Author Topic: Poetry Page  (Read 373993 times)

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4880 on: December 17, 2016, 07:10:39 PM »
Our Poetry Page Celebrates
The December Holidays


Our Poetry Page has been a haven for those of us who listen to words that opens our heart and stirs our imagination. We tread lightly when acknowledging the moving sound that touches someone's inner-self...



Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness.

Mary Oliver

Welcome! Please share
December's Holiday and Early Winter Poems.

Discussion Leaders: Barb

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4881 on: December 17, 2016, 07:12:22 PM »



For there in his evergreen dress he stood,

A pointed fir in the midst of the wood!

His branches were sweet with the balsam smell,

His needles were green when the white snow fell.

And always contented and happy was he,

The very best kind of a Christmas tree.

nlhome

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4882 on: December 17, 2016, 07:49:22 PM »
These lovely poems set me thinking and reminiscing. When I was maybe 7 or 8, a long time ago, I attended a one-room school in a rural area. We walked about half a mile to the village proper and rehearsed our Christmas program in the community hall above the general store. Then one evening right before Christmas, we would have our Christmas program there, which, public school or not, included a pageant, lots of holiday songs and recitations. 60+ years ago, but I still remember this one that I recited: (The Christmas Story - no author that I know of, just part of a recitation book that teachers used back then.)

THE brightest tale of Christmas
The world will ever know
Was told one radiant morning,
Long ages, dears, ago.
The shades of night had fallen,
Just as they fell to-day;
But morning brought a sunshine
That never passed away.
For, in a' lowly manger,
A wondrous life had birth;
A life so pure and gentle
It gladdened all the earth.
That life is our best sunshine,
In lessons, or in play;
’Tis well we should remember
The Child of Christmas Day.

I was terrified, and I was such a meek child I wonder if anyone could hear me.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4883 on: December 18, 2016, 11:52:45 PM »
Lovely memory - there will not be many of us that have those kind of memories - it is all so different now - I wonder if the sense of awe is still there for the youngsters today - for most of us we did not receive gifts during the year except for our birthday so the whole celebration of Christmas was one wonder after the other and we did have pageants and we sang - even in the movie I remember we sang waiting for the film to start - I do not hear that there are school plays any longer - I bet some churches still put on nativity plays but no more community halls for Christmas as we moved to an eclectic view of God. Ah so, do not see that it improved relations or behavior in this nation by removing everything Christian. 

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4884 on: December 19, 2016, 12:16:55 AM »
A Babe is born, all of a maid,
To bring salvation unto us;
No more are we to sing afraid,
Veni Creator Spiritus.

At Bethlehem, that blessèd place,
The Child of bliss then born He was;
Him aye to serve, God give us grace,
O Lux beata Trinitas.

There came three kings out of the East,
To worship there that King so free;
With gold and myrrh and frankincense,
A solis ortus cardine.

The shepherds heard an angel cry,
A merry song that night sang he,
"Why are ye all so sore aghast?"
Iam lucis orto sidere.

The angel came down with a cry,
A fair and joyful song sang he,
All in the worship of that child,
Gloria Tibi Domine.






PatH

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4885 on: December 21, 2016, 05:14:45 PM »
A Christmas Tree

Star
If you are
A love compassionate,
You will walk with us this year.
We face a glacial distance, who are here
Huddld
At your feet.

William Burford

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4886 on: December 30, 2016, 03:28:36 PM »
Great Pat - I think it is called Concrete poetry when the lines form a shape of the poem - this is a gift - thanks

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4887 on: December 30, 2016, 03:33:31 PM »
This bit of Yeats, The Wanderings of Oisin is just too perfect to describe the end of a year in it's dying flame.

But now the moon like a white rose shone
In the pale west, and the sun's rim sank,
And clouds arrayed their rank on rank
About his fading crimson ball:
The floor of Almhuin's hosting hall
Was not more level than the sea,
As, full of loving fantasy,
And with low murmurs, we rode on,
Where many a trumpet-twisted shell
That in immortal silence sleeps
Dreaming of her own melting hues,
Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,
Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.
But now a wandering land breeze came
And a far sound of feathery quires;
It seemed to blow from the dying flame,
They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.



Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4888 on: December 30, 2016, 04:50:47 PM »
That is a perfect picture to go with the poem, Barb. It really emphasizes the mood of the poem.

PatH

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4889 on: December 30, 2016, 06:08:07 PM »
It is indeed a perfect match for the poem.  Barb, I don't know how you find all these pictures; I sure appreciate it.

I was also reminded, and I suspect Frybabe was too, of a certain classic sci-fi film.  Gave me a chuckle.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4890 on: January 01, 2017, 11:52:05 PM »






First January is here,

With eyes that keenly glow—

A frost-mailed warrior striding

A shadowy steed of snow…





Edgar Fawcett
The Masque of Months..1878

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4891 on: January 02, 2017, 03:06:06 PM »



The Old Year has gone.
Let the dead past bury its own dead.
The New Year has taken possession of
the clock of time.
All hail the duties and possibilities of
the coming twelve months!

Mkaren557

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4892 on: January 03, 2017, 05:49:02 PM »
I know this poem has been done and redone, but it is my favorite winter poem.  In fact I took a quiz today to find out which poem really goes to my soul.  I am a New England woman.



Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
BY ROBERT FROST


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.

I know because every teacher of poetry I ever had told me that there are layers and layers of meaning in every Frost poem..  In this one, first of all for me is the image.  I guess it does go to my soul


BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4893 on: January 03, 2017, 06:14:24 PM »
thanks Karen - the line that hits home for me - The darkest evening of the year. - oh how I love the dark - I love the night and wish I could be awake all day and all night because I like mornings and hot afternoons and the evening breeze telling me the time in summer but best of all I like the dark - the sounds - and for me the feeling of freedom to do what I wish and not have a phone or demand trailing after me - I love watching the animals at night - about 2: in the morning when the deer slowly trail in a line to their grazing field across the street in the school yard, to me so much more magical than seeing birds and animals skitter and sail through the day - and so, snowy night or not - to me stopping at a quiet space and listening to the night is lovely, not so much dark [thoughts or feelings] but deep.

PatH

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4894 on: January 04, 2017, 12:14:41 PM »
That's always been a favorite of mine too.  My favorite line would be  "The woods are lovely, dark and deep." Or maybe the whole last stanza.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4895 on: January 05, 2017, 04:11:28 PM »


Brew me a cup for a winter’s night.
For the wind howls loud, and the furies fight;
Spice it with love and stir it with care,
And I’ll toast your bright eyes, my sweetheart fair.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4896 on: January 07, 2017, 03:51:46 PM »

                           Mother of Inspiration

Mother of inspiration,
she moves me to the well of deep love.
She is the poem that runs from my quill,
the dawning muse that awakens tired night
and stirs the soft bees from their flowery beds.
Burning fire at the heart of the temple,
she awakens mother loving wisdom
in lost sleeping hearts.
Children cling to her leg
knowing that she is the mother of lovers,
the spirit that watches over them by night.
Most angelic voice of the feminine mysteries,
she is the storyteller
who caresses the words of the bards,
from lips as tender as petals of the rose.
All words fail to tell of her grace
and the mysteries held in her every breath.
Yet the gods and poets strive to tell of her beauty in vain,
as the words fall like petals
tossed at her soft perfect feet.
They sing her songs
that the world might understand living divinity,
that the poem might give a glimpse of the pathway
illuminated by the footseps of a sacred priestess.
The generosity of her presence
fills the lives of all that walk in her midst.
Mother of care, sister of truth, daughter of dark and light,
she marries the broken heart of time in her every motion,
her black wings illuminating the dark
way with glints of rainbow as she turns.
She forever lives in the temples of long forgotten memory,
with one foot in our world
that we might for a moment remember.
With gratitude the sages bow before her beauty
in silence at last,
knowing that the words that they reach for in vain
are spoken by her very presence

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4897 on: January 15, 2017, 09:48:30 PM »



I love to watch the fine mist of the night come on,
The windows and the stars illumined, one by one,
The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily,
And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see
The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass;
And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass,
I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight,
And build me stately palaces by candlelight.


