem for now but I will be attending a recital by Billy Collins ,our US Poet Laureate for 02 -03 this evening..I understand the place is sold out and I am going early so hopefully I can obtain a seat near the front. I have bought new ear pads and battery for my radio shack helper for people like me...so I DO HOPE I can hear and perhaps the program will contain one of his poems I can share here ...tomorrow ..have a great day ..anna

Tell us about your experience!!!!!

This is from Chippewa Music:

Toward calm and shady places

I am walking

On the earth ~ Frances Densmore (1867 - 1957)

Simple but to the point don't you think?

Two of my poet friends picked me up for the Billy Collins reading. It was a delightful evening and he was a delightful poet. His voice is exactly as is should be for a poet. We came early and sat on the front row. The only problem for me the podium cut off all of his body except his head...But what a wondeful talking head it was. Our local newspaper had a story on the second page about the event..Hopefully later today I can post a link so you can read some of the excerpts from his poems. It was a magical evening...truly, anna

Isnt is amazing how just a few simple words can catch the feeling of everything? Thanks for that ..it is strange to me that when I became allergic to some anesthesias and had to have dental work done without their aid a strange thing occured ...I closed my eyes and let my mind imagine something else. Truthfully I had no idea what I would see in my mind..but it was a calm and shady place..and I was walking toward it through tall sweet grass, and the sun was warm upon my face, I could hear the movement of a small stream and off in the distance a gentle buzzing of bees. Later I translated into the dentist office. His light was my sun, his bubbling water my stream, his drill my bees. Her short poem reminded me of all that ..and see how long it took me to say the same...? anna

My computer hates me and is causing me no end of grief...hopefully my SIL will solve it tomorrow..either that or I am getting rid of it and buying carrier pigeons to carry my messages.

I was able to find a poem to share today..anna

Poetry of Joyce Kilmer Trees and Other Poems

Alarm Clocks

When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm Across green fields and yellow hills of hay The little twittering birds laugh in his way And poise triumphant on his shining arm. He bears a sword of flame but not to harm The wakened life that feels his quickening sway And barnyard voices shrilling "It is day!" Take by his grace a new and alien charm.

But in the city, like a wounded thing That limps to cover from the angry chase, He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing, And wanly mock his young and shameful face; And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring In many a high and dreary sleeping place.

Hi Anna,

I am glad you enjoyed your evening listening to Billy Collins. What a special time. I am looking forward to the poetry excerpts you will post.

SCRAWLER: that Chippewa poem is amazing!! I need to find more native American poetry: it always moved me. Interesting how close it is to Japenese haiku.

Funny you should post Joyce Kilmer. Anna. I resisted the urge to post Trees. My neighbor is cutting down a beautiful tree in their front yard today, and I find it very painful. They probably have a good reason: many trees were weakoned by the Hurricane last summer. We lost 5 young ones. But it hurts. The house is full of the sound of sawing: I have a loud symphony playing to try to drown it out. I will look for a good tree poem.

What a treat your poetry reading was!

In "Hope Dies Last" we are reading an interview with Arlo Guthrie. Mal is posting words to songs by Arlo and Woody (posts 795-7).

Scrawler- I really really like the Chippewa lyric. Native Am. Indian spirituality seems so real and deep. Thanks.

Here is another Chippewa Music:

The Sound is Fading Away

The sound is fading away

It is of five sounds

Freedom

The sound is fading away

It is of five sounds

I'm not sure what "it is of five sounds" means, I sometimes feel that the sound of "Freedom" is fading away.

The resemblance to Japanese poetry is indeed startling, particularly in the Chippewa songs. This is not due to the influence of Amy Lowell and other free-verse translators on Miss Densmore. On the contrary, she worked with the Chippewa many years before such Japanese translations and their imitations in modern American verse came into existence. As the years have gone by she has moved on to tribes which do not show the same kind of resemblances either in music or in lyric, for instance the Papago, and this is made sufficiently obvious in the translations. Still, certain things remain. She has analyzed exhaustively the musical constants and variants of Indian song. Each new work in an appendix sums up and compares all past collections with the one at hand.

Thanks for that one Scrawler. I'm trying to find the meaning of the five sounds.

The bush is sitting

Under a tree

And singing

And this web site has lots of read and many more Indian "songs". http://www.bopsecrets.org/rexroth/indiansongs.htm

I sing too whan sitting under a tree So why should a bush be different than me?

Love those simple wonderful thoughts...thanks for the post..I regret to say I cant give you a link to the Billy Collins article. When I went to the paper I found you only have access for the DAILY paper ..all others are archived and you must register to read those. I realized what I read this am was yesterday's paper ..I will read the article ..highlight and share some with you ...anna

A Light exists in Spring Not present on the Year At any other period - When March is scarcely here

 

A Color stands abroad 
On Solitary Fields 
That Science cannot overtake 
But Human Nature feels.   

It waits upon the Lawn, 
It shows the furthest Tree 
Upon the furthest Slope you know 
It almost speaks to you.   

Then as Horizons step 
Or Noons report away 
Without the Formula of sound 
It passes and we stay -   

A quality of loss 
Affecting our Content 
As Trade had suddenly encroached 
Upon a Sacrament.   

I decided to post this today because I am so aware of the  
changing light at this time of year.   The intensity.   And 
the length of day.   Tho, as we all know, with Emily, there 
is much much more to these thoughts.    

And March has another day to wait. 
And no matter what I did the first stanza 
would not behave and show up properly....grrrrrrr!

grrrrrrrrrrr is right. It does that to me too.

What a wonderful poem. I know a lot of hers, but not that one.

I had been looking for a poem that expresses the feeling of those first signs of Spring, and hadn't found one.

Speaking of spring, here's another poem by Frances Densmore from "Chippewa Music":

as my eyes

search

the praire

I feel the summer in the spring

That is beautiful , Scrawler. Are you getting them from a website or a book you own?????

Joan, I'm glad you have the same problem. I must have edited that 1st stanza at least 6 times. I retyped it, repasted it, used the "pre" thingy and it still was obstinate

~Marj

I am here more or less ...my son in law worked all day and most of the night to get my computer working..it seems I have some damaged files so it is still not 100% BUT I am to copy all the files I wish to keep and he will format my hard drive and then re install everything..I have to confess that scares me..He tells me the computer is fine but somehow I have had a virus that has played mind games with my mind LOL I am glad I can laugh a bit about it.. we cant understand how the virus got through since I have my anti virus enabled all the time...he says it is no longer in the computer but the damage was done...I will try and return later and share a poem with you ..I love the ones shared today ..Emily is a great favorite of mine...and always seems to hit the nail on the head so to speak. And the one you posted Scrawler brings back a memory of my mother ..at various times of the year she would feel winter,or summer, or spring or fall in the wind. She would make an announcement to that effect and tell me for instance if it wea fall and the temperature was warm she would hug herself and say ...I can feel winter in the wind..there is an undercurrent of cold ...and the same with in the spring..she would say It is going to be a hot summer I can feel it in the wind...perhaps it is because years ago when a great number of our population were farmers they were more sensitive the nuances of the wind and the changes it brought to us.. I am so happy to be able to just write here ..I think I got carried away..anna

A poem about March that is called March...The authors bio says he was born in Essex and educated in Exeter College,Oxford. He lived a varied life founding the Oxford and Cambridge magazine among others. He was a painter, public lecturer on art, architecture, and socialism. Was a founding member of several societies, a social and moral critic and gave his first lecture in 1887 and founded the Socialist League ..I find it interesting his biographer said he died worn out by all of his activities..here is his poem about MARCH>>anna

March

Slayer of the winter, art thou here again? O welcome, thou that's bring'st the summer nigh! The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry Make April ready for the throstle's song, Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong!

Yea, welcome March! and though I die ere June, Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise, Striving to swell the burden of the tune That even now I hear thy brown birds raise, Unmindful of the past or coming days; Who sing: 'Oh joy! a new year is begun: What happiness to look upon the sun!'

Ah, what begetteth all this storm of bliss But death himself, who crying solemnly, E'en from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness, Bids us 'Rejoice, lest pleasureless ye die, Within a little time must ye go by. Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give.'

William Morris

I'm getting my poems from "American Poetry (The Twentieth Century) Volume One: Henry Adams to Dorothy Parker.

The White Fury of the Spring:

Oh, ow, now the white fury of the spring

Whirls at each door, and on each flowering plot -

The lane's held in a storm, and is a thing

To take into a grave, a lantern-light

To fasten there, by which to stumble out,

And face in the new grass, and hear about

The crash of bough with bough, of white with white

Were I to run, I culd not run so fast,

But that the spring would overtake me still;

Halfway I go to meet it on the stair

For certainly it will rush in at last,

And in my own house seize me at its will,

And drag me out to the white fury there.

~ Lizette Woodworth Reese (1856 - 1935)

Perhaps spring is like this where you are, but in the Pacific Northwest it is a warm spring day although with a slight chill to it.

Oh, Scrawler- in Michigan we can still get a March snowstorm.

MARCH
by Emily Dickinson

Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat-
You must have walked-
How out of breath you are!
Dear March, how are you?
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell.

