I love Kipling's poem, "If," because it became my Mantra during a trying time in my life. It helped me to hold onto "sanity" while some others were talking and acting without thinking. I read it over and over every day.

Robby

It's listed right below this one in the Books and Literature listing...and here is a link to it...

---Poetry~READ ONLY click here

š ...jane›

E.W. Wilcox

So Lord just let me now survive
Cause somehow I just must contrive
A way to think without a brain
Until the fall comes round again

Annafair (with help from Cliff)

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land:
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

Who can give us the second stanza without looking it up. (I admit I did).

Robby

Softly now the cricket's voice
And cold the night wind's song
The sun sinks lower in the sky
The heat of summer, gone

Frost is now upon the vine
The harvest in full measure
Crimson-gold the trees adorned
A part of Autumn's treasure

Waterfowel are on the wing
Earth's creatures seem to know
Provisions must be marshaled
Against the winter's snow

Autumn is a time of life
Also a state of mind
A time to ponder life's design
Therefrom some solice find

In knowing that a life
To love most largely given
Will "laugh to scorn" the winter's snow
And open up the gates of heaven

Cliff Nielsen

 
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she 
With silent lips.  





"Give me your tired, your poor, 
 Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, 
 The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. 
 Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost, to me, 
 I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" 

At the base of the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor 

Tom’s hand was strong to the plow
Elizabeth’s lips were red,
And Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said.

Year in year out they worked
While the pines grew overhead,
And Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said.

But all the beautiful crops soon went
To the mortgage-man instead,
And Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said.

Elizabeth is dead now (it’s years ago);
Old Tom went light in the head;
And Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said.

The farm’s still there. Mortgage cororations
Couldn’t give it away.
And Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies say.

The rhyming pattern must be held in line
By old custom and poetic decree
It came to mankind from old shakespear's time
ABAB CDCD EFEF AND GG

Now Petrach,however, would different be
With tricky octave and pretty sestet
His ABBAABBA and CEECDE
Expressed in rhyme is very hard to set

The meter and the beauty of the rhymes
Must be expressed in only fourteen lines

With a little poetic license the above versification qualifies as a sonnet. There should be 140 syllables in a sonnet. Each line should have ten syllables. Two lines in the verse above exceed the limit. But it was necessary to show the rhyming pattern...Hope this is helpfull for those of you who like to write sonnets. Best wishes to all...Cliff Nielsen

Robby

To empty nests the sweet birds sing
The young have long been on the wing
The hawthorn's bright vermillion seeds
Are treasured where the robin feed

The evning's cool and longer now
And nature seems to know somehow
To chanage the pace of life's sweet rhymn
As frost will soon be on the vine

And thus the seasons gently flow
Away in time's sweet mellow glow
Autumnal twilight somes so soon
To hush the glow of summer's bloom

So lift the cup while there's still time
Inhale the rose - drink from the vine
Feast from the cornucopian show
As too soon comes the winter's snow

Cliff Nielsen

And such am I, awakening
to petty griefs that fret and cling!
I listened to this roundelay
Amazed -- to think a bird can play
Upon my heart, and make me sing
In spite of all!

No more incline a deferential head
to the wind’s talk,..
And thought to say

No more incline a differential head
to the winds torque...

He had a practical man’s familiarity with machines as the following poem indicates. In it he talks of his experiences as a worker on a hydro-electric scheme.

<b.>

Thought to be the last Haiku of Basho, who died on this date in 1694.


Charlie

Charlie (still crazy after all these years)

 
Song (Go and catch a falling star) 
John Donne  

Go and catch a falling star,  
Get with child a mandrake root,  
Tell me where all past years are,  
Or who cleft the devil's foot,  
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,  
Or to keep off envy's stinging,  
And find  
What wind  
Serves to advance an honest mind.  

If thou be'st born to strange sights,  
Things invisible to see,  
Ride ten thousand days and nights  
Till age snow white hairs on thee;  
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me  
All strange wonders that befell thee,    
And swear  
Nowhere  
Lives a woman true, and fair. 

If thou find'st one, let me know;  
Such a pilgrimage were sweet.  
Yet do not; I would not go    
Though at next door we might meet.  
Though at next door we might meet.     
And last till you write your letter.     
Yet she  
Will be  
False, ere I come, to two or three.  

I would suppose, though, that you could take a child with you and find a mandrake root. Aren't they the ones that look like babies and make a terrible sound when being pulled up? Maybe he meant this to come out differently than I read it.

Or is he saying that the mandrake root looks like a human female body and you could just as soon get it pregnant as find a faithful woman?

She mostly wrote autobio's (5 or more). But she later also wrote poems re-stating some of those recollections. For one example, her first autobio "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings" was summed up in her (much later) "Caged Bird" poem. Its verses alternate the thoughts of a caged bird and those of a free one--each verse separated by this poignant caged-bird voiced refrain:

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
And his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

"A Conceit"

Give me your hand.

Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this range of poetry.

Let others have
the privacy of
touching words
and love of loss
of love.

For me
Give me your hand.

"Chicken-Licken"

She was afraid of men,
sin and the humors
of the night.
When she saw a bed
locks clicked
in her brain.

She screwed a frown
around and plugged
it in the keyhole.
Put a chain across
her door and closed
her mind.

Her bones were found
round thirty years later
when they razed
her building to
put up a parking lot.

autopsy read:
dead of acute peoplelessness.

Maya wrote many such "Caged Bird" themes. But other poignant stuff too. Her 1993 poem "On The Pulse of Morning," written for President Clinton's Inaugural, escaped my appreciation when she read it (live) there then. In it a Rock, a River, and a Tree represent Eternity...we mere mortals only passing by. A heavy thought indeed, IMHO.

Also, I'd like to here applaud her longish "Our Grandmothers" poem. Its "I shall not be moved" refrain has, since she wrote it, become an anthem for many other minority-causes.

Modern printings often assign her poems a title based on its 1st line and insert modern punctuations for readibility. But most often, they choose to retain Emily's line-ending dashes (and her capitalized-noun choices).

Her poems use vivid Imagery to address such universal concerns, then and now, as: Death, Faith, Hope, Despair, Truth, Love.

Many modern printings assign poem-titles based on Emily's first-line. And they often insert today's puncuations--for current readibility. They also usually choose to retain Emily's original line-ending dashes and capitalized-noun choices.

Here's 8 Emily-poems I especially like:

Imagery. Here's a good example. This one is today often titled "The Hummingbird." For me, nearly every noun in it evokes a vivid mental image:

A route of evanescence
With a revolving Wheel--
A Resonance of Emerald--
A Rush of Cochineal--
And every Blossom on the Bush
Adjusts its tumbled Head--
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy Morning's Ride.

Death. Emily presented this from truly unique perspectives. Here's two:

I heard a Fly buzz--when I died--
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air--
Between the Heaves of Storm--

(2 intermediate verses)

With Blue--uncertain stumbling Buzz--
Between the light--and me--
And then the Windows failed--and then
I could not see to see--

Because I could not stop for Death--
He kindly stopped for me--
The Carriage held but just Ourselves--
And Immortality.
(5 more verses)

I never saw a Moor--
I never saw the Sea--
Yet know I how the heather looks
And what a Billow be.

I never spoke with God
Nor visited in Heaven--
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the Checks were given--

Hope is the thing with feathers--
That perches in the soul--
And sings the time without the words--
And never stops--at all--
(two more verses)

I cannot live with you--
It would be life--
But Life is over there--
Behind the shelf.

(several intermediate verses)

So We must meet apart--
You there--I--here--
With just the door ajar
That oceans are--and Prayer--
And that White sustenance--
Despair--

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant--
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind--

Wild Nights--Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile--the winds--
To a Heart in port--
Done with the Compass--
Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden--
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor--Tonight--
In Thee!

