Poetry ~ 2005 Export

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Needs an old poem ..I dont know about everyone else but for me there are poems I return to and return to,.. today was one of those days when I had to read Mary Olivers The Summer Day and perhaps you are like me and need to read it too..anna

 
. 

The Summer Day 
Mary Oliver 

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

Rudolph Valentino in "The Sheik"
Made all the women and girls swoon
Because of him I lost my steady girl
Hey! Buddy, pass me that soda pop moon

"Day by day in every way I'm getting better and better"
Was the popular self-help line chanted over and over
Making pharmacist Emile Coue
A pop psychology guru

It ain't no song
That sugar moon
But give me some
And I'll sing "Blue Moon"

Will Rogers poked fun at congress
And the president in his monologues-
"Every time they make a joke, it's a law
And evey time they make a law, it's a joke

"Flappers" dance the "Charleston"
The newest dance craze
Free-spirited young women with bobbed hair
Smoking and drinking while their elders raged

You're the bees' knees, cat's pajamas
Gnat's eyebrow, and the cat's meow
Just a few common fad expressions
A fella might say to his steady gal

"This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but with a whimper"
The poet T.S. Eliot penned
In his poem "The Hallow Man"

Valentino died
And women committed suicide
The stock market crashed
And men committed suicide

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" (1920 - 1929)

A NEW DAY
Alarm sounds blaring, bell screaming, ping ring, ping ring. Electronic rooster crowing, day is here, send a new flare. Eyes can still scrounge through one thousand, three hundred and eighty four posts. Hurry though - A new day is here. Electronic portals hold blessings anew. I remember, warm thoughts, a stir in my day, between twilight's haze and a poster's last dream. Not knowing what a day really means, since April nineteen, in the year two thousand and four, where peaceful memory, "returned" from the beach, in archive remain.

Anna - I so enjoyed your "Thoughts..." and will return to read it often.

Scrawler - I'm really enjoying reading the poems from your book... keep 'em coming!

Barbara - what an evocative poem you wrote!

In honor of Charles Lindbergh
They danced the "Lindy Hop"
Also known as the "jitterbug"
Across the floor they bopped

"The Star-Spangled Banner"
Became the national anthem
But the most popular song was
"Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?"

Clark Gable and Jean Harlow
Sizzled in celluloid in "Red Dust"
Joan Crawford arrived in "Rain"
And there was "The Big Broadcast

John Dillinger at the Chicago
World's Fair watched Sally Rand
Dance her fan dance while the
FBI watched Dillinger and Rand

40 million acres of soil
Dust storms blow away
From Texas to Canada
People begin to go away

It was the "Alphabet soup" era
With agencies like the NRA
PWA, FERA, CCC, AAA, TVA,
And don't forget the WPA

With war brewing in Europe
Americans got a scare from
Invading Martians on the radio
But it was prank of Halloween

They went marathon crazy
Boys and girls sat in trees
Swallowed live goldfish
And pedaled bicycles in circles

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" (1930 - 1939)

In the Northwest a
Suspension bridge collapses
Caused by wind vibration

"A day that will live in infamy" -
December 7, 1941
Japanese attack Peral Harbor

In January 1942 U.S. Marines land on
Guadalcanal - the first major
U.S. amphibious operations begins

Penicillin is produced in America on a
Large scale because of a discovery of a
Mold on a canaloupe in Peoria, ILL.

Major Glen Miller, a big band leader
Is reported missing on flight
From Paris to London on Dec. 24, 1944

The Japanese cities of Hiroshima
And Nagaski are destroyed in
August 1945 by atomic bombs

Paris designer Christian Dior
Unveils the "New Look"
In women's fashions in 1947

Baseball takes a historic step
When Jackie Robinson signed
With the Brooklyn Dodgers

Alger Hiss, former State department official
Is indicted by a federal grand jury
For selling secrets to the Russians

Chief topics of conversation in America in 1949
Included raising prices, shortage of housing,
The menace of Russian Communism
And the atomic bomb

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" (1940 - 1949)

Gastronomic Dreams

If I had a nickel for each time,

 
I saw a whole pickle 
A penny for slices of  a fresh kosher pickle 
The deli could serve me  for years 
And years 
A Rueben 
Corned beef and sauerkraut 
Maybe Thousand Island Dressing 
French Fries all dressed out 
With Catsup, and Mustard 
All curled ‘round about 
Then I move to pastrami 
With slices of salami 
And baloney 
All wrapped in provolone cheese 
And Mozzarella 
Sliced tomatoes 
Portabellas 
Black olives 
Green olives 
Green peppers 
Jalopenas  but of course  
All together 
With a side order of shredded Cole Slaw 
I’d snack with Lox and Bagels 
Coated with delicious Cream Cheese 
At last in the evening 
The angels could float me far away 
Holding my tummy 
But of course 

Burp! 
Excuse me

You're making me hungry and I just had breakfast!