I got your letter, and the bird's;
The maples never knew
That you were coming, - I declare,
How red their faces grew!
But, March, forgive me -
And all those hills
You left for me to hue,
There was no purple suitable,
You took it all with you.

Who knocks? that April?
Lock the door!
I will not be pursued!
He stayed away a year, to call
When I am occupied.
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come,
And blame is just as dear as praise
And praise as mere as blame.

"But trifles look so trivial 
As soon as you have come, 
And blame is just as dear as praise 
And praise as mere as blame." 

I'll have to remember that!!

Thanks, Annie- that ED March poem is just great and musical as can be--the first section is so light and fluffy.

And Anna, I'm glad the "slayer of winter" is here. Today the March winds doth blow! My daff greens are peeking out. My son has Snow Drops blooming.

Poems of Goethe

"MARCH" 1817

 

THE snow-flakes fall in showers,  

The time is absent still, 
When all Spring's beauteous flowers, 
When all Spring's beauteous flowers   

Our hearts with joy shall fill.    

With lustre false and fleeting    

The sun's bright rays are thrown; 
The swallow's self is cheating: 
The swallow's self is cheating,   

And why? He comes alone!    

Can I e'er feel delighted   

Alone, though Spring is near? 
Yet when we are united, 
Yet when we are united,   

The Summer will be here.    

  1817.

Thanks for sharing that poem...and of course it was the last line that touched me...and the line when we are united....I am always affected by poetry that reminds me of what used to be...anna

We lived 60 W of Paris for two years...and spent every minute we could visiting there and the French countryside. When we moved from Germany to France we drove our car and it was spring..then headlights were yellow and it was night ..so very few lights anywhere...I dont recall just where we were but off in the distance the only light we could see was the sky over Paris..glowing ...I caught my breath and said to myself I am really in France and I am going to see PARIS..and we did ...here is a poem by Sara Teasdale about Spring in Paris...anna

Paris in Spring

The city's all a-shining Beneath a fickle sun, A gay young wind's a-blowing, The little shower is done. But the rain-drops still are clinging And falling one by one -- Oh it's Paris, it's Paris, And spring-time has begun.

I know the Bois is twinkling In a sort of hazy sheen, And down the Champs the gray old arch Stands cold and still between. But the walk is flecked with sunlight Where the great acacias lean, Oh it's Paris, it's Paris, And the leaves are growing green.

The sun's gone in, the sparkle's dead, There falls a dash of rain, But who would care when such an air Comes blowing up the Seine? And still Ninette sits sewing Beside her window-pane, When it's Paris, it's Paris, And spring-time's come again.

Sara Teasdale

April in Paris...what memories that must hold. That poem is super. I like the picture it paints- and there is Nanette sewing away.

I was fooling around yesterday-

March Madness

~Marj

How lucky you were to get a chance to live near Paris!! I was only there for a week and it rained the whole time. I spent most of my time eatinghahaha.

I've had trouble sleeping lately, and something today reminded me of Gilbert and Sullivan's patter song "When You're lying Awake". It's rathr long, but even funnier than I remembered. When I was a child, my sister and I memorized it and had contests to see who could say it faster, especially the part at the end. Now, my tongue trips all over it.

From Iolanthe
by Gilbert and Sullivan<pre? SONG--LORD CHANCELLOR.
When you're lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo'd by anxiety,
I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in, without impropriety;
For your brain is on fire--the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you:
First your counterpane goes, and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you;
Then the blanketing tickles--you feel like mixed pickles--so terribly sharp is the pricking,
And you're hot, and you're cross, and you tumble and toss till there's nothing 'twixt you and the ticking.
Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick 'em all up in a tangle;
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle!
Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot eye-balls and head ever aching.
But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that you'd very much better be waking;
For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich--
Which is something between a large bathing machine and a very small second-class carriage--
And you're giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a party of friends and relations--
They're a ravenous horde--and they all came on board at Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations.
And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who started that morning from Devon);
He's a bit undersized, and you don't feel surprised when he tells you he's only eleven.
Well, you're driving like mad with this singular lad (by the by, the ship's now a four-wheeler),
And you're playing round games, and he calls you bad names when you tell him that "ties pay the dealer";
But this you can't stand, so you throw up your hand, and you find you're as cold as an icicle,
In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks), crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle:
And he and the crew are on bicycles too--which they've somehow or other invested in--
And he's telling the tars all the particulars of a company he's interested in--
It's a scheme of devices, to get at low prices all goods from cough mixtures to cables
(Which tickled the sailors), by treating retailers as though they were all vegetables--
You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman (first take off his boots with a boot-tree),
And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and they'll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree--
From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea, cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries,
While the pastrycook plant cherry brandy will grant, apple puffs, and three corners, and Banburys--
The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by Rothschild and Baring,
And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder despairing--
You're a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck,
and no wonder you snore, for your head's on the floor,
and you've needles and pins from your soles to your shins,
and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg's asleep,
and you've cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose,
and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue,
and a thirst that's intense, and a general sense
that you haven't been sleeping in clover;
But the darkness has passed, and it's daylight at last,
and the night has been long--ditto ditto my song--
and thank goodness they're both of them over!
1.

Boy, the computer really fought me on that one. I hope it's readable.

Oh JoanK--- have I had nights like that. Oh my. I have insomnia problems on and off. And the night is long.

How marvalous - wonderful - oh the magic of being able to put those thoughts into such a fun piece - haven't been here in Poetry for awile and what a joy to read that piece JoanK --

Golly that describes me when trying to sleep...for some reason about a month ago I fell out of bed three times...I have no idea why since it was a first time for me and thank goodness I havent done it since...I have always hated to have my feet covered..so I will often put them outside of the covers..and once my husband had to unwrap me since while out of the covers they became entangled in the sheets and captured...it was funny after I was rescued but panicky while I was still entrapped.. You are all so special to share and Barbara it was good to see you again ...I hope some others who dont come often will return..it makes my day! anna

I am behind in reading the poems. I did read the one posted by Annie3. The one called MARCH by EMILY DICKINSON. I really enjoyed that one.

You all missed the link to the page I made for fun from our March poems.

http://marjandkittys3.tripod.com/marchmadness/

I didnt miss it but when I first clicked on the link my computer went on the blink!! Thanks for posting it again >>this time my computer behaved and I enjoyed it well..as this email tells.. sorry sometimes I cant resist speaking in rhyme....had a really terrible day talking to verizon support regarding my use of their program. It still hasnt been resolved and I confess I disolved into tears..so you know how blessed I am that a computer problem is the only thing bothering me now...anna

MARJ: that is great. More than just a listing of the poems, it's a visual treat!!

This poem was in a holistic living magazine i picked up at the library in an article "Going with the Flow of Spring". By Willoebe Eversole

 

Winter's dying sun 
crosses the far horizon 
offering a promise 
  of spring freshness 
singing a new song   
a tale of restoration and hope 
a message of assurance   

truth of  
  anticipation fulfillwed

Dear Anna,

I sure hope your computer ills can come to a squeaking halt! And frankly, I can understand dissolving into tears with the techs at these phone support places. It is just as frustrating as can be. And you know--- so many of theses jobs are outsourced to other countries now that the workers don't even understand us when we bring a problem to their attention...language barrier and just plain understanding American language usage. I have hung up and rephoned just to get someone whom I could talk "with". So remember that.

~Marj

ps I often sleep with my feet out of the covers also.

ps2 Hi to Barbara. And Marjorie of New Zealand (I think) has been by here in awhile.

I had a house; I had a yard Crammed with marigolds, so high, So deep in fire, that it was hard Not to believe, if I went by,

I would be blistered to the bone All gone. A square of dripping grass Each side, and underfoot wet stone, That sound like click of glass on glass.

This spare, hidden beauty all around, Is not too little, or too much; A surfeit had I; now am bound To a ghost's wealth, too frail for touch

To a ghost's weather, that or this Of its old sececy left untold; Relinquished, let alone, I miss House, nor yard, nor a tall marigold. ~ Lizette Woodworth Reese

I remember as a kid in San Francisco, California you couldn't see across the street it would be so foggy in the spring. We a huge garden out back, but it looked exactly like how Lizette describes in her poem. When it was sunny you could see the Pacific Ocean from our bedroom window, but when it was foggy all you could hear were the foghorns blowing and the ships looked like ghosts passing in the night. It gave you a weird feeling.

We had heavy fogs when I was young rising from the Mississippi river..and I loved them ..I felt I was moving through a mystery ....and alone in the world..and I liked it..anna

I wish I had the time and the quiet spirit needed to write a poem of my own right now..this cranky computer has made me cranky too..but yesterday I saw such a joyous scene...birds finally at my feeders and joyfully, blissfully bathing in the bird bath...they looked all the world like children frolicking in a pool, Lifting their wings and splashing water beneath them..there is a poem there and I hope I can take that memory with me when I am up to thinking pleasant thoughts instead of being upset with this computer..I was able to find a poem by a favorite poet .anna

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING

I HEARD a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:-- But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

William Wordsworth

how do you format a poem you wish to enter here? I typed up a poem and it came out as one paragraph and then half of it was deleted.????