Oddly, there's precious few books about Veteran's Day out there today. The holiday began as "Armistice Day," celebrating end of The Great War (WW I). So, one might do well to observe this Day by reading a book about WW I. Two new non-fiction WW I accounts came out just this year. Titles escape me, but both are bestsellers prominently displayed in DC-area bookstores. Or one might instead observe 11/11 holiday by reading about any USA-involved war since WW I.

A recent Veteran's Day custom I like, is for us all to pause at least one moment during our daily activities--ideally, at precisely 11am on 11th month, 11th day--to observe a moment's silent tribute and thanks to those who, before us, gave their all so that we today now live in the strongest, safest country on God's earth.

Also, at 11am Saturday I intend to quietly recite John McCrae's poigant poem, In Flanders Fields. Flanders was site of a bloody WW I battle in France. In 1930s-40s, gradeschoolers across the USA would recite this poem as part of their Memorial Day programs (followed, when possible, by a lone young bugler playing Taps). Surely such sounds waft high, reaching even Heavenly ears.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from falling hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

 

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 
 
Hing in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, 
 
I've chased the shouting wind about, 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 untrespassed sanctity of space, 
 
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God. 
 

John Gillespie Magee,Jr 

Hope I remembered it well.. 

anna in Virginia

Annafair's recollection of that poignant poem "High Flight" is...right on! Here's a website with "High Flight" (and info about its poet): Click here.

 

"I have a rendezvous with Death 
At some disputed barricade, 
When Spring comes back with rustling shade 
And apple-blossoms fill the air ___ 
I have a rendezvous with Death 
When Spring brings back blue days and fair. 

It may be he shall take my hand 
And lead me into his dark land 
And close my eyes and quench my breath ____ 
It may be I shall pass him still. 
I have a rendezvous with Death 
On some scarred slope of battered hill, 
When Spring come round again this year 
And the first meadow-flowers appear. 

God knows 'twere better to be deep 
Pillowed in silk and scented down, 
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, 
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, 
Where hushed awakenings are dear . . . 
But I've a rendezvous with Death 
At midnight in some flaming town, 
When Spring trips north again this year, 
And I to my pledged word am true, 
I shall not fail that rendezvous." 

So I then used Google for a Ward Kelley search...again with good hits. This discussion about WW I poets began here with John McCrae's In Flanders Fields. And those 3 poets reminded me of another, Wilfred Owen (1883-1918), killed just one week before Armistice. English classical music composer Benjamin Britten set parts of several Owen poems to music in his choral masterpiece, "War Requiem."

For others reading this and interested, here's 4 links to more info about:

Six WW I lost poets (McCrae, Seeger, Owen, etc).
Ward Kelley.
Kelley's thoughts about Emily Dickinson.
Additional info on Wilfred Owen.

Except for contemporary Kelley, the above poets are some of those lost in WW I. This has become a new door of interest for me...thanks to you here who have added comments or info to our group's discussion.

Trevor

 
Move him into the sun-- 
Gently its touch awoke him once, 
At home, whispering of fields unsown. 
Always it woke him, even in France, 
Until this morning and this snow. 
If anything might rouse him now 
The kind old sun will know. 

Think how it wakes the seeds,-- 
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star. 
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides, 
Full-nerved-- still warm,-- too hard to stir? 
Was it for this the clay grew tall? 
-- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil  
To break earth's sleep at all? 

I agree 100% that the line "Was it for this the clay grew tall?" is strong imagery...as is Owen's perspective in this poem, looking down on a fallen comrade. Particularly so, since we now know that only a few months later it would be Owen himself lying there dead.

The Modern Hiawatha

He killed the noble Mudjokivis
Of the skin he made him mittens,
Made them with the fur side inside
Made them with the skin side outside
He, to get the warm side inside
Put the inside skin side outside
He, to get the cold side outside
Put the warm side fur side inside,
That's why he put the fur side inside
Why he put the skin side outside
Why he turned them inside outside.
-- George A. Strong.

 
GOBBLEDY-GOBBLE 

How they laughed! 
    "He's so scrawny. 
    Scrawny! Scrawny!" they taunt me. 
    "Not handsome and brawny, 
    He's ugly as sin." 

So gobbledy-gob- 
 ble, I'm not with the mob 
 because of the shape that I'm in. 
    "The worst on the block. 
    A disgrace to the flock." 
 They're ashamed to admit 
 they're my kin. 

 Well, sometimes they hurt 
 ('Twould be nice to be purt- 
 y.), but common sense says 
 "You're a winner." 
 For on Thanksgiving Day 
 they have all gone away 
 to be somebody's good-looking dinner. 
         -- Felice Holman.
 
Come, Ye Thankful People, Come 

 Come, ye thankful people, come, 
 Raise the song of harvest-home: 
 All is safely gathered in. 
 Ere the winter storms begin: 
 God, our Maker, doth provide 
 For our wants to be supplied; 
 Come to God's own temple, come, 
 Raise the song of harvest-home. 
     -- George J. Elvey.

 
 What I want 
 What I am 
 What you force me to be 
 Is what you are.
 
 For I am you, staring back from a mirror of 
 poverty and despair, of revolt and freedom. 
 Look at me and know that to destroy me is 
 to destroy yourself. You are weary of the 
 long hot summers. I am tired of the long 
 hungered winters. We are not so far apart 
 as it might seem. There is something about 
 both of us that goes deeper than blood or 
 black and white. It is our common search 
 for a better life, a better world.

P.S. - That website has lately been hard to "go to"; I can usually get to it be successively clicking on link, then on STOP, then on link...until the link finally takes. This might be one to five tries. O'well. My apologies for that website's becoming-notoriously-poor forum software design.

As you saw while reading my brief bio about Parks, his poignant poetry is but one of this "Renaissance Man's" major artistic talents. I guess his lifelong "photographic essays" career with Life Magazine will ultimately be his best-remembered product. (Or his musical "Shaft" score; or his poetry; or his books.)

I've no cable-tv connection, so I hope others here will watch Thursday's HBO special on him, and will then feel inspired to post comments about it to us forum friends here.

History buff Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

 
  Listen, my children, don't dare ignore, 
  The midnight actions of Bush and Gore. 
  In early November, the year ought-ought, 
  Hard to believe the mess they wrought. 
  Two billion bucks of campaign bounty 
  All came down to Palm Beach County. 
  What result could have been horrider 
  Than the situation we found in Florider?

 
  Once upon a campaign dreary, 
  One which left us weak and weary 
  O'er many a quaint and curious 
  Promise of political lore 
  While we nodded, nearly napping, 
  Suddenly there came a yapping, 
  As of some votes overlapping, 
  energy-zapping to the core. 
  "'Tis a mess here," we all muttered, 
  As the network anchors stuttered, 
  Stuttered over Bush and Gore. 
  Could there be another election 
  With such a case of misdirection, 
  One with such a weak selection, 
  Yet fraught with tension to the core? 
  Quoth the ravers: "Nevermore."

 
  There once was a U.S. election 
  That called for some expert detection - 
  How thousands of pollers 
  Could become two-holers 
  Like outhouses of recollection.

 
  I regret to admit that all my knowledge is 
  What I learned at Electoral Colleges, 
  So tell me please, though I hate to troublya, 
  Will the winner be Al, or will it be Dublya?

 
  I thought that I would never see 
  The networks all so up a tree.

 
  O' Captain! My Captain! 
  Our fearful trip's not done 
  The ship has weathered every rack 
  But nobody knows who's won.

 
 And still of an autumn night they say, 
 With the White House on the line, 
 When the campaign's a ghostly galleon 
 And both candidates cry, "'Tis mine!" 
 When the road is a ribbon of ballots, 
 All within easy reach, 
 A highwayman comes riding, 
 Riding, Riding, 
 A highwayman comes riding, 
 And punches two holes in each.