Pass the pepto-bismol

That seems to be my saying for this time when not only is the weather HOT HUMID HORRIBLE with my plants thirsty each day for liquid refreshment but my family from Iowa arrived and we have tried to visit only places that had air conditioning ..which leaves a lot to be desired in an area of historic significance.

I spent about an hour looking for a poem about a HEAT WAVE but never found one Has anyone a poem about a HEAT WAVE? Cant believe near the last of May I was still wearing winter PJ's and now the least that decency will allow ..wow This is not June weather but August ..

We are off in a few minutes to take in the Air and Space Museum and dine in a restaurant on the bay.. hopefully I will find a poem to share but thank each of you for your contributions.

Scrawler if you remember all the things in your poems we must be the same age..it is like taking a trip back in time to read them ..especially 1949 when I married my knight in shining armor. although he had blue sedan and wore blue and yellow houndstooth checked trousers and a yellow turtle neck ..

Louie you too reminding me of those wonderful deli's I guess this is really SENIOR NET LOL thanks to all I hope to find something to share or in desparation write something ..have a great day wherever you are and stay COOL..anna

INSTITUTIONAL CONSTITUTIONAL

In the halls of the museum
Things are not what they seem.
Appearances can be most deceiving.
If visitors come walking out
With their heads turned round about,
They may be entering, not leaving.
They can slide along the walls
Muttering soft plaintive calls
For lost children, mothers, cousins, aunts.
Because their torn and worn suspenders
Make them mighty poor contenders,
They shuffle by in descending pants.
But no fear deters, inhibits
When they peer at the exhibits
Of neolithic unspecific tools,
Of diadems of molded plastic,
Varicolored bright, elastic
Mounted on a pair of stuffed mules.
The whimper as they stumble;
Underneath their breath they mumble
Of suppers back at home gone icy cold.
Their feet are throbbing painfully
While they gaze gainfully
At toilet bowls filagreed in gold.
The guards keep them all in lines
With pointed fingers, painted signs,
Educating masses in esoteric ways
So they can, with open candor,
Look upon a lunar lander,
A Grecian urn, A Roman vase,
And contemplate its finer points,
Where it’s stiff, or has its joints
And discuss aesthetics endlessly for days.
Meanwhile, sister, with a blister,
Wandered off before they missed her.
Although they looked, they searched for her in vain.
A cannibal tour ate her
When she looked for the curator,
But they did it kindly, without pain.
Although their meal was hasty,
They proclaimed her juicy, tasty,
And carefully folded garments and her shoes.
They arranged themselves on benches,
Both the men and all the wenches
And retired for a peaceful snooze.
The parents, panicked, frantic,
Bellowed in a frightful antic
At the section for the lost and found.
Emotions there were placated.
When an executive donated
A pocket watch he had freshly wound.
More useful than a naughty daughter,
Gratefully they thought it oughter
Be more economical to keep.
They admired its construction,
Ceased their noise, stopped their ruction
And left for home without another peep.
But the halls are milling still
That the eager minds can fill
With intelligence from special science.
Biologic dioramas
Illustrate , in all its dramas,
Life on Earth in compliance and defiance.
Here’s a family of yeti
Munching down boiled spaghetti,
Herds of antelope on subway trains,
Gaily dressed wild raccoons
Playing baseball with baboons,
Giraffes with flutes tooting soft refrains.
Neither archaeology
Nor obscure theology
Is neglected in the halls of history.
A great wazir of King Tut’s,
A fussy old Egyptian putz,
Is portrayed in all his mystery.
He’s preparing several mummies
By inscribing on their tummies
Recipes for cookies and for fudge.
In the land of the dead
They will be sweetly fed.
He gives post mortal cuisine quite a nudge.
At the hall of dinosaurs
The kids, in glee, throw apple cores
To see if they can land them in the skull,
While the guards, high on pot,
Sometimes try a random shot
But mostly find the game deadly dull.
Meanwhile there’s a session
For a class in bone profession
To teach the average guy to make at home
From bottles, cans, and twisted wire
Shaped with glue and roaring fire,
Ingeniously adhered with plastic foam,
An articulated diplodoccus
To titillate and shock us
When it sips soup in our kitchen.
Culture due to arcane science
Requires strict, strange compliance
Allowing it to edify, enrichen.
At the planetarium
Enraptured people stiffly squat
Attentive to a tiny spot
Or several, when guides vary’em
To simulate celestial stars,
Sometimes Mercury or Mars,
Or , on occasion, if they goof,
A dot as brilliant as a laser
That certainly should be a quasar,
But pans out as a rainhole in the roof.
Now the closing time has come.
With a large brass band and drum
Lead the patrons out the front door.
Festooned with postcards, souvenirs,
And chewing gum stuck to their rears,
The crowds are stuffed up to the gills with lore.
They can discuss, without friction,
Themes and dreams of science fiction
And, at parties, be a monstrous bore.