As a rule I would email instructions but as you know my email is balky...so here is what I do ...first I choose a poem , either from my files or on the net..Highlight it and copy..when I am here and wish to post I put whatever I wish in the title area... Move to the main body ..write a few words and then and I am doing this over since it didnt show as I wished. First I bracket the following with < at the beginning of the word center and then I bracket the end with > I bracket the same way with a capital B for bold and finally at the end I bracket pre which sets the sequence to make a poem then I hit paste in edit which brings my poem to the fore..I usually type pre bracketed before and after the title, again after the poets name unless it is at the bottom of the poem.if I were doing say Mary had a little lamb I would use all three of the above mentioned and it would come out like this
Mary had a little lamb It's fleece was white as snow And everywhere Mary went The lamb was sure to go.

.and if you have an error go to edit at the top of your post and change ..I hope this helps .. ask more and I will reply here ..anna

Pascal Covici

Dear Pat, You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and you said, “ Why don’t you make something for me?” I ask you what you wanted, and you said, “A box.” “What for?” “To put things in.” “What things?” “Whatever you have,” you said. Well, here’s your box. Nearly everything I have is in it, and it is not full. Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts - the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation . And on top of these are all the gratitude and love I have for you. And still the box is not full. John The above from the from “ East of Eden.”

While not poetry, per se, John Steinbeck, a marvelous weaver of words, and thoughts with many poetic insights.

Just when we were getting to "prose verse" my hearing loss worsened and I never had the class but several in the class did some things called prose verse and to me it was similiar to the one you shared...And often when I read a paragraph in a book that just seems to make me stop and read it over..because it is so special I wonder would that be called "prose verse"?

Will have to check that out..trouble again here with my computer ..first time to today I could get on...from 7am to 3pm plus 2 solid hours on the phone with a member of the suport team from my computer...augh ..anna

Oh Potsherd. I'm glad you posted that. It is very rich. I've run across a couple things like that in my reading and meant to post them and forgot. Thanks.

Scrawler: I'm an avid fog fan!

Hi annafair: Regarding your question would the Steinbeck quote be considered " prose verse?" I' am not sure and looked up definitions of both words: Prose_adj: ( belonging to or characteristic of prose as distinguished from poetry), Verse_noun (a particular example of metrical writing). I also looked up the definition of _metrical_adj: ( relating to meter or the metric system) sooo could be metrical translates or is used in some form of "measured speech?" The Oxford Companion to the English language tells us the word Prose is French [ 14 C.] from the Latin_prosa (oratio) direct or straightforward (speech) and prosa oratio in Greek (pezos logos) is " A form of written discourse based on the sentence and without the stylized patterning of verse ( with which it often contrasts)." Aristotle's dictum regarding prose says that it" must neither possess metre nor be without rhythm." Kinds of prose___In a lengthily defination (page 814) this definition would define ,I believe, the use of metrical_:"it's statis as prose is sustained, however, by the absence of recurring metrical patterns, however' poetic" in form and context such texts may be." My, my, isn't it amazing how important questions are: the search for answers and understanding.

If your library does not include " The Oxford Companion to the English Language this 1,000 page cornucopia is a wonderful reference source for those interested in language: the life-blood of culture.

Now this is interesting. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prose_poetry (if you go to the link there are more links within the following text)

Prose poetry is prose that breaks some of the normal rules of prose discourse for heightened imagery or emotional effect

As a specific poetic form, prose poetry was originated in the 19th century in France. French prose was governed by laws so strict that by breaking them, it was possible to create prose that was seen to be intended as poetry. Poets such as Charles Baudelaire, Arthur Rimbaud, and Stephane Mallarmé were among the founders of the form.

It used to be said that prose poetry was impossible in English, because the English language was not so strictly governed by rules as the French was. In the twentieth century, when English prose has become more and more governed by the iron laws of Strunk and White, this may no longer be the case. Rapturous, rhythmical, and image-laden prose from previous centuries, such as is found in Jeremy Taylor or Thomas de Quincey, strikes 21st century readers as having something of a poetic quality. Much contemporary poetry is written in free verse, and the difference between much free verse and prose poetry may be more in the typography than in the content.

A famous example of prose poetry in English are the archy and mehitabel stories of Don Marquis, published in the New York Tribune in the early 20th Century.

Research and researching is challenging and great fun: as learning is fun.

"Who killed Cock Robin" The origin of the "Who killed cock robin" poem 'Who killed cock robin?' is best described as an English folksong or poem rather than a nursery rhyme. The words of "Who killed cock robin" are said to refer to the death of the legendary figure of Robin Hood and not that of a bird. The legend of Robin Hood encompasses the theme that he stole from the rich to give to the poor. The words of "Who killed cock robin" describe how help was offered from all quarters following the death of cock robin thus reflecting the high esteem in which Robin was held by the common folk.

 

"Who killed Cock Robin?" "I," said the Sparrow, 
"With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin." 
"Who saw him die?" "I," said the Fly, 
"With my little eye, I saw him die." 
"Who caught his blood?" "I," said the Fish, 
"With my little dish, I caught his blood." 
"Who'll make the shroud?" "I," said the Beetle, 
"With my thread and needle, I'll make the shroud." 
"Who'll dig his grave?" "I," said the Owl, 
"With my pick and shovel, I'll dig his grave." 
"Who'll be the parson?" "I," said the Rook, 
"With my little book, I'll be the parson." 
"Who'll be the clerk?" "I," said the Lark, 
"If it's not in the dark, I'll be the clerk." 
"Who'll carry the link?" "I," said the Linnet, 
"I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link." 
"Who'll be chief mourner?" "I," said the Dove, 
"I mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner." 
"Who'll carry the coffin?" "I," said the Kite, 
"If it's not through the night, I'll carry the coffin." 
"Who'll bear the pall? "We," said the Wren, 
"Both the cock and the hen, we'll bear the pall." 
"Who'll sing a psalm?" "I," said the Thrush, 
"As she sat on a bush, I'll sing a psalm." 
"Who'll toll the bell?" "I," said the bull, 
"Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell." 
All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing, 
When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin.

Very interesting!!! I never knew it referred to Robin Hood.

I never knew it was Robin Hood but now when I read it again I remember thinking it was a special person...because everyone grieved so...

I hope you are all well and that spring has arrived wherever you are...it was lovely last week , but snow was expected this week, instead we had a cold rainy day yesterday and alas I had to be out all day ..taking a member of our church to various doctors..and today I waa away again as I needed provisions...milk etc.and something to clean my floor with...I will return later with a poem ..I keep thinking I will find one that matches a vision in my head...you all take care..anna

Each March I go back in time ...and share this poem by Robert Service called Unforgotten...perhaps you too have lost a loved one and they are not forgotten either...wherever my loved one is..caught in time I dont forget ...anna

Unforgotten

I know a garden where the lilies gleam,

And one who lingers in the sunshine there;

She is than white-stoled lily far more fair,

And oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream!

I know a garret, cold and dark and drear,

And one who toils and toils with tireless pen,

Until his brave, sad eyes grow weary -- then

He seeks the stars, pale, silent as a seer.

And ah, it's strange; for, desolate and dim,

Between these two there rolls an ocean wide;

Yet he is in the garden by her side

And she is in the garret there with him.

This morning sunshine moved across my face and gently woke me up...a Saturday so I could finish some tasks I had just begun....winter streaked windows seem worse when bright sun shows the dirt outside and the corners where the spiders cobwebs hide...so armed with glass cleaner I made them clean and here is a poem...not by me but a poet loved and blessed...hope you enjoy .....anna

Poetry of Amy Lowell Sword Blades and Poppy Seed

Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window

What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, Of outworn, childish mysteries, Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries.

Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese Dark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a sky Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze.

Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk From over-handling, by some anxious monk. Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk.

They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung In cadences and falls, to ease a queen, Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen

Buson has managed to catch in this brief haiku, exactly the mood of my afternoon yesterday:

Spring rain; It begins to grow dark; Today also is over.

Oh, Anna, I need to do my east windows badly. Kitty snoots and other dirts abide.

Pretty poem there.

I like that haiku. We had spring snowspitting Sunday.

~Marj

We had big wind last night. And I came across this ED poem this morning. So here it is, I smiled when I read it. I bet she wrote it during March with all its winds.

   

"How lonesome the wind must feel nights"   

How lonesome the Wind must feel Nights –  
When people have put out the Lights  
And everything that has an Inn  
Closes the shutter and goes in –    

How pompous the Wind must feel Noons  
Stepping into incorporeal Tunes  
Correcting errors of the sky  
And clarifying scenery    

How mighty the Wind must feel Morns  
Encamping on a thousand dawns  
Espousing each and spurning all  
Then soaring to his Temple Tall –

It always surprises me how much can be said with just a few words..haikus are like that ..and I have done a few ...love that one...my problem if you havent noticed is I am NOT a lady of a few words...my children I know would have preferred corporal punishment to my "few" words.

As usual Emily has a way with words ...when I see the trees and shrubs waving madly in a strong wind I feel his power and of course we still have the results of our fall hurricane all about...I wonder how the wind must feel when it is gentle and soft ..??? anna

...I wonder how the wind must feel when it is gentle and soft ..??? anna

The breeze

lifts a hair

on the caterpillar's back.

