Author Topic: Poetry Page  (Read 434564 times)

Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4920 on: August 02, 2017, 12:48:49 PM »
Welcome to our Poetry Page.

Our haven for those who listen to words that open our heart, imagination, and our feelings about the poems we share - This is our continuing tradition. Please join us!

Birds and Wind


Bird on the Wind / Wind on the Bird
The aim of Symbolism in art is to capture more absolute truths which could only be accessed by indirect methods. It is what a thing means or symbolizes for us that is often what we are judging.

Rising and soaring through the skies, birds in myth and legend are the symbols of power and freedom. Throughout the ages, birds link the human world to the divine, to forces beyond the normal world; magical or miraculous realms that lie beyond ordinary experience.

The wind is stronger then all, but is blind and lost. It's sad and in pain, but it doesn't know why. It carries thousands of years with it, countless knowledge and wisdom fly with it, but it has nowhere and nobody to bring it to.

The wind comes and goes, it is soft and strong, it represents freedom but also misdirection, it defines a sense of self and purpose but with no confirmation aside from what you leave in your wake. A key with no hole.

The wind as a god is a power that is capable of communicating a larger-than-life language to those who would hear it


Discussion Leader: BarbStAubrey




I'm going to look up Elizabeth Maua Taylor. I am hoping she did one for each month, this one is really lovely. It is short but says a lot.

Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4921 on: August 02, 2017, 01:13:25 PM »
Huh. The only thing I can find on Ms. Taylor, besides plenty of repeats of her poem, is a page on The Steampunk Writers & Artists Guild.

Oh, and there is a link on Google to the Poetry Page already.

Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4922 on: August 18, 2017, 06:41:27 AM »
I just found this interesting book called Pre-Raphaelite and Other Poets which are lectures given by Lafcadio (what a name) Hearn to his Japanese students of English Literature between 1896 and 1902. John Erskine edited and wrote the introduction. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/55377/55377-h/55377-h.htm The intro is sufficient for me to read further into the book.

Hearn himself was not a poet, but a writer, teacher, and translator whose life was rather eventful. He spent 10 years in New Orleans before moving on to Japan. Humanaties magazine published this interesting article about his life there. https://www.neh.gov/humanities/2012/mayjune/feature/lafcadio-hearn-in-new-orleans He was, however, best known for his books about Japan.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4923 on: August 18, 2017, 11:31:27 AM »
Interesting stuff Frybabe - in the book there is the fable, Shaving of Shagpat and the end of the essay he says,

"Men think that because the world has made one step forward in their time, all illusions are presently going to fade away. This is the greatest of social mistakes that a human being can possibly make. The great sea of error immediately closes again behind the forms that find strength to break out of it. It is just the same as before. One illusion may indeed be eventually destroyed, but another illusion quickly forms behind it. The real truth is that wisdom will be reached when human individuals as well as human society shall have become infinitely more perfect than they now are; and such perfection can scarcely be brought about before another million of years at least."

That is something to contemplate that one illusion destroyed will be replaced by another... hmmm

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4924 on: September 01, 2017, 09:52:02 AM »

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4925 on: September 01, 2017, 10:18:19 AM »
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 clear.
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.













Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4926 on: September 01, 2017, 11:08:39 AM »
That is not a Frost poem I've read before, Barb. The photos that go with it are gorgeous.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4927 on: September 01, 2017, 11:28:33 AM »
here it is Frybabe in his book of Rural Life... https://tinyurl.com/y9awobcd

Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4928 on: September 01, 2017, 05:02:34 PM »
I found it, Barb. I have it in The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem. It is in the Chapter titled "North of Boston".

Here is another apple related poem I found in his volume Mountain Interval (also published in the above with a chapter of the same name) which was published in 1931.

THE COW IN APPLE TIME

Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.

Well, picture that one in your mind's eye.

Project Gutenberg has several of his volumes listed, three of which are on audio.


BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4929 on: September 01, 2017, 06:51:26 PM »
ohhh audio - need to find it - this one has some humor - so looking forward this year to autumn - we really do not get a proper autumn as folks living north or even the upper south but there are more northers (weather that cools and comes down from the north) and for us football takes over an entire community with band practice and tailgate suppers before the game and moms baking treats for after the game and the girls wearing the most outrageous corsages that some moms go into high production to make and others are purchased at the local florist - and then later Halloween which always brings in the day before or after a big rain storm that is the start of cool weather.