 
 I cannot count them in a box 
 I cannot count them with a fox 
 I cannot count them by computer 
 I will not with a Roto-Rooter 
 I cannot count them card-by-card 
 I will not 'cause it's way too hard 
 I cannot count them on my fingers 
 I will not while suspicion lingers 
 I'll leave the country in a jam - 
 I can't count ballots, Sam-I-Am.

 
 'Twas the month before Christmas, 
 When all through the courts, 
 All the plaintiffs made stirring, but 
 Bad ballot reports.

 
 Perhaps the best way to stop 
 Complaints that are raucous, 
 Is to start all over again, 
 With the Iowa caucuses.

Some of today's better poets are best called "songwriters." Let's not try to name them all: the Bob Dylan's, Leonard Cohen's, Joan Baez's, Ira Gershwin's, Irving Berlin's, Cole Porter's, Hammerstein's. I could enthuse about these and a dozen other quality songwriter/poets...for hours.

Reverse side to this coin, is that some older poems have recently been set to modern music. Sad to report, my beloved Emily Dickinson is one example. It's said that almost all her poems can be sung to tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas." And Forum Friends, I've tried and found this--so!

Another example is Robert Frost's beloved poem, "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening." When sung to tune of "Hernando's Hideaway," this poem takes on a whole 'nother dimension of enjoyment. Try humming it to Frost's below poem--if you dare:

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.

Or we might instead choose to simply love the spoken words of Frost's, Emily's, and other's poems as originally intended--sans music. Comments welcome; anyone?

In olde english (note the e in 'old'), it was quite common to put an e after various nouns (that today's books have mostly dropped, for ease in readibility). Here's a sample of olde english from Mallory's King Arthur of 1485a.d. (also titled Le Morte Darthur):

Than sir Bedwere departed and wente to the swerde and lyghtly toke hit up, and so he wente unto the watirs syde. And there he bounde the gyrdyll aboute the hyltis, and threwe the swerde as farre into the watir as he myght.

As you can maybe perceive, I'm a Shakespeare fan. So I've also earlier enjoyed Eric Partridge's 1960 "Shakespeare Bawdy" paperback. My public library still carries it--and maybe yours too.

Thanks, Trevor, for taking time to reassure me/us here, that yours could well have been an "olde english" version of Pope's 1711 a.d. "An Essay on Criticism."

THE STICK-TOGETHER FAMILIES   by Edgar Guest 
  from "Just Folks", The Reilly & Lee Co., (c) 1917

 

The stick-together families are happier by far 
Than the brothers and the sisters who take separate highways are. 
The gladdest people living are the wholesome folks who make 
A circle at the fireside that no power but death can break. 
And the finest of conventions ever held beneath the sun 
Are the little family gatherings when the busy day is done.

 

There are rich folk, there are poor folk, who imagine they are wise, 
And they're very quick to shatter all the little family ties. 
Each goes searching after pleasure in his own selected way, 
Each with strangers likes to wander, and with strangers likes to play. 
But it's bitterness they harvest, and it's empty joy they find, 
For the children that are wisest are the stick-together kind.

 

There are some who seem to fancy that for gladness they must roam, 
That for smiles that are the brightest they must wander far from home. 
That the strange friend is the true friend, and they travel far astray 
And they waste their lives in striving for a joy that's far away, 
But the gladdest sort of people, when the busy day is done, 
Are the brothers and the sisters who together share their fun.

 

It's the stick-together family that wins the joys of earth, 
That hears the sweetest music and that finds the finest mirth; 
It's the old home roof that shelters all the charm that life can give; 
There you find the gladdest play-ground, there the happiest spot to live. 
And, O weary, wandering brother, if contentment you would win, 
Come you back unto the fireside and be comrade with your kin.

Vol I covers Henry Adams (1838-1918) thru Dorothy Parker (1893-1967). Vol II covers e.e.cummings (1884-1962) thru May Swenson (1913-1989). These are organized in order of poets' birthdates--and include biographical notes, text notes, and an index.

Library of America publishes American literature boxed books on light-weight acid-free pages sewn-bound for easy opening and a flat lie; i.e., highest-quality. To date I have 73 earlier boxed LofA books, but not this new American poetry anthology--yet.

Here's a comment about it in Washington Post's 12/3/2000 "Book World" section:

If ever something was made to put a stop to all discussion of the only work you would want to have with you on a desert island, it is this two-volume set. - Thomas M. Disch.

 
IN THE BLEAK MID-WINTER

 

In the bleak mid-winter 
Frosty wind made moan. 
Earth stood hard as iron, 
Water like a stone; 
Snow had fallen snow on snow, 
Snow on snow, 
In the bleak mid-winter 
Long ago.

 
Angels and Archangels 
May have gathered there 
Cherubim and Seraphim 
Thronged the air; 
But His Mother only, 
In Her maiden bliss, 
Worshipped the Beloved 
With a kiss.

 
What can i give Him, 
Poor as I am? 
If I were a shepherd, 
I would bring a lamb; 
If I were a wise man, 
I would do my part; 
Yet what can I give him? 
Give my heart.

 

by Christina Rosetti

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 hearth side ease.

We pictured the meek 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.

THOMAS HARDY 1840-1928.

• Links to Poems: Consumer, Sunset and Come Courage¤¤Summer Solstice, Batticaloa, Sri Lanka and Blazon
• Links to Poems: Words Words Words¤¤Transfiguration - The blind talk of a way out. I see¤¤Midwife

Tree earth and sky
reel to the noontide beat
of sun and the old man
hobbling down the road.
Cadence--

of sun-drowned cicada
in a child's voice shrilling :
....are you going man?

Where are you going man where
The old man is deaf
to the child.
His stick makes deep
holes in the ground.
His eyes burn to a distant point

where all roads converge....
The child has left his toys
and hobbles after the old
man calling: funny man funny man

funny old man funny
Overhead the sun paces
and buds pop and flare.

Trevor.

 
Rose cheerless over hills of grey 
 
And gave at noon 
 
A sadder light than waning moon 
  
we didnt get the snow but we did in the early am hours get the feeling .... 
Will hopefully return well ...and A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL  

anna in Va who needs to get better

 The Sun that Brief December Day 
                      By John Greenleaf Whittier, 1807-1892 

                             From "Snow Bound" 

        The sun that brief December day 
        Rose cheerless over hills of gray, 
        And, darkly circled, gave at noon 
        A sadder light than waning moon. 
        Slow tracing down the thickening sky 
        Its mute and ominous prophecy, 
        A portent seeming less than threat, 
        It sank from sight before it set. 
        A chill no coat, however stout, 
        Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, 
        A hard, dull bitterness of cold, 
        That checked, mid-vein, the circling race 
        Of life-blood in the sharpened face, 
        The coming of the snow-storm told. 
        The wind blew east; we heard the roar 
        Of Ocean on his wintry shore, 
        And felt the strong pulse throbbing there 
        Beat with low rhythm our inland air. 

        Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,- 
        Brought in the wood from out of doors, 
        Littered the stalls, and from the mows  
        Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows: 
        Heard the horse whinnying for his corn; 
        And, sharply clashing horn on horn, 
        Impatient down the stanchion rows 
        The cattle shake their walnut bows; 
        While, peering from his early perch 
        Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, 
        The cock his crested helmet bent 
        And down his querulous challenge sent.

 
January's flat 
After December. 
I am feeling fat, 
But have feasts to remember! 

 
Anna wants a verse. 
I can't think of one. 
Also flat, my purse 
Now the holidays are done! 

Started up that morning
to stomach pinch and growls : listened
to the sound of hail nick on glass
and iron roof.

Heard the rain applauding : the lilt
and swell fading to the winds flirt
over the gaunt flank of the land

and wondered

how long it would be
before Nanny with her brown dimpled skin
and goat nanny smell would come
bearing leaves of koromiko
and black cauldron aswirl
with the mangled roots of flax or lawyer vine
to chide and O most firmly to assure me
that all my rumble belly yearnings shall match
the fearful splendour of riven skies
mending.....