I'm quoting from memory. Don't remember the author.

The breeze

lifts a hair

on the caterpillar's back.

I like that .....thanks ...anna

Oh Joan......that is perfectly neat as can be. Maybe the author will come to mind. I'm imagining that scene in spite of what I see out the window.

All I could think was that the wind would be feeling happy and playful. And that coincides with lifting a hair on a caterpillars back.

I'm watching a huge snowstorm here in the Detroit area.

~Marj

I found a different translation of the caterpiller poem, and it is by Buson (I guessed that from the style, but couldn't remember). As are so many of my favorites. His haiku have been called purely descriptive, but I don't feel that at all. I often find something below that, as Wordsworth says "sees into the life of things". Haiku is "fill-in-the-blanks poetry, and I guess you bring a lot of yourself to it (as all poetry, of course). Luckily, others agree with me.

Buson also wrote a kind of free verse that modern scholars call haishi. This is one example:

 

Mourning the Sage Hokuju (Hokuju rôsen o itamu)   

You left in the morning. In the evening, my heart is in a thousand shards 
wondering why you have gone so far away. 
Thinking of you, I go wandering in the hills. 
Why are the hills so sad? 
Among the yellow dandelions, shepherds-purse blooms white. 
No one else is here to see this. 
I wonder, “Are there pheasants?” when I hear a mournful cry. 
I had a friend. He lived on the other side of the stream. 
An eerie smoke rises, the westerly wind blows 
violently over moors of bamboo and sedge. 
There is nowhere to hide. 
I had a friend. He lived on the other side of the stream; 
today there is not so much as a pheasant’s call. 
You left in the morning. In the evening, my heart is in a thousand shards 
wondering why you have gone so far away. 
In my small hut, I offer Amida no candles, 
no flowers. In this twilight, lingering in sorrow 
I feel a special sense of awe.   

Quite wonderful!

You are quite right ..that is a wonderful piece of poetry...I have no words to describe how deep it affected me...suffice to say it left me with a lump in my throat and the weight of loss in my heart...thanks for finding it for us.....anna

Thank you Marj -- I didn't know that piece, and it's beautiful.

I ask but one thing of you, only one, That always you will be my dream of you; That never shall I wake to find untrue All this I have believed and rested on, Forever vanished, like a vision gone Out into the night. Alas, how few There are who strike in us a chord we knew Existed, but so seldom heard its tone We tremble at the half-forgotten sound. The world is full of rude awakenings And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground, Yet still our human longing vainly clings To a belief in beauty through all wrongs. O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!

Amy lowell..........and I don't think you can ask anything better or anything any harder to give...............than ask a person to be 'my dream of you'.........how I wish it could ever be like this........how I wish my heart to be left its songs......

Bonfire! That is another "lump in the throat"... thanks.

and I like the blessings- they are most poetic.

 

May you always have 
Walls for the winds, 
A roof for the rain, 
Tea beside the fire, 
Laughter to cheer you, 
Those you love near you, 
And all your heart might desire!    

~Marj

Since my maiden name was Hannigan ....and as a family we celebrated this day ...this is the first year in a long time I havent cooked corned beef and cabbage...but this is a blessing for all and the last line I hope is always true ...anna

May the road you walk be a smooth one, May your troubles be few, if any, May the days and years that lie ahead Be healthy, happy, and many...

May you find friends in abundance, May the sun shine bright above you, May the world be a wonderful place to live, May you always have someone to love you.

Thanks so much and you are right ...."than ask a person to be 'my dream of you'.........how I wish it could ever be like this........how I wish my heart to be left its songs"..How hard it is to be that dream...thanks again and welcome...anna

MARJ, ANNA, BONFIRE: thanks for your beautiful wishes -- I have tears in my eyes. May you find friends in abundance,

I've certainly done that here on Seniornet, and on this site especially.

Your post touched me....friends in abundance ...arent we blessed..? seniornet opens doors...windows too and lets us feel close regardless of the miles that separate. The best thing is we have no time constraints..if we feel alone at 2AM or 2PM there is always someone here...perhaps not in person but here in spirit and you can communicate.....knowing someone will read those words and reply...anna

"lets us feel close regardless of the miles that separate. The best thing is we have no time constraints..if we feel alone at 2AM or 2PM there is always someone here...perhaps not in person but here in spirit and you can communicate.....knowing someone will read those words and reply...anna "

Boy, isn't that the truth~ and I am so enjoying this poetry board. So much can be uttered thru poems that doesn't work in prose. And a kinship has formed for me. ~Marj

Dear Annafair and all you wonderful poem posters .. I have been in the slow .. very laboured process of shifting all my books (all in boxes) to make room for a development in my "mystery" room. 'Tis the place I hide myself away from any 'madding crowds'. Not having hands on access to my poetry is the reason for my silence. BUT have no fear .. my eyes can see and I have been enjoying reading all your wonderful posts.

I send my love to everyone and look forward to being able to join in soon.

Hope that St Patrick's blessings left some lovely green smudges on your shoulders. God Bless ... Marjorie in New Zealand

Marjorie- how delightful to hear from you. Looking forward to hearing about your "mystery" room. What a chore moving books!

~Marj

Thankyou Marj (a name I am very often called) .. my mystery room is full of 'stuff' that no one else knows about. In fact, with the memory I have these days I quite often surprise myself with what I discover among all that 'stuff'. Being still in a bit of a muddle .. I did find a little ditty amomg some other 'stuff'. It is just a little flyer which I picked up in a fascinating shop in Ulverston in Cumbria UK. The shop's name is "Pig's Whisper"

WHERE THE HECK IS PIG'S WHISPER?

Little pigs and bigger pigs and pigs that won't stop grunting.
Fluffy pigs and china pigs and pigs to keep your lunch in.
Pigs on mats and pigs on hats and pigs to give your sister.
Come and meet the piggy brood down at the old Pig's Whisper.

Being a lover and admirer of pigs I kind of liked that. I am off to the local second hand book shop "Unicorn" to see if I can find some poetry books I don't have. The shop is quite a treasure place really.

Hi, Marjorie, glad you are back. The Little Blue Penguin site that CABIN FEVER found is still active. (Where are you, CABIN FEVER? I miss you). They have had a baby and molted since she first posted it. I check in on them every day.

Joan is this the blue penguin web site you speak of? It has cams. http://www.penguins.co.nz/index.html

Marj: yes, that's it. It takes a bit of patience, since you have to catch them at home, and the picture are hard to make out. But I check the nestcam when I go online. One is there now. (The other camera doesn't show anything).

I went looking for penguin poems. Couldnt find one on Little Blue Penguins, but here is one about a Magellanic Penguin by Pablo Neruda. It is interesting because it doesn't see the penguin as cute, but tragic.

Magellanic Penguin
by Pablo Neruda
Neither clown nor child nor black nor white but verticle and a questioning innocence dressed in night and snow: The mother smiles at the sailor, the fisherman at the astronaunt, but the child child does not smile when he looks at the bird child, and from the disorderly ocean the immaculate passenger emerges in snowy mourning.

I was without doubt the child bird there in the cold archipelagoes when it looked at me with its eyes, with its ancient ocean eyes: it had neither arms nor wings but hard little oars on its sides: it was as old as the salt; the age of moving water, and it looked at me from its age: since then I know I do not exist; I am a worm in the sand.

the reasons for my respect remained in the sand: the religious bird did not need to fly, did not need to sing, and through its form was visible its wild soul bled salt: as if a vein from the bitter sea had been broken.

Penguin, static traveler, deliberate priest of the cold, I salute your vertical salt and envy your plumed pride.

Oh, Marjorie- your room sounds splendid. As does your used book shop.

Maybe Anna could compose a poem in that direction, re: a mystery room.

Years ago we had a couple used book stores in the neighborhood. I miss them.

~Marj

We have a good used bookstore near us, too, and I love it. Your mystery room sounds fantastic.

I have been finding all sorts of lovely things .. are you like me perhaps, when I sit to sort things out I find something interesting which interrupts what I am doing for I have to sit and read or look .. completely forgetting the 'job on hand'. I have just found and copied out "My Two Lancashire Grandmas" on the UK site in Ceographic Communties. Now I shall go and pick up where I left off.

I miss the little Blue Penguins of Kawau Island .. their little raucous sounds, and just knowing they were there .. Eb and Flo were the Pater and Mater of the little colony which settled under our house. I just do wonder how they all are.

I had need to take care of some things..a visit to a 101 year lady in a retirement home..and she hasnt lost a thing..witty, frail, charming still...a need to paint..I havent touched my watercolors since October and yesterday I painted..I am not happy with what I did..it seems I have forgotten what to do with brush and paint..but will get back to it and perservere. NOW Marjorie I am so glad you are here...I feared you were not well..and I have to smile at your mystery room for my whole house is a mystery house. For two months I have been trying to sort things out and have been amazed at what I have found. It was like opening a surprize gift ...since this has been an odd year ..I found a poem by Robert Frost that reminds me every year can be odd...and all I hope is when April is here we will move on and not be recaptured with a cold March..anna

Wind Chill by Robert Frost
The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April Day When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, A cloud comes over the sunlit arch, A wind comes off the frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March.