There are no poems about heat waves - who can write during a heat wave!

I was born in '43, so I don't remember a lot about the forties, the first news event I can remember was watching the McCarthy hearings on TV.

A Song For Our Time (Part 6)

North Korea invades South Korea
American troops wait in the cold
And they wait in the darkness

At home Americans crunch Frosted Flakes
And eat frozen Swanson TV dinners
In front of the TV and troops wait

Americans go to the movies
And watch "Buwana Devil" in 3-D
With tinted glasses and the troops wait

With "Red" tinted glasses
Americans watch McCarthy's
Witch hunt on the television

Racial violence rocks Mississippi
Teenagers "Rock Around the Clock"
And the U.S. withdraws from Korea

Allen Ginsberg - "Howl"
Rosa Parks refuses to give up her seat
And some women are "Queen for a Day"

Frisbees and Sputniks whisk through the air
The National Guard is called out in Little Rock
And Jack Kerouac - "On the Road"

Krushchev beats the table with his shoe at the UN
Hula-Hoops twirl and yo-yos "walk the dog"
And the beat goes on

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" (1950 ~ 1959)

Your poems are such a joy to read. Your meter and your rhyme are just the thing each time! Museum visits are enlightening, 'tho cannibal feasts can be quite frightening. (Quoting Louie: BURP!)

Jan Loved your museum poem I wrote one after visiting the National Museum in DC must find it .sometimes a museum is TOO much...

Scrawler well you have researched well to give us your poems..and for me they are special ..and YOU ARE MUCH YOUNGER THAN I ..well I gave up looking for a poem about a heat wave and our heat wave has subsided for the moment >here at nearly 4 am it is only 66 feels almost cold!!!

I looked for a father's day poem but instead found a poem by Longfellow I always loved hope you enjoy it ..anna

 
The Children's Hour 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

Between the dark and the day light,  
When the night is beginning to lower,  
Comes a pause in the day's occupations  
That is known as the Children's Hour.  

I hear in the chamber above me  
The patter of the feet,  
The sound of a door that is opened,  
And voices soft and sweet.  

From my study I see in the lamplight,  
Descending the broad hall stair,  
Grave Alica and laughing Allegra,  
And Edith with golden hair.  

A whisper, and then a silence:  
Yet I know by their merry eyes  
They are plotting and planning together  
To take me by surprise.  

A sudden rush from the stairway,  
A sudden raid from the hall!  
By three doors left unguarded  
They enter my castle wall!  

They climb up into my turret  
O'er the arms and back of my chair;  
If I try to escape, they surround me;  
They seem to be everywhere.  

They almost devour me with kisses,  
Their arms about me entwine,  
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen  
In this Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!  

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,  
Because you have scaled the wall,  
Such an old mustache as I am  
Is not a match for you all?  

I have you fast in my fortress,  
And will not let you depart,  
But put you down into the dungeon  
In the round tower of my heart.  

And there I will keep you forever,  
Yes, forever and a day,  
Till the wall shall crumble to ruin,  
And molder in dust away!