In the fall the lantana is blooming that reminds you of chrysanthemums - the deer do not eat lantana where as, chrysanthemums are candy for them. There are lots of concerts in churches as well as the new symphony events - all that before Thanksgiving - tra la. Waiting with baited breath this year. Too much vitriol on TV on Facebook and among those in my own family all over politics - grrrr.

I want to feel joy and grateful for life and do the things that make me feel good and say the things that are uplifting and hope against hope others will respond in kind. Haha my rant for the day...  ;)   

Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4930 on: September 02, 2017, 08:09:21 AM »
I grew Lantana one year. It was a bit spindly. My Mom was fond of geraniums and thought she kept hers very well, that is until her first visit to Florida. She was astounded by the size and lushness of the ones growing in neighborhood gardens everywhere - made hers look a bit puny.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4931 on: October 01, 2017, 06:18:24 PM »
   October - Robert Frost

        O hushed October morning mild,
        Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
        Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
        Should waste them all.
        The crows above the forest call;
        Tomorrow they may form and go.
        O hushed October morning mild,
        Begin the hours of this day slow.
        Make the day seem to us less brief.
        Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
        Beguile us in the way you know.
        Release one leaf at break of day;
        At noon release another leaf;
        One from our trees, one far away.
        Retard the sun with gentle mist;
        Enchant the land with amethyst.
        Slow, slow!
        For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
        Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
        Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
        For the grapes’ sake along the wall.






PatH

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4932 on: October 02, 2017, 07:32:35 PM »
Frost was incredibly good at capturing the feel of the New England scene.  Nice picture pairing, Barb.  You always manage to find good ones.

PatH

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4933 on: October 02, 2017, 08:24:01 PM »
Here's a minimalist fall poem, with a nice sound effect.

Splinter - Carl Sandberg

The voice of the last cricket
across the first frost
is one kind of good-by.
It is so thin a splinter of singing.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4934 on: October 03, 2017, 04:21:59 PM »
This is really nice isn't it...

PatH

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4935 on: October 04, 2017, 10:15:26 AM »
I've had some yesterdays that really could have used that poem.  ;)

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4936 on: October 04, 2017, 11:06:06 AM »
Ah yes, Pat it seems to be the stuff of life - I'm thinking the idea of a fairyland life just does not happen so that half of our reaction is based on the idea is should not be this way...

Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4937 on: October 10, 2017, 07:00:53 AM »
I found this rather intriguing poem in a book called Death the Knight and the Lady: A Ghost Story, by H. De Vere Stacpoole

BALLAD OF THE ARRAS

Lo! where are now these armoured hosts
Mailed for the tourney câp-a-pie,
These dames and damozelles whose ghosts
Make of the past this pagentry?

O sanguine book of History!
Romance with perfume cloaks thy must,
But he who shakes the page may see
—Dust.

Stiff hangs the arras in the gloom;
I turn my head awhile to gaze:
Here lordly stallions fret and fume,
Here streams o'er briar and brake the chase.

Here sounds a horn, here turns a face,
How filled with fires of life and lust!
Wind shakes the arras and betrays
—Dust.

Ephemeral hand inditing this
Great hound that lolls against my knee,
Lips pursed in thought as if to kiss
Regret—full soon the time must be.

When one shall search, but find not ye,
For that dim moth whose labours rust
All forms in time or tapestry
—Dust.

Forth offspring to the perch and then
Clap wings—or fall, if find you must
This saddest fate of books or men
—Dust.


Arras is a rich tapestry designed to hang on a wall. It is also a town in France which was known for its textile arts. The term eventually became rather widely applied to tapestries even though they may not have been loomed there.

The author's name deceives; he was Irish, not Dutch, Belgian or French as I supposed. He was also the author of the popular Blue Lagoon. I believe this is the movie that made Brooke Shields a star.  "Knight/Lady" was one of his early books.


hats

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4938 on: November 02, 2017, 11:42:20 PM »
Don't want to feel like an intruder. I know you have topics started here already. What happened is I began reading "The Shadowy Horses" by Susanna Kearsley. There is a poem by Yeats written after the dedication. The title is "He Bids His Beloved Be At Peace." The words are beautiful. However, I lack an understanding of the poem. If there is any time would some one explain this poem which might not have any thing to do with the season, autumn? I have listened to the poem on a poetry site. Here is a link. I am only interested in he first eight lines. https://www.poemhunter.com/poems/peace/page-1/13831/

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4939 on: November 03, 2017, 05:43:07 AM »
Hats is this the poem you are referring

I HEAR the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,
Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;
The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,
The East her hidden joy before the morning break,
The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,
The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:
O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,
The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:
Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat
Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,
Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,
And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet.