Two Tramps in Mud Time (1936)

Annafair .. wonderful to hear of your love of painting. And to hear about the dear lady of 101 years. It makes me wonder what life is like for those reaching such grand years.

Robert Frost's Wind Chill .. ( he is a favourite) certainly reminded me of how the time of the year is for us here. The mornings have become cool and crisp .. developing into warmth and sunshine through the day only to become cool and crisp again when the sun goes down .. but then we receive some colder days .. no sun and perhaps rain reminding us that summer is not forever and that winter will be here soon .. with fires in the stove and woollies to be worn. But no snow where I live and seldom a morning frost.

Love to you all .. Marjorie

I've been playing the game RUBBISH . This week, we all have to post Irish things. I posted this poem. Since it's copyrighted, I'll post the link. Click on the further link to hear it read.

http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/heaney/personal.htm

In edit. I accidentally deleted the last letter of the link, and can't seem to get it to erase. Here it is again.

http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/heaney/personal.html

How well he caught wells...since I had many country relatives wells were part of my childhood and I know how they both attracted you and repulsed ///Of course I was always warned to be careful and was afraid of the well..and attracted at the same time...The smell was unique ..just as he described...I keep thinking how many thousands of years wells have played a part in the history of mankind...while I always knew water came in different disguises ..my grandchildren I fear will always think of water coming from bottles...anna

That is a remarkable wind chill poem, Anna. Brrr. I listened to that March wind all night long.

Joan- the Neruda poems are all difficult. Yes, that is rather a negative feeling one. Often difficult to know what Neruda means.

I like the descriptive well poem. Could feel myself right there.

Thanks all......and Merry Second Day of Spring

~Marj

I was doing a little reading. The Magellenic penguins in the Neruda poem are native of Argentine.

Interestingly, Google showed Joan's as one of it's links . Look on this page. I didn't realize Google picked up links so quickly. http://www.google.com/search?q=magellanic+penguin+neruda&hl=en&lr=&ie=UTF-8&start=10&sa=N

Isnt that amazing???that is the second link to us I have found on google.......WOW .now we must be careful what we say LOL brings you right here to poetry ...now you all be good and say Howdy if some drop in ...lol ..anna

Anna, your Robert Frost poem comes up as a link also. So I think every poem we post is grabbed by their "crawler". So now we know.

)

SeniorNet RoundTable Discussions - ---Poetry ... within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs and wintry winds! ... A Winter Eden. by Robert Frost. ... http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&lr=&ie=ISO-8859-1&q=wind+chill++robert+frost+seniornet

And there is another wind chill quote by one of the members in another board.

Does that mean we have to really really be careful what we say on the internet? I am doomed! Have a new book of poetry so I need to read it and see just what to share...have a great day all...be back later..OH yes Marjorie...do you have autumn as we do here in Virginia...with leaves changeing to scarlet and gold and drifting down like birds ???you are entering my next favorite time of the year ..spring being first ...it used to be fall but as I age I look forward now to spring and new beginnings...anna

Found this poem by Langston Hughes and no it is not in my new poetry book but I remember rain on a tin roof in Yellowstone park years ago and I loved that sound..which this poem reminds me ....anna

April Rain Song

Let the rain kiss you Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops Let the rain sing you a lullaby The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk The rain makes running pools in the gutter The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night And I love the rain.

Langston Hughes

Here's a Wind poem for Marj:

Wind ~Lizette Woodworth Reese

Now has the wind a sound

Made out of rain;

A misty, broken secretness,

That denches road and pane.

It drips and drips; a hush

Falls on the town;

Like golden clods an old tree shakes

Its apples down.

I love the rain song!!! It's exactly how I feel about Spring rain and could never put into words. Our roof is not tin, but the rain makes a lovely sound on it anyway.

Scrawler: I love this:

Now has the wind a sound

Made out of rain;

A misty, broken secretness

Wonderful.

LOved the one I posted but what a great one you found...there are days I welcome the sun but rain is so different of course we are not talking about hurricane or deluges but just wonderful rain...when I was young I used to love to walk home from school in a gentle rain much to my mother's distress...in looking back I wondered what I was supposed to do..school was out and I missed the bus..it was a question of waiting in the rain or walking and I will choose walking any time...and being alone was special too ..it was like it was raining just for me...lovely thought...anna

I used to go outside and sit on the side steps in the rain with no one around. My mother didn't understand either.

Perhaps mothers arent supposed to understand but I think I did ...there was such a delicious feeling walking in the rain or sitting on the steps when it rained I didnt do that but we a spacious back porch with a swing and I remember sitting on that swing when it was raining and singing ..what an absolutely joyous memory you have given me..thanks ..truly thanks...anna

Singing in the rain

I used to like to walk in it also.

Click this link......scroll way down and you can listen to it. The neat rendition. http://www.moviethemes.org/movie.html

marj what a wonderful music sight thank you.

Hello to you all .. I would love to see some gentle, persistent rain just now .. the ground is dry and the trees and plants are so thirsty. The rain from my roof is gathered and runs into three very large tanks which supply me with my water. But nothing can ever replace the rain for those trees, plants and shrubs. On my Kawau Island house the roof was tin .. I loved to fall asleep at night just listening and listening. That and the sound of my little penguins underneath meant that all was well and at peace in my little world.

But I guess the wind, although so necessary was somewhat different and would make me wonder how everything at sea was. Little boats sheltering in little harbours or battling against waves to get somewhere safe, or hove to until the wind passes.

Christina Rossetti is one of my many favourites .. R.L.S. too

WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND?

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you;
But when the leaves hang trembling
The wind is passing thro'

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

Christina Rossetti

WINDY NIGHTS

Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high
All night long in the dark and wet
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then,
By he comes back at the gallop again.

Robrt Louis Stephenson

I see you there in autumn ...poised for winter to come...while we wait for spring to arrive, to charm us with her ways...You chose two of my favorites ...poets and poems..The rossetti poem has been on my mind and I almost posted it as well...I dont know when I first read those lines but I remember thinking Oh she is so right..thanks for sharing your thoughts...Since autumn is upon you I will share this poem by Keats ..for like most there are seasons we love and others ones we just need to survive to arrive at the places we love...while I yearn for spring I know it wont be long before I will yearn for summer to be over and autumn to arrive...here for you ...anna

To Autumn by John Keats

Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run.

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowes for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless ona granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with fumes of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

For Anna because its Autumn where she is. This was one of my first poems I ever wrote.

The Tree and Me

The tree that stands outside my bedroom window

Is in the summer a dear friend

But in the fall becomes my mortal enemy

The tree spreads its branches

And shakes with all its might

Sending hundreds of leaves falling to the ground

At first I smile and do nothing

Then with a grin I turn on my secondhand leaf blower

And gather up all the fallen leaves

The tree is silent for a very long time

And then shakes and sways

Until only one leaf is left

I watch the last leaf fall to the ground

I hit the switch to turn on the blower

But nothing happens

Bending low I try to pick up the leaf

And that is when I hear my back go pop!

"Get the liniment, dear, the tree has won again."

~ Anne M. Ogle

Out here in the Pacfic northwest we don't have leaves to contend with but blossoms - hundreds perhaps thousands that manage to stick to your car's windows. It's a warm 70 degrees now, but it looks like its going to rain any moment. I love spring here in Oregon except for the sticking blossoms and tree sap. I spend all spring and summer trying to get both off my car just in time to welcome fall's leaves.

Marjorie--- that is a favorite of mine also...the Rosetti poem. Thanks. And the RLS one is neat. I'd never read that. The trees do cry out.

Do any of you ever listen to pine trees in the wind? Try it sometimes. They have a unique song. There is one in the yard behind us- a very tall girl/guy that plays its tune and I can hear it way in my yard if I stand still on a windy day.

I like hearing how the season is for people in different parts of the world or the usa. I see 3 purple crocus ready to bloom today. Two doves were having a romantic interlude.

Scrawler/Anne- what a poem about the myriads of leaves that can come down.

Great poems -- i am really experiencing the change of seasons more vividly than ever due to you. Here we had frost last night and I worry about the early blooms.

Marj: I tried to reply to your e-mail, and it came back saying something was wrong with your address.

Oh I do understand your tree poem. When we first moved here we had 25 trees on our property..the housing area had been built upon old forest land...trees 75-100 years old and in fall MY GOODNESS did the leaves fall and fall and fall..we had no leaf blower than and instead raked them to the curb for pickup..although some would burn the leaves and charge the air with that unique odor...and the drifting smoke...my husband and I had to divide the lawn..he one side of the driveway and me on the other..At 6'2" he raked huge piles of leaves while at 5' I raked in small piles..when he was trying to tell me I should do the same as he..I replied if I were his size I would too but just stay on your side of the driveway and leave me to mine...what a wonderful memory ..your poem evoked..so thank you ....thank you ..anna

Oh, Joan--- probably just one of those cyber confusings that often happen. I'll send you a blank e-mail and you can try to respond to it.