Woke up that long away morning
to stomach pinch nipping
and a lip-locked moan escaping.

 

Winter is a stone around my neck  
The dark days pull me down 
My step is slow and 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 
In 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 ©

My hands did numb to beauty
as they reached into Death and tightened!

 
When I was very little, the grandmas that I knew 
All walked around this world in ugly grandma shoes. 

 
You know the ones I speak of, those black clunky-heeled kind. 
They looked so very ghastly that it weighed upon my mind. 

 
For I knew when I became that old I'd have to wear those shoes. 
I'd think of that from time to time, it seemed like such bad news. 

 
I never was a rebel, I wore saddle shoes to school, 
And next came ballerinas, then the sandals, pretty cool! 

 
Along came spikes, with pointy toes.  Then platforms, very tall. 
As each new fashion came along, I wore them, one and all. 

 
But always, in the distance, looming in my future there 
Was that awful pair of ugly shoes, the kind that grandmas wear. 

 
Eventually I got married, and then became a Mom! 
Our kids grew up, and left home when their children came along. 

 
I knew I was a grandma, and the time was drawing near 
When those clunky, black, old lace-up shoes was what I'd have to wear. 

 
How would I do my gardening, or take my morning hike? 
I could not even THINK about how I would ride my bike! 

 
But fashions keep evolving, and one day I realized 
The shape of things yet to come was changing right before my eyes. 

 
Now when I go out shopping, what I see fills me with glee! 
For in my jeans and Reeboks, I'm as comfy as can be! 

 
I look at all these teenage girls, and there upon THEIR feet 
Are black and clunky Grandma Shoes!  They really think they're neat! 

As a dedicated O'Brian fan, this question peaked my curiosity so I re-read that NY Times 1/17/2000 eulogy by David Mamet today at my public library on microfiche. I truly think that the cite was David Mamet's thoughts about fictional Bondon's (not author O'Brian's) death.

Let me cite some of Mamet's eulogy, and then add my own reasons for my above conclusions. In the eulogy, Mamet is describing himself as being at home admiring O'Brian's sea novels. His wife suggests he write to O'Brian..."How wonderful to be alive when he is also alive; imagine if one were living in 1890s and could converse with Sir Conan Doyle." So David further mused:

Well, I saw myself talking with Patrick O'Brian. "Sir," I would have said, "what a blow the death of Barret Bondon. Sir, I've read your Aubrey-Maturin series 3 or 4 times now. Your minor characters are especially dear to me: the mad Awkward Davis; Mrs Fielding, the inexpert spy; old Mr Herapath, the cowardly Boston Loyalist; Christy-Palliere, the gallant French sea captain; and of course, Barret Bondon, Captain Aubrey's coxswain." And I will not say that I cried at his death, but I will not say that I did not.

What IS sure is that after a couple more "Sir, I might have said's," Mamet's eulogy continues:

"So I sat at the breakfast table composing my note, and leafed through the newspaper, and read of Patrick O'Brian's death."

But David Mamet wrote that O'Brian eulogy. So our discussion sure does include Mamet. I hadn't heard of him; but after Ginny's applause here, I decided it worthwhile to find out more. That wasn't hard. Mamet's been a prolific playwright, screenwriter, writer. Contemporary Writers gives him 8 pages, to date!

Titles of many of his plays and movies are recognizable. And his articles have appeared in over 40 periodicals/newspapers. In 1977 at age 30 he married actress Lindsay Crouse (now divorced); and in 1991 married actress Rebecca Pidgeon. Lindsay's movie roles 1977-1996 include a 1984 AA Nomination for "Places of the Heart." I'm not up on Rebecca's acting credits; but if she has any of Walter Pidgeon's genes...!

There's even a "David Mamet Society" with newsletters. And this won't compare with Contemporary Authors' 8 pages about him, but here's a website easier to Click here for lots of info about David Mamet (rhymes with Hamlet).

When memory keeps me company and moves to smiles or tears;
A weather-beaten object looms throughout the mist of years.
Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more--
And hurrying feet a path had made, straight for its swinging door.

Its architecture was a type of simple classic art,
But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part.
And oft the passing traveler drove slow and heaved a sigh
To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.

We had our posy garden that the women loved so well,
I loved it too but, better still, I loved the stronger smell
That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer,
And told the night-o'ertaken tramp that human life was near.

On lazy August afternoons it made a little bower,
Delightful, where my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour.
For there the summer mornings, its very cares entwined,
And berry bushes reddened in the steaming soil behind.

All day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies
That flitted to and from the house where Ma was baking pies,
And once a swarm of hornets bold had built a palace there,
And stung my unsuspecting aunt--I must not tell you where.

The father took a flaming pole--that was a happy day,
He nearly burned the building down, but the hornets left to stay.
When summer bloom began to fade and winter to carouse,
We banked the little building with a heap of hemlock boughs.

And when the crust was on the snow, and the sullen skies were gray,
In sooth, the building was no place where one could wish to stay.
We did our duties promptly, there one purpose swayed our mind,
We tarried not, nor lingered long on what we left behind.

The torture of that icy seat would make a Spartan sob,
For needs must scrape the gooseflesh with a lacerating cob,
That from a frost-encrusted nail was suspended by a string--
My father was a frugal man and wasted not a thing.

When Grandpa had to "go out back" and make his morning call,
We'd bundle up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl,
I knew the hole on which he sat--'twas padded all around,
And once I dared to sit there--'twas all too wide I found.

My loins were all too little, and I jack-knifed there to stay;
They had to come and pry me out, or I'd have passed away.
Then Father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun,
And I must use the children's hole till childhood days are done.

And still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true;
The baby hole, and the slender hole that fitted sister Sue;
The dear old country landmark; I've tramped around a bit,
And in the lap of luxury, my lot has been to sit.

But ere I die I'll eat the fruit of trees I robbed of yore,
Then see the shanty where my name is carved upon the door.
I ween the old familiar smell will soothe my faded soul,
I'm now a man, but nonetheless, I'll try the children's hole.

- A public-domain poem by "Anonymous." Once attributed
to James Whitcomb Riley, it being similar to his style and era.
But in 1997 the JWR Society announced that it wasn't his.

"The Little House Behind The House"

One of my bygone recollections,
As I recall the days of yore.
Is the little house, behind the house,
With the crescent over the door.

'Twas a place to sit and ponder
With your head bowed down low;
Knowing that you wouldn't be there,
If you didn't have to go.

Ours was a three-holer,
With a size for every one.
You left there feeling better,
After your usual job was done.

You had to make these frequent trips,
Whether snow, rain, sleet, or fog,
To the little house where you usually
Found the Sears-Roebuck catalog.

Oft times in dead of winter,
The seat was covered with snow.
'Twas then with much reluctance,
To the little house you'd go.

With a swish you'd clear the seat,
Bend low, with dreadful fear.
You'd blink your eyes and grit your teeth
As you settled on your rear.

I recall the day Granddad,
Who stayed with us one summer,
Made a trip to the shanty
Which proved to be a hummer.

'Twas the same day my Dad
Finished painting the kitchen green.
He'd just cleaned up the mess he's made
With rags and gasoline.

He tossed the rags in the shanty hole
And went on his usual way,
Not knowing that by doing so,
He would eventually rue the day.

Now Granddad had an urgent call,
I never will forget!
This trip he made to the little house
Lingers in my memory yet.

He sat down on the shanty seat,
With both feet on the floor.
Then filled his pipe with tobacco
And struck a match on the outhouse door.

After the Tobacco began to glow,
He slowly raised his rear:
Tossed flaming match in the open hole,
With not a sign of fear.