Hats I have not read the book although I have read this author - often an author sees something in a poem that will enlarge the story being told - like all poems, there are layers and depths therefore, many can see other explanations within the poem.

To me there are two words in the poem that is the crux of the poem  - tumult and vanity -
The second meaning for Vanity says it all

tu-mult
    confusion or disorder.
                        "the whole neighborhood was in a state of fear and tumult"
     synonyms:   turmoil, confusion, disorder, disarray, unrest, chaos, turbulence, mayhem, maelstrom, havoc, upheaval, ferment, agitation, trouble
                        "years of political tumult"

Van-i-ty
     2    The quality of being worthless or futile.
                         "the vanity of human wishes"
      synonyms:   futility, uselessness, pointlessness, worthlessness, fruitlessness
                         "the vanity of all desires of the will"

The poem suggests to me that the lovers are escaping their futile attempts to acquire Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire, by making love.
 

PatH

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4940 on: November 03, 2017, 01:33:59 PM »
Hats, it's always good to see you.  There's no such thing as being an intruder here.  The seasonal topics are helpful to spark discussions and set a mood or theme, but you will notice that we all share stuff that has nothing to do with the current topic.

Yeats is always a tough poet for me, and I'm sure this one has several layers.  I agree with Barb, and also think the four horses are important, and maybe mean more than one thing.  They could be the Four Horses of the Apocalypse from Revelation--Pestilence, Famine, War, and Death.  That doesn't fit the four directions, though.  I think there are other mythical horses, but don't know that much about them.

hats

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4941 on: November 03, 2017, 02:23:58 PM »
Thank you Barb and PatH. I love the seasons also. I'm glad all four are covered here during their special time. Thanks for helping with the poem by Yeats. Your thoughts are always very helpful. Neither do I know about Mythical horses.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4942 on: November 13, 2017, 07:13:27 PM »
Perhaps the World Ends Here
Joy Harjo, 1951

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.







hats

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4943 on: November 14, 2017, 03:50:15 AM »
Throughout the year, the table is very important. By giving the Joy Harjo poem, I am reminded to never forget the past spent with family and friends. My wish is that I could remember every word spoken there: the angry words, the apologies and the loving words. Hope you Barb and all of those who enjoy the Poetry Page will have a safe and memorable Thanksgiving this year.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4944 on: November 15, 2017, 12:20:32 PM »
living alone now Hats it is easy to forget the table was the center of our family - Jo Harjo writes a good thought, a reminder to help get back to the basics that so easily get lost in this technological world replacing family with faceless folks on the internet. Thank goodness for Senior Learn - it is about the only site where I can depend on civility and a willingness to explore new ideas.

Now I need to get back into the habit of eating my meals at the kitchen table and rather than banishing my memories think of the folks no longer with me, my memories and my dreams as drinking coffee with me.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4945 on: November 15, 2017, 12:25:31 PM »
Sailing On A Sea Of Stars


On this night, I am sailing on a sea of stars
to lands that are far
the moon smiles brightly
and every darkness is forgotten

yes, though the troubles brew strong
I see God’s hand and I know they are long
enough to destroy everything that is wrong

tonight, for one moment
I will forget every single torment
raise my voice in song and forget the noise

on this night, I am sailing on a sea of stars
to lands that are far
the moon smiles brightly
and every darkness is forgotten

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4946 on: November 15, 2017, 12:32:11 PM »





The Fox - by Faith Shearin

It was an ordinary morning: November, thin light,
and we paused over our pancakes to watch
something red move outside. Our house is on

an untamed patch of land and, across the lagoon,
another house surrounded by trees. On the banks
of their shore, facing us: a fox. We thought

he might be a dog at first for he trotted and sniffed
like a dog but when he turned to us
we knew he was nobody's pet. His face was arranged

like a child's face — playful, dainty — and his eyes
were liquid and wild. He stood for awhile, looking out,
as if he could see us in our pajamas, then found

a patch of sand beneath a tree and turned himself
into a circle of fur: his head tucked into his tail.
It was awful to watch him sleep: exposed,

tiny, his eyes closed. How can any animal
be safe enough to rest? But while I washed
our dishes he woke again, yawned, and ran

away to the places only foxes know. My God
I was tired of being a person. Even now his tail
gestures to me across the disapproving lagoon.