Ah yes Annafair .. the ripening rosy apples and the hedge crickets singing their chirpy songs .. here they are cicadas we listen to and know that summer is leaving us and preparing for you.

And the leaves to be whuffed up into the leaf blower .. a most handy gadget, my husband said after buying one for me. I couldn't help but wonder, "Why just me?" Thank you for those poems .. I love Keats and although I don't know Anne M. Ogle I do love her reminder of what can happen to backs!

The sounds of the wind Marj are many .. my memory is of the haunting wails of the wind against and through the rigging of the boats in the harbour on the island. Walking up to the point and hearing the whistling wind through the bendiing trees.

But .. here you are expecting the delights of spring and here is a poem for you there in the Northern Hemisphere from William Wordsworth

WRITTEN IN MARCH

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun:
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one !
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The ploughboy is whooping - anon - anon:
There's joy in the mountains,
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing,
The rain is over and gone! ...... William Wordsworth

A little one here from Robert Browning ..

PIPPA's SONG

The year's at the Spring,
And day's at the morn,
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;,
God's in his heaven ...
All's right with the world. .. Robert Browning

Love to all from Marjorie in New Zealand

I will think of you as we march into spring.....that is new one for me by Wordsworth ...by the way my oldest daughter chose wordsworth as her screen name..so when we are on line at the same time I can speak to WORDSWORTH

Love the RLS poem ..it is one I commited to memory years ago..well I am not sure it was deliberate ,,there are just some poems I loved and read them often...I have several anthologies and would sit by myself and read aloud all of my favorites ..I dont do that any more since now I write some of my own..when my husband was away and the children asleep and I couldnt sleep I would take a book of poetry to bed with me and read aloud until I was tired...

I love the sound of wind..not terrible winds but winds that move through the trees and murmur. When I was in Iowa last May they had a very strong wind...and it blew for at least two days...what amazed me was seeing the grass held down ..flat like someone was holding it there. That was a new one for me...

You take care ..and since I dont know do you have the severe winters there we have here????I will picture you in autumn...anna

"Rain"

 

When it rains 
The soft grey sky 
Drifts to the ground 
Brown rivulets 
Trickle away 
Trickle away 
Washing sadness down 
Weather vanes 
Weep and turn 
Weep and turn 
Forgetting in the damp and grey 
That by and by 
The sun will shine 
Sun will shine 
By and by  
The sun will shine.   

Louise Rill, e-poems.org   

It rained all day here.   Nice and gray.  Came across this website 
while surfing around.   

~Marj

drops of summer rain

collect and slip slowly down

broken girders

With all the talk about 9/11 and who's to blame it reminded me of this poem that I wrote on 9/11/01. The drops of summer rain represent tears from heaven and broken girders represent the people/buildings that perished on that day. Does it really matter who's to blame?

Thanks so much for the poems..While I dont like a cold winter rain I do love what I call a soft rain. Scrawler your words are so expressive of that terrible event. I know I wrote two poems about it..and I cant imagine anyone not being affected by such an horrific thing.

I will say one thing here and I guess it should be said in another discussion ..IF Mr Clarke was SO SURE.. then he failed his country.. this is a country where you can tell the newspapers, TV etc your opinion even if it disagrees with the President and the whole of congress and the CIA AND FBI...funny he is only now saying this when he is selling a book...IMHO anna

Scrawler! That is just great. Says it all. Thanks for giving it to us.

I wondered about that also, Anna.

Anna I guess Clarke did say those things when speaking with his staff, and in his briefing of the President. That was, after all, his job.

SOMETIMES

Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; and the crops don't fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man; decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.

SHEENAGH PUGH

Trevor.

I have been busy getting ready to leave here on the 9th of April ..my youngest is getting married and she has rented a large house in North Carolina on the Outer Banks...it will be a small private wedding since it will be a second one for both. The grooms mother will be staying with me before and after our week there..so I HAVE TO CLEAN MY HOUSE! Must be a poem for that somewhere!

I want to say I feel strongly I should have kept my statement out of this discussion and apologize for putting it in. I would have returned to delete it but my computer took that moment to misbehave. This is a discussion on poetry and many who come here say they find it a serene place.

Trevor it was good to see you here and with a thoughtful poem to share. It is good to remember that everything isnt always bad...and there is hope ..and I love the last line..."The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you."

anna

"I HAVE TO CLEAN MY HOUSE Must be a poem for that somewhere"

I googled and found two:

<B?

 
Dust If You Must 

Author unknown 

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better 
To paint a picture, or write a letter, 
Bake a cake, or plant a seed; 
Ponder the difference between want and need? 

Dust if you must, but there's not much time, 
With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb; 
Music to hear, and books to read; 
Friends to cherish, and life to lead. 

Dust if you must, but the world's out there 
With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair; 
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain, 
This day will not come around again. 

Dust if you must, but bear in mind, 
Old age will come and it's not kind. 
And when you go (and go you must) 
You, yourself, will make more dust. 

Remember, a house becomes a home when you can write 
"I love you" on the furniture.....

I really had a good laugh at all that sage advice. Especially since years ago I was dusting my living room and had finished everything but the coffee table when the mail arrived. Among my mail was a book I had been waiting for. How I wanted to start reading it immediately but there on the coffee table was my dustcloth and Pledge. I picked up the cloth and looked at the dust on the table and began a conversation ..perhaps an ultimatium..to the dust and the table... " It seems I have seen you here before. Didnt I dust you last week? And the week before? God just had nothing to do with you when he finished creation and dropped you on earth to annoy women. I bet Eve tried to get rid of you too and look here you are annoying me! Well if you have been here that long you can just wait for me to remove you! My motto for the future shall be "LET THE DUST LIE" and it still remains my motto...so you see why I have to clean house before a guest arrives. A note a dear friend who was a fanatic about housekeeping ..tried to commit suicide once when she had spent the day cleaning house, preparing a wonderful meal for dinner and finishing a pair of shorts for her son..She took a nap ( well deserved ) to awake to a house in complete disorder, the salad she had made for dinner consumed by her children and their friends.(teenagers) and her son annoucing he had given his friend the shorts since his mom would make him another. Her husband found her unconcious when he arrived home from an overdose of tranquilizers. When it was allowed I visited her in the hospital ...and told her my story.. she laughed so hard and until her death we always ended our letters with my motto....so thanks and thanks for that poem..and I think just like that poet..the dust will be here after I am dead and gone but I hope my poetry, my stories, my painting and my attitude will live on in my children and grandchildren. As I told my DIL when they married my sons. THIS IS ONE MIL who will NEVER criticize your house keeping.......anna

After reading the poem you posted Joan I went to google and asked for poems about dust..This one by Rupert Brooke caught my eye and am posting it here..anna
Dust

Rupert Brooke

When the white flame in us is gone, And we that lost the world's delight Stiffen in darkness, left alone To crumble in our separate night;

When your swift hair is quiet in death, And through the lips corruption thrust Has still'd the labour of my breath - When we are dust, when we are dust !

Not dead, not undesirous yet, Still sentient, still unsatisfied, We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit, Around the places where we died,

And dance as dust before the sun, And light of foot and unconfined, Hurry from road to road, and run About the errands of the wind.

And every mote, on earth or air, Will speed and gleam, down later days, And like a secret pilgrim fare By eager and invisible ways,

Nor ever rest, nor ever lie, Till, beyond thinking, out of view, One mote of all the dust that's I Shall meet one atom that was you.

Then in some garden hush'd from wind, Warm in a sunset's afterglow, The lovers in the flowers will find A sweet and strange unquiet grow

Upon the peace; and, past desiring, So high a beauty in the air, And such a light, and such a quiring, And such a radiant ecstasy there,

They'll know not if it's fire, or dew, Or out of earth, or in the height, Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue, Or two that pass, in light, to light,

Out of the garden, higher, higher. . . . But in that instant they shall learn The shattering ecstasy of our fire, And the weak passionless hearts will burn

And faint in that amazing glow, Until the darkness close above; And they will know - poor fools, they'll know! One moment, what it is to love.

Trevor! I love that "sometimes".

Hey, that dust poem is great. Thanks Joan. My motto exactly, Anna.

And your comments on the other were just fine. What is a board if it isn't real and timely!

And may the wedding be ultra-lovely. What a special place to hold it.

Amazing poem on dust!! Poetry makes the beauty in everything come alive.

May the wedding be beautiful. A wonderful time for the mother of the bride, but tense and scary too!!! you are forgiven in advance for anything you do or don't do.

When my daughter got married I told myself only two things were really important: that they actually get married and that everybody still like each other after it was over. Everything else was just stuff. That helped me through all the wedding hassles and jitters.

I am so absolutely in agreement .. dust is there forever .. we really only move it don't we. A friend sent "Dust if you Must" to me quite recently .. made me feel so much better about how remiss I can be.

To cause a little laugh .. I have this poem by a New Zealand poet .. the late Denis Glover.

ELECTRIC LOVE

My love is like a dynamo
With woven wire for hair,
And when she brushes it at night
The sparks run crackling there.