The Blast that followed, I am sure,
Was heard for miles around;
and left poor grandpa
Just sitting on the ground.

The smoldering pipe was still in his mouth,
His suspenders he held tight;
The celebrated three-holer
Was blown clear out of sight.

When we asked him what had happened,
His answer I'll never forget.
He thought it must be something
That he had recently et!

Next day we had a new one,
Which my Dad built with ease.
With a sign on the entrance door
Which read: No Smoking, Please!

Now that's the end of the story,
With memories of long ago,
Of the little house behind the house
Where we went when we had to go!

For when I'm "here" I'm wondering
If I really should be "there";
And when I try to think it through,
I haven't got a prayer!

Oft times I walk into a room,
Say "what am I here for?"
I wrack my brain, but all in vain
A zero is my score.

At times I put something away
Where it is safe; but, Gee!
The person it is safest from
Generally is me.

When shopping I may see someone,
Say "Hi" and have a chat,
But when that person walks away
I ask myself, "Who was that?"

Yes, my forgetter's getting better
While my rememberer is broke,
So it's driving me plumb crazy
And that isn't any joke.

Can YOU relate? (I can't remember who I've sent this to.)

 
THOUGH WARBLERS HAVE NOT CALLED - Princess Shikishi (ca. 1150-1201)
 

Though warblers  
have not called, 
in the sound of cascades 
pouring down the rocks 
spring is heard.
 

WAITING FOR RAIN ON THE ROOF - Otagaki Rengetsu (1791-1875)
 

Random thoughts 
and loneliness trouble me 
but I am soothed by the 
anticipation of cherry blossoms 
and spring rain falling on my hut.

Spring is here. 
The burden of Winter has left. 
The heaviness, the fears, 
All the fears of yesterday, 
Gone with the budding, 
Done with the weeping, 
Flown with the years. 

Hope and loveliness abound!

A DISCIPLE DREAMS

Iwalked with Him--
and when He spoke my eyes
opened to strange happenings
and I looked down into the gasping mouths
of fishes with eyes like round
black bread and tails quivering as
silvered wine that had not been darkened
by His blood. . . .

Yet did I see Him squinting at the sky
in the manner of men
born to the sea :
and I knew a deep dread for I saw
a wrathful army on black steeds, massing . . . .

Miraculous how my fears were laid :
and calmly did He bid us all
to eat of the blessed food
and straitway knelt me down
to partake of His bounty.

And so it was that in the midst of feasting
and thanksgiving the storm fell upon us
with a fury that no one could quell : the wind tore
futile protestations from His lips
and the seas threshed
and lightning shattered the loaves
and little fishes
and the heavens spat venom on the faces
of those whose meatless arms were thin armour
to the pitiless rain :
my rage grew to the topmost wave---
and I awoke engulfed in tears
my fists beating the floor of my
stone room

 
Some people like the heat of July. 
 WHY? 

 
Fed the birds, fed the ducks 
Snipped off dead geraniums 
Ain't watered yet, all worn out 
I sure hope it rainiums..................

 
Jean came down to the Bay with Alice 
Took a tour of my new palace 
And a park called Quiet Waters 
Then met one of my granddaughters 
Looked at hats, and then a cape 
She wanted so bad around the nape 
Of her neck, she all but drooled. 
With a breeze from the Bay, we were cooled. 
Lobster was eaten, followed by ice cream 
But a cruise on a boat was not those girls' dream. 
We walked and talked, we talked and walked 
'Til our feet gave out, and Jeannie balked. 
Refreshed at Starbucks, we then took a tour 
Of the Naval Academy, my heart was pure 
And I drove them through there, out of the sun. 
Hope they come back, there's much we've not done!

It's just a lazy summer night...
There's not a moving thing in sight...
It's all so quite; no riot...
When even in the thicket, Mr Cricket's slowin' down.

It's such a lazy summer night...
An inspiration point is right...
For fancy dreamin'; and seemin';
To just relax and run away from town.

Hey take a look at all those other cars;
They're parked here, just like ours...
To count...the stars above...
It seems...we're not alone...
I guess I should have known...
Romance...runs high; the last two weeks in July.

It's just a lazy summer night...
Tonight the fireflies will light...
The way for lovers...for lovers like us...to love...
It's such a lazy summer night.

Ah, me! Was that really almost 50 years ago? Egads!

can it be? summer is nearly gone?  
the dog days of August are upon us  
and Autumn waits to sing her song 
the day light hours are less  
morning arrives a bit later  
and evening comes to soon  
spring green leaves have deepened  
now heavy their darker brow  
throws a dusky shadow  
upon the grass aged lawn 
hidden in the dogwood bough 
berries of bitter green  
wait the cool of autumn  
to bring forth their scarlet gowns 
each day ancient leaves of gold  
whisper their last good-byes  
and flutter to the ground  
there is no joy in their passing  
though I welcome cooler days 
nights beneath cold etched stars  
my soul prepares to slumber  
like bulbs beneath the ground  
tentatively it hopes  
in spring it will awaken  
among the verdant grass  
in Eden's hallowed ground  

anna alexander  
7/28/01  © >pre

Fresh from your bath  
In a terry towel  
I sniff the fragrance  
Of your velvet skin  
You sneeze as the powder  
Sifts down to keep you dry  
I tickle you a bit  
And am rewarded with your smile  
I think  before I put on your gown  
How silken is your baby skin  
Softly covered with the finest down  
You are velvet to my touch  
Years will come and change all that  
Skin will age and crease  
Wrinkles will announce  
Passage of time  
But I want you to know  
Whenever I touch your face  
Give you a hearty hug  
I remember you were velvet  
When you were young. 

anna alexander  
7/22/01  © >pre

 If I can keep one heart from breaking, 
      I shall not live in vain: 
      If I can ease one life the aching, 
      Or cool one pain, 
      Or help one fainting robin  
      Unto his nest again, 
      I shall not live in vain. 

They left him there again

waiting on my lawn.

He listened, as I watched

while trying not to yawn.

His ears straight up,

my head withdrawn.

I ousted all the lights

and waited like the fawn

for buck or doe to claim this young

before the birds woke up the dawn.

The swell of future antlers

his arching head betray nubs spawn.

His neck lunged high.

The deer were drawn

to pulling off the branch’s

tender leaves that set their pawn.

In silhouette and shadow

they poised and twirled upon my lawn.

When will the river awaken spring thaw?
I ask the crystal moon
Pussy willows gleam gold near sun's turning sky
In the softness of their budding lore
Still along the frozen creek
Promise of spring release these stalks
Swaying dust, yellow catkins sigh.

When will I wash my mother's glass vase?
I dance with moon-lit shadow
My willow fluff hears pipes of pan
Veil yesterday's coffee stain, an antique vase,
Boots all muddy, socks soaked,
A child snaps a branch, a frog croaked
At the lake, promise in my daughter's hand.

A BAMBOO FLUTE FILLS A TAKEN NIGHT.

In what house, the bamboo flute

sends these dark notes drifting,

scattering on the summer wind

that fills a taken night?

In the shadowed grove that day

The bamboo softly swayed,

Whispering to the tangled weald,

Breath riding toward a mansion of jade.

At the edge, a dragonfly hovered

fluttered in the heavy air

Tending to the fearless season

Before the opal moon is round and bright.

From the heavens, high this night

the willow-slowing song,

Can’t help but long

for the summer gardens of home.

HAS there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite!
Old Time is a liar! We're twenty to-night!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?
He's tipsy,-- young jackanapes!-- show him the door!
"Gray temples at twenty?"-- Yes ! white if we please;
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close,-- you will see not a sign of a flake!
We want some new garlands for those we have shed,--
And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
Of talking (in public) as if we were old:--
That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;"
It's a neat little fiction,-- of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker,"-- the one on the right;
"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?
That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff;
There's the "Reverend" What's his name?-- don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look
Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true!
So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,--
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,
Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing?-- You think he's all fun;
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

Yes, we're boys, --always playing with tongue or with pen,--
And I sometimes have asked,-- Shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE BOYS!