PASTORAL

We walked, fifty years and twelve ago,
Down an icy stream on naked feet.
The trees were stout with age, and so
Young were we, and so incomplete,
No inkling came to us of the coming death
Of wildness. Clear water, shadowed forest,
Was a given that we drew upon with each breath.
Fierce blue skies glimmered through the leaves. Birds chorused
Raining chirps and whistles. Hawks faintly shrieked.
Warm winds hissed and spider strands
Wrapped across our faces. Sharp beaked
Woodpeckers hammered high above. Our hands
Sprung branches that we met
That struck us back in whooshing slaps.
Round stones beneath our feet, white, wet,
Seemed oval eggs, and in the gaps
The brown clay mud sucked our toes.
How strong still is that memory. It taps
The liquid grace of time and place that knows
How wonderful that world had been. That stream
From strong and far off memory still flows
And sounds its lively melody when I dream.

Burning crosses
White-hooded figures
Angry black faces

One black man
Alone
At the university door

A riderless horse
Prances
One November morn

Black man with a
Dream
Now he is gone

Football hero
Running in Vietnam
Exploding mine

Soldiers march home
No parades
Just angry voices

Velvet jackets
Gypsy style skirts
Funky look

Candlelight vigil
Riot
Flag burning

Drugs and drink
Forget pain
Forget joys

Apollo eleven
On tranquility sea
One giant step for me

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler)"A Century to Remember" (1960 ~ 1969)

Happy father's day one and all!

Jan and Scrawler I read your poems and thought OH YES OH YES Jan you have described so clearly to me the summer's of my past ..I am swept with summer nostalgia ..over come with memories of what used to be..and Anne my guests and I just returned from the Air and Space Museum here in Hampton VA and there was Apollo 12 and the space capsule that blew its hatch and almost took Gus Grissom along as it plunged into the oceam ..It was rescued finally and at this time rests in thus museum along with the original tale and then how it was salvaged. So much more ..

On our way home we immediately ran into bumper to bumper traffic and our return was SLOW ,,and in looking for a poem to share the following one spoke to me ..anna

 
Work and Play 



  The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer, 
A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage, 
A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air. 
          But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust 
          In shimmering exhaust 
          Searching to slake 
          Its fever in ocean 
          Will play and be idle or else it will bust.  

The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon, 
She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples, 
Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect. 
          But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach 
          Disgorges its organs 
          A scamper of colours 
          Which roll like tomatoes 
          Nude as tomatoes 
          With sand in their creases 
          To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.  

The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer, 
She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it, 
She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners. 
          But the holiday people 
          Are laid out like wounded 
          Flat as in ovens 
          Roasting and basting 
          With faces of torment as space burns them blue 
          Their heads are transistors 
          Their teeth grit on sand grains 
          Their lost kids are squalling 
          While man-eating flies 
          Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?  

They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces 
          And start up the serpent 
          And headache it homeward 
          A car full of squabbles 
          And sobbing and stickiness 
          With sand in their crannies 
          Inhaling petroleum 
          That pours from the foxgloves 
          While the evening swallow 
The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson, 
Touches the honey-slow river and turning 
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves - 
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.  

Ted Hughes

What a neat poem, Anna and yes, I liked Jan's poem too.

I had to look through a lot of disks to find this poem. It is not just father's day I think of my dad but each day because he taught me so much and I am grateful for his love expressed in a hundred ways and for the kind of dad he was..here is my tribute to my father and I hope all fathers know how special they are in thier childrens's lives ..anna

 
Fathers Day 

My father died when I was twenty-one  
More years ago than I care to remember  
Still the woman I am today is  who  
She is because of what he stood for. 

Tolerance I learned from him  
Never to judge someone by skin  
Color, or ethnic background  
Or any  of a hundred things  
We use as criteria to determine  
Who we choose for friends  

We had a comfortable living  
Earned by his efforts and desire  
To give us the best he could. 
Yet it was what he gave us  
On quiet summer evenings  
Sitting on the green vined porch  
The soft answers to our questions  
The condemnation for anything  
Mean or hurtful  
The gruff, loving care he showed us  
In all he did. The fair way he treated  
Us. The love he held for our mother, 
His mother, and family members. 
He taught me to be myself  
To be a leader, and not a follower 
To take responsibility for my behavior 
He reminded us to be lenient in our  
Dealings with others and to be strict  
With our dealings with ourselves 
He trusted us to be the best in whatever we did  
Encouraged our dreams  
Woke us on a hot summer’s eve to  
Eat  ice cream he carried home  
On the bus. 
Greeted us at the breakfast table on  
A winters day with fresh doughnuts  
From the bakery near his bus stop 
This may not be a poem but it is truth  
About a man who taught me what to  
Look for in the man I married  
So he too would be a Father  
Not just the man Mother married 

anna alexander  
5/19/1997 
all right reserved

A Momentary Glance

A quarter of a century ago
My father died.
Someone telephoned at 2 am
That he had gone.
Some points are marked in time
Like gigantic obelisks
On the flat plains
Of all the everydays
That pave our lives.
He had no outstanding wisdoms
But he was kind
And he cared strongly
About the world
And about me.
We did not look too much alike
But, just last night,
He looked at me
From out my bathroom mirror.
He seemed as startled as me.
I miss him.