Oh, she is the magnetic field
In which I pass my day,
And she will always be to me
Electric in her way.,

No insulated force is she
Galvanic rather, seeing
Hers is the current keeping bright
My filament of being

Oh yes, my love's a dynamo
Who charges all the air;
My love is an Electrolux*
Who sings upon the stair.

a vacuum cleaner! Talking of cleaning and dusting house made me remember it.

One of my favourite but sad books when I was a child was Charles Kingsley's WATER BABIES. I think this poem from him is quite well known.

Song from "THE WATER BABIES'

When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green,
And every goose a swan, lad
And every lass a queen.
The hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away,
Young blood must have its course lad
And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad
And all the trees are brown,
And all the sport is stale, lad
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among,
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.

.... Charles Kingsley

Charles Kingsley has written some of my favourite poems .. "The Three Fishers" is one so true in all its sadness .. another "A Farewell". I'm not a sad person but I feel I need to know how others have lived and looking back in time there was a lot of sadness in lives. I think that Charles Kingsley's writings influenced a lot of social thinking for the better.

Happy Wedding Day Annafair .. a wonderful occasion for you all as a family.

JoanK .. MarjV .. Anna .. Scrawler I feel that we are as one in many of our feelings.

Amanda Barker ~ Edgar Lee Masters (1868 - 1950) from Spoon River Anthology

Henry got me with child, Knowing that I could not bring forth life Without losing my own. In my youth therefore I entered the portals of dust Traveler, it is believed in the village where I lived That Henry loved me with a husband's love, But I proclaim from the dust That he slew me to gratify his hatred.

Oh!!! MARJORIE!!!!

I had not thought of Water Babies in years. As soon as I read that I could see the cover on the book I had as a girl. oh me ! I am trying to figure out what the emotion is that I am feeling?????

And sad is just another emotion in our lives that we experience or learn to live with. I am not a sad person all the time but there are events that cause it...and like you say, we do need to hear how others live it.

That Electrolux poem is funny as can be.

The poem by Masters is a strong statement!

~Marj

The Spoon River Anthology The original work was published as a serialized version in 1914-15.

In the Anthology, the dead in an Illinois graveyard relay, in matter-of-fact but haunting tones, details from their lives. The Anthology was original, provocative and influentual. Its literary significance has been compared with Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass [published in 1855].

Masters wove a thread of partial reality throughout the Anthology. Many of the characters and their experiences can be identified with former residents of Lewistown and Petersburg, Illinois. Masters' used his childhood experiences in these two communities, as a basis for the poems.

http://www.outfitters.com/illinois/fulton/masters.html

 

I did not know this or forgot  : ) 
~Marj

Probably the same emotion that we all, who read 'Water Babies' felt. I was about 10 years old when I was given the book as a present. For months I kept on thinking about what I had read. With sorrow. And then happiness that Tom and Ellie became together again. The fascinating names of Mrs Bedonebyasyoudid and Mrs Doasyouwouldbedoneby. I can see Tom now .. firstly all black with soot and then looking beautiful, clean and angelic under water with bubbles all around him.

MarjV, and the folks in Maquon, IL are still worrying over exactly who Masters was singling out. They do not readily claim that Masters is writing about their cemetery.

(I live about 20 miles from there.)

As soon as I read that I had to go and post this one...It was the first from the anthology I knew and probably most of you know it too...By the way I loved all the poems and the one about the vacuum sweeper..makes me laugh since once I had a dinner party and left the vacuum out in the den..told my guests I was going to make a flapper in red satin with black hose to cover it and use it for "Art".....now you know how bad I am LOL

There is a lot of sadness in life. Most of us just accept it and dont dwell on it ..Not that we arent pained by it but I think we feel how can you truly appreciate a sunny day until you have weathered a stormy one....

Here is what I recall from the Anthology....And I bet most of you do too...anna

Anne Rutledge Out of me unworthy and unknown The vibrations of deathless music; "With malice toward none, with charity for all." Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions, And the beneficent face of a nation Shining with justice and truth. I am Anne Rutledge who sleep beneath these weeds, Beloved in life of Abraham Lincoln, Wedded to him, not through union, But through separation. Bloom forever, O Republic, From the dust of my bosom!

Meeting at Night

The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
in fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-sented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And the blue spurt of a lighted match.
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

ROBERT BROWNING

Edgar Lee Masters (1868–1950). Spoon River Anthology. 1916.

 

15. Mrs. Benjamin Pantier   

I KNOW that he told that I snared his soul    
With a snare which bled him to death.    
And all the men loved him,    
And most of the women pitied him.    
But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes,          5  
And loathe the smell of whiskey and onions.    
And the rhythm of Wordsworth’s “Ode” runs in your ears,    
While he goes about from morning till night    
Repeating bits of that common thing;    
“Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?”    
And then, suppose:    
You are a woman well endowed,    
And the only man with whom the law and morality    
Permit you to have the marital relation    
Is the very man that fills you with disgust    
Every time you think of it—while you think of it    
Every time you see him?    
That’s why I drove him away from home    
To live with his dog in a dingy room    
Back of his office.   

I surely giggled at this poem from the Spoon River.   And what 
a different love than 3kings posted above.    
~Marj

Trevor that is one of my favorite Browning poems..thanks for posting it ...I love everything about it , I have always been able to picutre the whole scene in my mind and as a young girl wished for that kind of special relationship ( Which I did find) perhaps poems like that helped me to know what to look for......and JoanK yes the spoonriver anthology has a lot of interesting speakers...I giggled too at that one...thanks for posting .. reminds me of a list of true words from old tombstones...anna

Minerva Jones ~ Edgar Lee Masters

I am Minerva, the village poetess,

Hooted at, jeered at by the Yahoos of the street

For my heavy body, cock-eye, and rolling walk,

And all the more when "Butch" Weldy

Captured me after a brutal hunt.

He left me to my fate with Doctor Meyers;

And I sank into death, growing numb from the feet up,

Like one stepping deeper and deeper into a stream of ice,

Will some one go to the village newspaper,

And gather into a book the verses I wrote? -

I thirsted so for love!

I hungered so for life!

It wasn't me that posted I hadn't been familiar with Spoon River Anthology, which I see is my loss. Thank you all for bringing it to me.

On a much (much, much) lower level, I somehow got my picture in the local paper today with an Elvis impersonator. He is pointing at me and singing "You ain't Nothin' but a Houn' Dog". I resisted (without too much trouble) the impulse to post the lyrics here.

I am so sorry I didnt go back and check...but thanks any way ..that's what happens when you rely on an aging memory! the weather has turned very cool here and I find myself becomeing sleepy early ...with spring last week I was so energized...back later with a poem..I took a nap this evening and slept for 3 hours ..hope I can go back to sleep when it is bedtime...take care ..anna OH and you should have posted those lyrics ...I dont think I ever understood all the words ......and to think you are a celebrity ...Joan and with an Elvis impersonator ..did you hear the joke ( in my email this am) Americans are really strange they think God is dead and Elvis is alive..sorry but when I read that I do have to laugh...

Oh Joan, how cool!

Hey, I like that one, Scrawler. I'm so glad to be reading some of them , Also on the website.

And if you go here you can read the lyrics and sing along because there is a midi also!!!!!!! Great fun! And even wiggle those hips a bit. LOL

And so in honor of our Joan: http://www.smickandsmodoo.com/aaa/1957/hounddog.htm

And so - will I hear the songsters from all over the world!

I never understood the words and they are really silly but they made me laugh...in fact I am sitting here chuckling...thanks for that post. yeah! anna

I did google and found a poem about April and here it is...anna
April by John Greenleaf Whittier

'Tis the noon of the spring-time, yet never a bird In the wind-shaked elm or the maple is heard; For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow, And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow; Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white; On south-sloping brooksides should smile in the light, O'er the cold winter-beds of their late-waking roots The frosty flake eddies, the ice crystal shoots; And, longing for light, under wind-driven heaps, Round the boles of the pine-wood the ground-laurel creeps, Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers, With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers!

We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south! For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy mouth; For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God, Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod! Up our long river-valley, for days, have not ceased The wail and the shriek of the bitter northeast,- Raw and chill, as if winnowed through ices and snow, All the way from the land of the wild Esquimau,- Until all our dreams of the land of the blest, Like that red hunter's, turn to the sunny southwest.

O soul of the spring-time, its light and its breath, Bring warmth to this coldness, bring life to this death; Renew the great miracle; let us behold The stone from the mouth of the sepulchre rolled, And Nature, like Lazarus, rise, as of old! Let our faith, which in darkness and coldness has lain, Revive with the warmth and the brightness again, And in blooming of flower and budding of tree The symbols and types of our destiny see; The life of the spring-time, the life of the whole, And, as sun to the sleeping earth, love to the soul!

Lovely. "And, as sun to the sleeping earth, love to the soul!"

Thanks for the music, Marj. We all sang to it and laughed and laughed. Maybe Elvis will replace Mozart as my favorite composer (not!)

Joan .. are you and I competing for Elvis's affections? Not really I know .. just having a smile, as when I was in Brixham, Devon for the annual trawler races last year .. the social get together in the evening was entertained by the Elvis look alike down there (a fisherman in real life) .. it appeared that I was the only "foreigner" there ( well! an expat from down under), so was picked on to dance with "Elvis". I haven't dared to show the picture in photos .. I only will if I have company. In the meantime I shall wriggle my hips (in private) to "Hound dog"

Good to have a smile. Scrawler .. I loved Minerva Jones .. I have a poet friend who reminds me very much of Minerva. How real!!