Elizabeth (Akers) Allen. 1832–1911

Rock Me to Sleep

BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

Summer 2001

The fields were dry
dry and hard
bleached, stunted the color of Gulf sand.

The air was hot
hot and fierce
blowing blaring crystal specks of flat heat

The sky was blue
blue and wide
tumbling white thunderclouds up from the coast

The building was low
Low and spread
sides propped open drawing in every breeze

The sweat was sharp
sharp and bitter
courting brown wrinkles, stinging the eye

The eye was clear
clear and ready
gazing open, fixed on a liquid mirage

The hawk was high
high and grand
wheeling and gliding the thermals

The tree was shelter
shelter and shade
cooling cattle within its mark

The cricket was still
still and many
gorging gleaning gathering summer’s end

The lightening was rigid
rigid and striate
ripping rushing sheets of water swelling every creek

The summer sun was over a hundred
forty two days in a row
then, roads were closed the creeks ran high, nine inches of rain in an’hour.

I can see shimmering light 
And words written down 
Some in the form of poetry. 
In deep meditation, I dream 
Long hours away.  Writing 
Down the anguish, 
I am free to return to my life.

When nineteen Taliban, raised a tune of battle
To play and dance in death
The nineteen juggernaut pierced the tower’s rattle
The carrion smelled blood in the shock of each breath.

Al-Jihad in chase, the gazelle pursuing the stag
Steel stars of freedom embrace into a moribund bag.
Black ash flame lamenting, hell-hole gasping o’er the hills.
Colors pure, courage and brave, fading sorrowing trills.

The twilight of perfection
When all life’s peices are trussed,
A trembling insurrection
Cries freedom is loose but just.

The bastions of freedom cleft,
Minds rewired bewailing
They jumped, it fell, our grasp left.
Black and flame our core now shale.

In gloom the mustering stand
Beneath the void Tribunal.
Hallowed human caravan
Stunned still in their last gospel.

Have you seen, she’s just married,
Please help find this child’s father.
Water... buildings... air carried
Deaths noble message, murther!

Snake--wreath'd Alecto
And Megæra railing,
Howling Tisiphon
Evermore wailing.

Pictured on the TV screen
Fair of face her golden hair.
Seated in his favorite chair
The doleful tale stills his scream.

Lend your tears for my Maureen.
High to London she serves them well.
He rocks his muffled fear demeaned.
Whose God propels us from this Hell?

With vacant eyes he will look
Deep within, his faith, his rock.
For now all reason has forsook
Their shielded treasure sweet love locked.

Stand together 
Holding hands 
Across the nations 
Many lands. 

Stand for life 
And love for all. 
Show the haters 
We stand tall.

Think of all the men and women
Who are now and who have been--
Every nation since creation
That this world of ours has seen,
And of all of them not any
But was once a baby small ;
While the children, oh, how many
Have not grown up at all !

Some have never laughed or spoken,
Never used their rosy feet ;
Some have even flown to heaven
Ere they knew that earth was sweet ;
And indeed I wonder whether,
If we recon every birth
And bring such a flock together,
There is room for them on earth.

Who will wash their smiling faces ?
Who their saucy ears box ?
Who will dress them and caress them ?
Who will darn their little socks ?
Where are arms enough to hold them ?
Hands to pat each shining head ?
Who will praise them ? Who will scold them
Who will pack them off to bed ?

Little happy christian children,
Little savage children too,
In all stages, of all ages,
That our planet ever knew ;
Little princes and princesses,
Little beggars wan and faint,
Some in very handsome dresses,
Naked some, bedaubed with paint.

Only think of the confusion
Such a motley crowd would make,
And the clatter of their chatter
And the things that they would break !
Oh, the babble of the Babel !
Oh, the flutter and the fuss !
To begin with Cain and Abel,
And to finish up with us.

 
Does Allah only love men  
Is my destiny just to die  
Shut away from everything and everyone 
Stifled both in my gown and in my speech 
My teaching abilities hidden and out of reach  
For other females just like me  
No male doctor can treat me when I am ill 
All the female doctors are like me  
Hidden, lost and still.  
Why am I stoned or beaten with sticks  
Because I meekly try to obey the rules 
Which each day seem more repressive  
And my thoughts turn to suicide  
Allah! Allah! I love you  
Lift me up and bring me close  
Hear my plea...Please let me be  
All my dreams are saved for thee  
Let me feel the sun warm upon my cheek  
Let me feel the caring I desperately seek  
Oh Allah ! Allah! Hear Please Hear.. 
anna alexander  
10/12/2001 pre> 
©

 
                The Second Coming
 

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre 
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer; 
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; 
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, 
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere 
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned; 
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst 
    Are full of passionate intensity.
 

    Surely some revelation is at hand; 
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand. 
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out 
    When a vast image out of  Spiritus Mundi 
    Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert 
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man, 
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, 
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it 
    Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. 
    The darkness drops again; but now I know 
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep 
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, 
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, 
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? 

W.B. Yeats    (1865-1939) 

The December-January-February issue of the m.e.stubbs poetry journal is on the web.

Among the poets whose work is in this issue are JTB (John Baker) and Mac (R. J. McCusker) who post poetry in the Poets Press. You may also recognize other poets like Anna Alexander (Annafair) and Claire Read (Winsum).

The illustration on the Poets Page is by Gretchen Mansfield, whose photographs appear in Photos Then and Now.

I'm sure you'll enjoy the poetry you find in the December-January-February issue of the m.e.stubbs poetry journal.

Voices

Loved, idealized voices
of those who have died, or of those
lost for us like the dead.

Sometimes they speak to us in dreams;
sometimes deep in thought the mind hears them.

And, with their sound, for a moment return
sounds from our life's first poetry -
like distant music fading away at night.

That's close to the bone
an unreasonable grief,
like missing the children.

Where did the husky-voiced little boys go
the ones with the urgent eyes & bitten fingernails
The 50-ish baby-boomers
with their thickening middles,
efficient wives
and rowdy children

That's not them.
I hear their voices
occasionally asking if
they can stop up
to watch
"The Man from Uncle".

"I am from Constantinople by descent, but I was born in Alexandria -- at a house on Seriph Street; I left very young, and spent much of my childhood in England.

"Subsequently I visited this country as an adult, but for a short period of time. I have also lived in France. During my adolescence I lived over two years in Constantinople. It has been many years since I last visited Greece.



"My last employment was as a clerk at a government office under the Ministry of Public Works of Egypt. I know English, French, and a little Italian."

While the winter moon is pouring light
A thousand children in their beds
Wait in dream for dawn to chase the night
That creeps beneath the morning bell

In darkened rooms a candle burns low
Shadows cower in flickered fear
While small heads covered from the glow
Know a wayfarer will rumple the cat

They've waited up so long for dawn
With warm safe sounds and eyes weighed heavy
Doubters of the dream withdrawn in secret yawn
Lost to meet by chance the wind of all delights

In the trees a gust has startled a bird
The shutters swing open and lift the curtain
Pluck the joy the cups of daybreak are heard
So many delights the excitement has no end

When out of the forest scent wound in lights
And all the globes that mirrored great grandma and granddad
Now mother and child still in bathrobe sing round the sight
Echoed out of winter’s dawn that glints borne on the ashe of time

Jack

I took the wreath off the front door today
Still green and soft with joyous red ribbon
Secure in the scent of woods and lichen
I took glory off the front door today

I emptied containers of left-over tastes
Carefully washed Grandma’s grand platter and
Tablecloth kit to the blue willow plates
I emptied traditions once more in place

I took down the glass and gilded aged globes
Hung from the table wreath plaiting the light
That closed the family in dreams and twilight
Pondered and wrapped glass and gilded aged globes

With care I swaddled the old broken crèche
Shrouded each figure in sweet scented gauze
Played shepherd by tree stars from Sinta Klause
Wool stowed bemused I covered the broken crèche

The tree stands nary a needle fallen
Some its grateful good riddance branches rough
A street of laid sheets are never enough
This year the tree nary a needle falls

I wonder my habits green or unbending
Will I tie the sun and stars round my head
Is New Year resolve like memory wool stowed
Will new growth echo sweet season ending.