hats

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4947 on: November 15, 2017, 03:03:33 PM »
Barb, You can feel lonely with many people around a table. Cultivating the love of self is most important. I feel you would do it well. You might teach others this talent too.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4948 on: November 18, 2017, 01:03:53 PM »
Yes, Hats you can feel lonely surrounded by others can't you - I'm seeing the value though in remembering those who are no longer with us - there was such satisfaction in many of those connections - I'm thinking they can be as much a part of us as drinking a cup of coffee - in fact folks have made cartoons about little old ladies talking to themselves - well maybe they are talking to their best friends who are no longer with us - I've decided not to banish their memories because it makes me sad - so a tear or two but to have their memory in my life as I would drink a cup of coffee - why not... 

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4949 on: November 18, 2017, 01:09:25 PM »
The First Snowfall
James Russell Lowell, 1819 - 1891

The snow had begun in the gloaming,
   And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
   With a silence deep and white.
   
Every pine and fir and hemlock
   Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
   Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
   Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan’s-down,
   And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window
   The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
   Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
   Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
   As did robins the babes in the wood.
   
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
   Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?”
And I told of the good All-father
   Who cares for us here below.
   
Again I looked at the snow-fall,
   And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o’er our first great sorrow,
   When that mound was heaped so high.
   
I remembered the gradual patience
   That fell from that cloud-like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
   The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
   
And again to the child I whispered,
   “The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
   Alone can make it fall!”
   
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
   And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
   Folded close under deepening snow.

Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4950 on: November 18, 2017, 05:33:24 PM »
A bit of personal sorrow gently told in that poem, Barb. Mabel, mentioned in the poem, was the only surviving child of four. The others died in infancy.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4951 on: November 18, 2017, 07:21:04 PM »
I did not know it was more than one - thanks - when death was the silent partner for so many...

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4952 on: November 19, 2017, 02:46:36 PM »

    Sweet little bird in russet coat,
    The livery of the closing year,
    I love thy lonely plaintive note
    And tiny whispering song to hear,
    While on the stile or garden seat
    I sit to watch the falling leaves,
    The song thy little joys repeat
    My loneliness relieves.
            John Clare ~ Autumn Robin

hats

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4953 on: November 24, 2017, 03:59:43 AM »
Some times I surprise myself. I like the poem about the fox by Faith Shearin. The description of the fox as sly is often written about in books. This portrayal seems so negative. It's like its is waiting in the woods to catch any one and do them harm.

Because of the poet I looked at the fox differently this morning. Is it the pancakes cooking in the poem, or is it the photograph of the fox that have changed me? Not sure, I know my feelings about the fox for this moment, safely inside my little space, have become more gentle. I could like the fox. How did Aesop feel about the fox? I can't remember. Obviously, I don't know enough about the life of this creature. Maybe a tiny bit of information on the web would help me understand it.

PatH

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4954 on: November 24, 2017, 12:02:01 PM »
Yes, it's so true, hats.  Poetry has the power to make us see things in a new way.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #4955 on: November 24, 2017, 05:40:04 PM »
The sentence that got to me hats and had me thinking was

It was awful to watch him sleep: exposed,
tiny, his eyes closed.


Never thought till I read the poem how all wild creatures so exposed and vulnerable will curl up and sleep - I am trying to think if I ever alone took an outdoor nap in an unprotected area - lots of naps at the beach or in the woods but always family or friends were nearby - even at home there is a cozy safe feeling napping in bed and if I do fall asleep in a chair I always wake with a start and think, if I was that tired I should have gone to my bed.

After reading this I realized I am not as brave or feel I can protect myself from the unknown compared to an outdoor animal.

I did like how the poem describes the fox as having - a child's face — playful, dainty — and his eyes
were liquid and wild.


Where as in the photo I thought his/her eyes looked quizzical as if looking into a far distant space but the dark is in the way so he/she can only see shadows and therefore, the quizzical look.  I do not know if the Fox sleeps at night but at least the Fox is safe from the dogs that chased them during the recreational hunts that were banned a few years ago.

Yes, it is the wonder isn't it Pat of how we can all get something different from the same poem and how a poem can touch us as nothing else.