Anna I too love the words 'as sun to the sleeping earth, love to the soul.' Likened to something lying dormant in our inner self ..just waiting to be awakened with love.

Edith Holden wrote in her 'Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady'....

I come I come! Ye have called me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds that tell of the violets' birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth.
The fisher is out on the sunny sea
And the reaindeer bounds thro' the pasture free.
And the pine has a fringe of softer green
And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

by Hutlemans .. rather intrigued by this poet for I know him not.

Marg: your Elvis was probably a better Elvis than mine. But hey, any Elvis.

A red bellied woodpecker was clibing a tree out back and calling. That sent me googling for woodpecker poems.Didn't find one I liked about the red-bellied, but the red-headed gets a part in this poem by Carl Sandburg.

River Roads

by

Carl Sandburg

LET the crows go by hawking their caw and caw. They have been swimming in midnights of coal mines somewhere. Let ’em hawk their caw and caw.

Let the woodpecker drum and drum on a hickory stump. He has been swimming in red and blue pools somewhere hundreds of years And the blue has gone to his wings and the red has gone to his head. Let his red head drum and drum.

Let the dark pools hold the birds in a looking-glass. And if the pool wishes, let it shiver to the blur of many wings, old swimmers from old places.

Let the redwing streak a line of vermillion on the green wood lines. And the mist along the river fix its purple in lines of a woman’s shawl on lazy shoulders.

I agree Joan .. any Elvis .. mine wasn't that good either but we got a laugh and just had to share it with you.

In England last year I lived by the River Wyre in Lancashire .. I saw many crows .. and I thought the woodpeckers were fascinating. Such an active poem Joan ..

Now in Washington is Cherry Blossom Festival time. When I worked, I would ride past the tidal basin and cherry blossoms every morning early before the people got there. Now, it is difficult for me to get to see them. So I decided to make my own Cherry blossom festival by visiting my old friends, Japanese haiku.

In Japan, as in Washington, people go crazy at cherry blossom time. People come from all over to see them:

 
Their hearts 
And the capitol a-bustle, 
With cherry blossoms everywhere. 
           Chora 

Everyone going into 
Cherry blossoms, coming out of  
Cherry blossoms. 
        Chora 

Under the cherry-blossoms, 
None are 
Utter strangers. 
      Issa 

Twenty miles away where I live, it is different. The blossoms bloom later and the experience is more solitary. 
 
In the intervals 
of rough wind and rain, 
The first cherry blossoms. 
      Chora 

The wild cherry: 
Stones also are singing their songs 
In the valley stream. 
     Onitsura 

The spring night 
Has come to an end, 
With dawn on the cherry blossoms. 
      Basho 

But they still lead to reflection: 
 
What a strange thing, 
To be thus alive 
Beneath the cherry blossoms. 
     Issa 

And the experience is just as brief: 
 

Evening cherry blossoms: 
Today also now belongs 
To the past. 
     Issa 

Stillness: 
The sound of the petals 
Sifting down together. 
     Chora 

Simply trust: 
Do not also the petals flutter down 
Just like that? 
     Issa

Only once was I in DC when the cherry blossoms were in bloom..and it was breathtaking. Fortunately for me we have a Japanese computer plant about 5 minutes away and the whole of that area is planted with the cherry trees. So I have my own show here. Along with the Bradford pears and the flowering almond spring is always lovely here. I noticed today when I was out the dogwood is just beginning to open. I hope the weather warms again before they do.

I loved all the haiku..but I think my favorite was Evening cherry blossoms: Today also now belongs To the past.

That touches me ..and makes me feel both exultant to see the blossoms but sad it will be another year before they return. anna

Spring was always special...and I have lived lots of places...April in Paris and Spring in England and the tulip fields in the Netherlands...Okinawa, a number of states in the USA so any poem about April is special but this one I am sure is known to all ..and loved by many...anna
Home Thoughts from Abroad

Robert Browning (1812–89)

I OH, to be in England now that April ’s there And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England—now!

II And after April, when Mary follows And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge— That ’s the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over Lest you should think he never could re-capture The first fine careless rapture! And, though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children’s dower, Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Those haikus are just right. No flowering trees here as yet.

 

"The first of April, some do say, 
Is set apart for All Fools' Day. 
But why the people call it so, 
Nor I, nor they themselves do know. 
But on this day are people sent 
On purpose for pure merriment." 
Poor Robin's Almanac (1790)   

This verse is recorded in Poor Robin's Almanack in 1760 and  
echoes the general feeling about April Fools' Day  
before and since.    

A popular day, but really only half-day, for traditionally, 
 jokes have to be played before noon,  
after which the victim was entitled to turn the tables by shouting,   

April Fool's gone past, 
And you're the biggest fool at last.

I like the line- 'the petals sifting down' in the haikus

Dawn ~ William Carlos Williams

Ecastic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings- beating color up into it at a far edge, - beating it, beating it stirring it into warmth quickening in it a spreading change, - bursting wildly against it as dividing the horizon, a heavy sun lifts himself - is lifted - bit by bit above the edge of things, - runs free at last out into the open - ! lumbering glorified in full release upward - songs cease.

You guys haven't lived until you've been woken up at 3:00 in the morning by a woodpecker pecking on an alumnium lampost outside your bedroom window in the middle of a hot summer night. - "with metallic clinkins" reminds me of my deranged wookpecker.

Oh ScrawlerAnne, did the woodpecker stop at dawn? What memeory. Poem is really typical of othe dawning--- our birds start their weird predawn song- and then it stops .

~Marj

Scrawler: I love the poem. One year a red-bellied woodpecker decided the aluminum frame of our bedroom window made a perfect drumming post. It did, too. The noise reverborated through our bedroom every morning that Spring. My love of birds was tested to the limit. I forgave him, because it was the same species that started my love of birds, 35 years ago. I saw him on a tree, and said "What's that -- I have to know". The many hours of pleasure I've gotten from watching birds since made up for the noise (my husband is not so sure).

Did that litle bird tap out the Woody Woodpecker Song .. if I remember rightly it was Danny Kaye who sang it so cleverly .. but I do worry about Eb and Flo .. (talking about noises i=at dawn).. it was always reassuring to me that they had made it home. The noise was like that of a donkey braying .. occasionally when a visitor used the bathroom they would come out remarking that perhaps we should get a plumber in to fix the funny noises in there.

Friend Barbara Beatty sent me her latest little book of poems . Some really nice ones too. Here's one I quite enjoyed .. Barbara wrote it after spending a day with me up on the hill here.

View of Warkworth from Marjorie's Garden

Vistas of blue and gold and green,
Mountain's grandeur darkly seen;
Floating cloud gleaming silver
Our minds submerged as in nature's river.
Glorious the country, wide and fair
As wine, the air fresh and clear.
Lowing herd winds slowly below,
Driven by tiny farmer in tow
Quiet and still as the breath of heaven,
Glory all about to behold
Care from our minds magically driven
In all this evening gleaming gold.
Vision of wonder and beauty remains
In all the green and gold grass plains.
New Zealand stretches miles to the sky,
Our minds set free as we gaze on high.

Barbara Beatty .. Auckland

fANTASTIC: how lucky you are.

Yes, I found a site that had a tape of penguins. They do sound very much like donkeys.

to come here and read the poems you share and your thoughts as well. I dont know about anyone else but when I come here I feel I am sitting in my sunroom and you are there and we are sharing our lives...our thoughts and since I am hostess I have tea and cookies for us all. The birds are at the feeders and I have my book handy so we can tell what kind they are. The birdbath has a bird bathing in the fresh water with others waiting in line. I am thinking I will put up a small sign just for fun..saying Baths ..Free for a song!

We have woodpeckers here although much to my sorrow I now longer hear them but I can see them. AND yes I could NEVER understand why they would peck on aluminum..In Tennessee we had a wrought iron filigreed post on the porch near our bedroom window and I would be awakened each dawn with it pecking at the circles that did look a bit like knotholes. Here we had them peck at the aluminum siding and the trees..I have had both the crested redhaired woodpecker and the downy and I am told I have an owl..One feeder is near the windows of the sunroom and I can see the birds up close. I must feed them well since they all look so fat and sassy I am beginning to beleive they are becoming obese....Thank you all ..and we are all so blessed to have such beautiful friends, gardens, birds, and memories...anna

MArjorie I especially loved the poem about your gardens. My oldest lives in the BLue Ridge Mts of Virginia and relatives lived on farms in the Ozark mts of Missouri..my mind is full of memories from both places...and her poem evoked them all.

PS this is a song I have no memory when I first heard it but have sung it all my life to myself and to my children and now my grandchildren

 
Under the window is my garden 
Where sweet, sweet flowers grow 
And in the pear tree dwells a robin. 
The dearest bird I know. 
Tho' I peep out betimes in the morning 
Still the flowers are up the first  
And then I try to talk to robin  
Who perhaps would chat if he durst!