Jack

ON FATHERISH MEN

Great Pompous Ague, and Vapid Arguments
do they use, to Use you. The Branch is Loaded
with Ripe Oats, smothered into the Air. With Tinkling fingers
I do Shake it down, So you would have me 'pon your Knees
quite Freely? Pay then First! Then will I Join you
at the Feverish tree, and sing a song of
Exstasie (short-cut, 'tis the Youths we Turn to).
Or would Ye be my Grande-Father? No, too Dulle this proves:
an Olde Man, well ripe in Lust,
or None, Thine Fine Rumbuctious Talk
but Whiffs at Me; 'tis the Bed I want, and
Respect of my Motherhood, too: till you Die
of Excess. Would you Return (after Judiciously
Leaving me) and take up Habits again? Then come Crawling
'pon your two blind Knees. Have thee not recongnized I bee
a Devilish Maiden, pulling at Thy flucid Beard? Yet
I do love thee, and beg thee be
a True Father. Mine is Gone
into the Grave, waving a Banner
of Idiocee: be thou more Intelligent; Keep
from Policee, and Take Mee. Humbly shall I
Spit at thee, Crawling my Hand at your Hind-
Pocket, as you Kisse Me. But no Lucrous
Intents had I, see; twas but to wipe the Loaden sea
of my Love-tears, with Thine Hankerchiee. Come, come,
be though Brave, and Come to Mee,
a-Loaden with rich Jewelree. All Night long
shall we Curry the Milke 'f Innocenciee.

A piece of dusk breaks off
shambling not slowly
as low-couched in dungeon-keep
A shadow whispering through soft folds
where gates of sleep once stood wide.

A cunning shiver advise me captive
rattling batting past tense resolve till
reason weeps one slippery passage
greets trembling tissue emboss the
night of knowledge under storm and form

Tremors murmur terms of silence
wisdom winnows pulsing shudders
impeach the memory there and now
that preaches dumb bonded breath
round the margins of space and grace

Gasp distilled in black clear crystal
sounds the race gleaming free
full tide flood streams the
rhapsody of fear ranging
gravely that broke the dream

No god of sound a motion made
this lone soul stirred
through domes and bubbles broken
upward viled through the wild
bending ebb-tide curve ascending till dawn

Unseen wings flutter beating
flames unwithdrawn forged
flush memories unroll
hoisted undazzled seas of bees
revealing shaming swarming wind

Sundered old rents awakened
still so strong glint
on bodies cloned to stone
a chorus of rebuke
hell-colored whirl and swirl howl vacant.

At the age of 9/10 my mother began weekly aggressively sexual behaviour with me which went on for a year, perhaps more. I was stripped naked under the pretext of being washed (at age 9!), stood on a chair; then talked to salaciously and diddled. I didn't understand it, and was terrified and no amount of protesting and crying had any effect.

From that time on - all the rest of my life - my mother's touch sickened me. Finally at age 44 I ceased having any contact with her. When I had dared to mention it - no one believed - A mother could never do anything like that!!! Even a female therapist at one point turned all her efforts to convincing me that I was lying! Women have a particularly difficult time, understandably I guess, of accepting themselves as sexual transgressors.

Only a few years ago I read the poems of Meera (or Mira) a medieval Hindu saint, who wrote ecstatic poems of abject devotion to (whoops) Siva (I think.) Much of the time she laments the passion of the god, then his withdrawal, and the terrible feelings of darkness she sometimes has. The poems are almost lunatic in the storms of opposite emotions, and her inability to control herself after the god had "had" her. The poetry affected me very deeply, but not with any religious identification that I could attach to it - then at some point well into the poems she cries out against her body and says that it's willingness to undermine and destroy is like having one's own mother be a vampire.

It was the first communication from another human being that touched on what had happened, the thing I never had the word/image for.

Jack

A Matter of Silence

A matter of habit
drew the old beliefs more tightly
outside a variation of meaning

A matter of glory
survive each occasion more blindly
compromised in our lies of being

A matter of meaning
molds the logic of truth and due
in a community of silence

A matter of comfort
encircled the 'word' as illusion, 'knowing,'
an assault on their carefully built fortification

A matter of limbo
a borderland of disquiet
into which much silence has fallen.

I am crazy with pain,
and no one understands it.
Only the wounded knows the pain of the wounded
saving the fire in his heart
Only the jeweller knows the values of the gem,
not the one who lost it.
O lord, Mira's pain will only go
when the Dark One is the healer.

To a Mouse(1785)

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

The mint bed in
bloom: lavender haze
day. The grass is
more than green and
throws up sharp and
cutting lights to
slice through the
plane tree leaves. And
on the cloudless blue
I scribble your name.

When will the river awaken spring thaw?
I ask the crystal moon
Pussy willows gleam gold near sun's turning sky
In the softness of their budding lore
Still along the frozen creek
Promise of spring release these stalks
Swaying dust, yellow catkins sigh.

When will I wash my mother's glass vase?
I dance with moon-lit shadow
My willow fluff hears pipes of pan
Veil yesterday's coffee stain, an antique vase,
Boots all muddy, socks soaked,
A child snaps a branch, a frog croaked
At the lake, promise in my daughter's hand.

Jack

SORROWFUL

With spring the lilac bore its flowers;
I waited for you waking;
My eyes were full of trembling tears,
And how my heart was breaking!

But time to all things gives an end:
To spring, and lilac-blossom....
And still you did not come to me,
And sorrow fill’d my bosom.

I dreamt anew the fragrant rose
Would draw you home tomorrow;
That I might rest upon your breast
and so forget my sorrow.

The summer’s jasmine ceased to bloom,
The scarlet rose soon faded . . .
You came not with the rose to bless
A heart with grief pervaded.

Then autumn brought the yellow leaf
And wild winds on the wing;
But still forgot, I saw you not
In autumn, as in spring

Cold, killing frosts invest the earth,
And life’s brief year is through;
But O my dear, though death is near,
My heart still dreams of you!

Zofia Trzeszczkowska (1847-1911)

It seems very clearly to be a poem of love, much like the story from Roman history about the matron Cornealia. She was visited by a friend who displayed all of her fine jewels, then Cornealia called her children and said, "These are my jewels."

Jack

Jack

The March-April-May issue of the m.e.stubbs poetry journal is on the web at http://www.sonatapub.com/stubbs.htm. Among the many poets whose work you'll find the on these pages is Annafair, whose poem "Dust Motes" I took from these pages and published. There is a photograph by SeniorNet photographer, Dapphne Laurel, on the About the Poets page. Be sure to look at it, too.

Last night the marsh still with cold
slept vague to the wilds of spring.

A hurrying sound of wind
whirrs fast the silver sky fierce
across the creek's overflow
past the roots of dim gray wood.

My spirit is drawn to soar
on northern wings that rattle
brown curls chattering free ride
wide swelling earth and stream.

Shallow water creeps where stirs
marsh grass ‘neath the tangled hedge
of roots and sod sheltering
stems and shoots of salt willow

Far above trees in quiet
reach emboss the looping light
with woven braid of oak and
vine hush gloom in the wild wood

Broad creek-rocks hold a chorus
of ancient memory rumble
within, like a cherry stone
poised by the rustle of the stream

I shall hasten lest my feet
awaken the paving-stones
and climb the hillside lispers
still murmuring songs of storms

On the cliff beneath the oak
I wonder what is heard when
Spring does shimmer the stirring
marsh upwind through the wood

Is the ancient’s frozen breath
the fast winged norther
bending the blades of marsh grass
overheard in my beating breast.