Charles Baudelaire - Les Fleurs du Mal

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4898 on: February 24, 2017, 02:34:03 PM »
The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter
Translated and Adapted by Ezra Pound, 1885 - 1972

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me.  I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
   As far as Cho-fu-Sa.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4899 on: March 11, 2017, 11:55:27 AM »
Pear Tree - Rachel Bluwstein

    Conspiracy of spring
    a man awakes and through the window sees
    a pear tree blossoming,
    and instantly the mountain weighing on his heart
    dissolves and disappears.

    O you will understand! Is there a grieving man
    who can hold on stubbornly
    to a single flower that withered
    in last year’s autumn gale,
    when spring consoles and with a smile
    presents him with a giant wreath of flowers
    at his very window?

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4900 on: March 11, 2017, 01:29:46 PM »
Pilgrimage

Natasha Trethewey, 1966
            United States Poet Laureate in 2012 and again in 2014

Vicksburg, Mississippi

Here, the Mississippi carved
            its mud-dark path, a graveyard

for skeletons of sunken riverboats.
            Here, the river changed its course,

turning away from the city
            as one turns, forgetting, from the past—

the abandoned bluffs, land sloping up
            above the river’s bend—where now

the Yazoo fills the Mississippi’s empty bed.
            Here, the dead stand up in stone, white

marble, on Confederate Avenue. I stand
            on ground once hollowed by a web of caves;

they must have seemed like catacombs,
            in 1863, to the woman sitting in her parlor,

candlelit, underground. I can see her
            listening to shells explode, writing herself

into history, asking what is to become
            of all the living things in this place?

This whole city is a grave. Every spring—
            Pilgrimage—the living come to mingle

with the dead, brush against their cold shoulders
            in the long hallways, listen all night

to their silence and indifference, relive
            their dying on the green battlefield.

At the museum, we marvel at their clothes—
            preserved under glass—so much smaller

than our own, as if those who wore them
            were only children. We sleep in their beds,

the old mansions hunkered on the bluffs, draped
            in flowers—funereal—a blur

of petals against the river’s gray.
            The brochure in my room calls this

living history. The brass plate on the door reads
            Prissy’s Room. A window frames

the river’s crawl toward the Gulf. In my dream,
            the ghost of history lies down beside me,

rolls over, pins me beneath a heavy arm.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4901 on: March 11, 2017, 01:35:09 PM »
Window

Carl Sandburg, 1878 - 1967

Night from a railroad car window
Is a great, dark, soft thing
Broken across with slashes of light.


Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4902 on: April 05, 2017, 06:49:04 AM »
John Greenleaf Whittier

 AT EVENTIDE.

     Poor and inadequate the shadow-play
     Of gain and loss, of waking and of dream,
     Against life's solemn background needs must seem
     At this late hour. Yet, not unthankfully,
     I call to mind the fountains by the way,
     The breath of flowers, the bird-song on the spray,
     Dear friends, sweet human loves, the joy of giving
     And of receiving, the great boon of living
     In grand historic years when Liberty
     Had need of word and work, quick sympathies
     For all who fail and suffer, song's relief,
     Nature's uncloying loveliness; and chief,
     The kind restraining hand of Providence,
     The inward witness, the assuring sense
     Of an Eternal Good which overlies
     The sorrow of the world, Love which outlives
     All sin and wrong, Compassion which forgives
     To the uttermost, and Justice whose clear eyes
     Through lapse and failure look to the intent,
     And judge our frailty by the life we meant.

     1878.



Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4903 on: April 27, 2017, 06:32:39 AM »
Not the greatest of poems, perhaps, but when I ran across it, it reminded me of Eloise who was a treasured member of SeniorNet and then SeniorLearn.

From A Treasury of Canadian Verse, selected and edited by Theodore H. Rand (1900)


AT QUEBEC

QUEBEC, the grey old city on the hill,
  Lies with a golden glory on her head,
  Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still,
  Of other days and all her mighty dead.
The white doves perch upon the cannons grim,
  The flowers bloom where once did run a tide
  Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim
  Above the battlefield so grim and wide.
Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow
  Of pride, of tenderness—her stirring past—
  The strife, the valor, of the long ago
Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast,
  She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace,
  A wondrous softness on her grey old face.
              by Jean Blewett