Tonight, the marsh stirred by wind
wakes clear to the wilds of spring.

If
I had
my life
to live over...

If I had my life to live over, I'd dare to
make more mistakes next time. I'd
relax, I would limber up. I would be
sillier than I have been this trip. I
would take few things seriously.
I would take more chances. I would
climb more mountains and swim more
rivers. I would eat more ice cream and less
beans. I would perhaps have more actual
troubles, but I'd have fewer imaginary ones.

You see, I'm one of those people who
live sensibly and sanely hour
after hour, day after
day. Oh, I've had my
moments and if I had it
to do over again, I'd have
more of them. In fact, I'd try to
have nothing else. Just moments, one
after another, instead of living
so many years ahead of each
day. I've been one of those persons
who never goes anywhere without a
thermometer, a hot water bottle, a
raincoat and a parachute. If I had it
to do again I would travel
lighter than I have.

If I had my life to live over, I
would start barefoot earlier in the
spring and stay that way later in the
fall. I would go to more dances. I would
ride more merry-go-rounds.

I would pick more daisies.

Nadine Stair
85 years old

While I roamed the creek trail the softened edge
of spring scored the wet earth with last night’s tracks
I followed, my foot in the low hollow
became like the deer drinking cold water.

In the sunlight glow pointed my footstep
down the bank edging the burble sparkle
a shadowed isle of new green onion grass
hung in my shoe lacing the galaxy.

While I roamed the swampland beneath rustling
cattails swaying over the shadowed bog
I chased each secret tuft of heart shaped leaves
picked as my eyes shone on each jewell’d violet.

In the blue unclouded weather I walked
home dazzling like the sun through the tall grass
You’ve been in the swamp again Mom said
hung on your shoe is new green onion grass

While I roamed my thoughts the treasured forest
sounds of a summer night surround the open
flapped tent where I lay on my cot smiling
we’ve un-wrapped the camp as mother’s before.

Out of the star filled night from the river
side running fast hooves snap a tree branch like
the wind a yearling arched through our tent
hung on his hoof is new green onion grass

While we roamed the mountain side trail not a
cricket to celabrate our treck is heard
above the rising and dropping wild foam
rushing past bridges of mute brown boulders

At seven he clambered quick the steep bank
Gra'ma your hand this Beowulf assured me
our song his mother heard memory hung on
new green onion grass tied to our shoes.

While I roamed the creek trail the softened edge
of spring scored the wet earth with last night’s
tracks I followed my foot in the hollow
became like the deer supping cold water.

In the sunlight glow pointed my footstep
down the bank binding the burble sparkle
a shadowed isle of new green onion grass
hung in my shoe laces the galaxy.

While I roamed the swampland beneath a wave
of cattail rustle over the shadowed
bog, I chased each secret tuft of heart shaped
leaves picked where shone each jewell'd violet

In the blue unclouded weather I walked
home dazzling like the sun through the tall grass.
"You’ve been in the swamp again" Mom said,
"hung in your shoe is new green onion grass."

While I roamed my thoughts the treasured forest
sounds of a summer night surround the open
flapped tent where I lay on my cot smiling,
we’ve un-wrapped the camp as mother’s before.

Out of the star filled night from the river
side running fast hooves snap a tree branch like
the wind a yearling arced through our tent
hung on his hoof is new green onion grass.

While we roamed the mountain side trail not a
cricket to celabrate our treck is heard
above the rise and drop of wild white foam
rushing past bridges of mute brown boulders.

At seven he clambered quick the steep bank
"Gra'ma your hand" this Beowulf assured me
our song his mother heard memory hung on
new green onion grass tied our galaxy.

There are of course those special "soul mates", I guess you could call them, who are so willing to let go that you can let them into the process of your work/creation. Rare though, I think.

I was in a writing workshop for senior for several years, and even there about a quarter of the people were lunkheads in how they approached the work of others.

Jack

The years have stolen
all her loveliness,
her days are fallen
in the long wet grass
like petals broken
from the lilac blossom,
when the winds have shaken
its tangled bosom.

Her youth like a dim
cathedral lies
under the seas
of her life's long dream,
yet she hears still
in her heart, sometimes,
the far, sweet chimes
of a sunken bell.

A.R.D. Fairburn

You will see him light a cigarette
At the hall door careless, leaning his back
Against the wall, or telling some new joke
To a friend, or looking out into the secret night.

But always his eyes turn
To the dance floor and the girls drifting like flowers
Before the music that tears
Slowly in his mind an old wound open.

His red sunburnt face and hairy hands
Were not made for dancing or love making
But rather the earth-wave breaking
To the plough, and crops slow-growing as his mind.

He has no girl to run her fingers through
His sandy hair, and giggle at his side
When Sunday couples walk. Instead
He has his awkward hopes, his envious dreams to yarn to.

But ah in harvest watch him
forking stooks, effortless and strong--
Or listening like a lover to the song
Clear, without fault, of a new tractor engine.

James K. Baxter

Afraid of losing you

I ran fluttering
like a little girl
after her mother

He made a place in his dream for the pines to grow,
He saw their shadows lengthening, as now
In the slanting sun they lengthen, the house absorbing
This still coolness; he saw the dogs asleep
Each in the shade of its kennel; weathered shafts
Resting on the ground, and big wheels resting.

The giant trees he saw spring from his hand,
And made a place in the air for them to grow,
A place for the low white house in their deep shelter;
But now if he could enter as once he entered
This cool yard, the dogs would suddenly rise,
Their barking shatter the dream and the sleepy stillness.

Nobody remembers him, the woman
Swinging her pail as she walks beneath great branches,
Going down through the shade to the cool swept cowshed,
The man on the dusty roadside bringing the cows;
They do not know they follow the paths he made
In a dream once for a man and a woman to follow.

This is the resting centre, leaf and flower
Have budded from the dream, the roots have grown,
The earth has accepted the roots and the burden of wheels,
All is fulfilled; only the man who saw
In seedlings in his hand this quiet hour,
Has passed from the dream, passed from the trees' long
shadows.

Ruth Dallas.

TAUMARUNUI

I’m an ordinary joker getting old before my time
For my heart's in Taumarunui on the Main Trunk Line.

You can get to Taumarunui going north or going south
And you end up there at midnight and you’ve cinders
in your mouth;

You got cinders in your whiskers and cinder in your eye,
So you hop off at Refreshments for a cupper tea and pie
In Taumarunui, Taumaranui, Taumaranui on the Main Trunk Line.

There’s a shiela in Refreshments and she’s pouring cupsa tea
And my heart jumps like a rabbit when she pours
a cup for me;
She’s got hair a flaming yellow and a mouth a flaming red
And I’ll love that flaming sheila till I’m up and gone
and dead
In Taumaranui, Taumaranui, Taumaranui on the Main
Trunk Line.

You can get a job in Wellington or get a job up north
But you can’t in Taumaranui though you try for all
You’re worth;
If I want to see this sheila, then I got to take a train;
Got ten minutes for refreshments then they cart me of
again
From Taumaranui, Taumaranui, Taumaranui on the Main Trunk Line.

Well, they took me on as fireman on the Limited Express,
And I thought she’d be jake but now it’s just a
flaming mess;
That sheila didn’t take to me; I thought she’d be a gift;
She’s gone and changed her duty hours and works the
daylight shift
In Taumaranui, Taumaranui, Taumaranui on the Main Trunk Line.

I’m an ordinary joker growing old before my time
For my heart's in Taumaranui on the Main Trunk Line.

Peter Cape.