Just Being Silly

If
there is one among us
who can hold a candle
to the great poets,
Jan Sand'll

Who
is another
who knows our joys and cares?
Speaks them back to us in rhyme?
Annafair's

And if
there is one
who pens the history of man
it's no mystery
It's Anne!

(This was just kind of spontaneous after reading here today. Sorry I couldn't work my silly device into the third part!)

I've been posting some different things (mostly pantoums) in "Poetry Challenge" but it has slowed considerably over there, so I decided to put this one over here. It is in a form called "syllabics."

The Dog
© Karen Weston June 19 2005

By the door
a dog with rheumy eyes
sleeps on the doormat.

His sleeping
busy with cats, a chew bone;
barks in his dreaming.

Young long ago,
ran with the kids, chased cats;
grown tired, rests now.

An old dog,
man’s best friend, loved by many,
sleeps on the doormat.

Thank you so much, Zinnia SoCA. I have never been so honored and NO I don't think you're being silly at all!

Google tells me tomorrow will be the longest day of this year ,,I remember this from when I was a little girl because in summer we were allowed to stay up until dark, and one year as my poem tells we were in Norway on that day ..with some Norwegian friends and I can still recall how the day never really ended ,,just sort of dimmed and stayed that way until dawn..anyway here is a poem I have been meaning to write for a long time and today I finally did...anna

 
A question I will ask tonight 

patiently I await the turning of the earth  
for the longest day to arrive to give birth  
to a day that hesitates to end tomorrow  
when the sun oozes over  tonight’s dim dark 
I will smile and know that tomorrow night  
will linger , reluctantly depart and remember  
how it used to be when ancient man would  
rejoice. It is day I have anticipated since  
December when my ancestors genes  
felt a hint of fear, when the sun descended  
early in its path and wondered would  
tomorrow bring it back once we waited  
for this day in Norway’s land of the  
midnight sun and could not sleep as the day  
ended with a soft gray light that kept  
us up through a half hearted night  
to see the sun reappear and gave at dawn  
a rather indifferent rosy yawn  
as if it knew that man was there and smiled  
to think of our ancient fears  
by this time tomorrow I will feel the earth  
turning spinning and start its downward track  
to another December day when the day will end  
too soon and my heart will wonder once again  
will the morrow bring the rising sun  
or will it be the last my soul will see  
and this time there will be eternal dark? 

anna alexander 
June 20, 2005, 6:55 PM©

Oh, Anna. Excellant.

Jan, your poem really moved me.

Wonderful, Anna! Bravo! Applause! Your poetry is so expressive!

Hugs,

Karen

ONLY ONE

In the territory of the Sun
The days arise when you stare into its eye,
And when you turn away, day's done.
Now you can perceive the country of the moon
Who's eye, serene, remains night's queen,
Strides smoothly through its dark salon.
Our years are reckoned out of our careen
Between encounters with these realms.
Our glances, back and forth deceive,
Confuse our perceptions , overwhelms
Our sense of unity. Makes us believe
Each instance when we immigrate
Into these nations, they are places new.
We have no consciousness to intimate
We've been here before, No deja`-vu
Revealing continuity, no insight
There is but one day, a single night

Jan, your command of English meter and language makes me gasp when I remember that English likely isn't your native tongue. Amazing!

Scrawler, I'm still awaiting delivery of your book. I'd hoped it here by now. You did post a poem from each decade from it; but I'll here just add that the book is 469 pages, so has much more than the tidbits you've taken time to share with us here.

Annafair, I posted in Missouri forum a link to your poem from Norway. An Alaska lass who regularly posts in Missouri forum...was anticipating a big community celebration of the solstice there. However, her last post reported days-long overcast skies; a "midnight sun" party without the sun...? So I gave her a link to your poem...as a possible solace to her Solstice.

Zinnia, so sorry, the loss of your dear friend and ours. Your "The Dog" syllabics post could also qualify as haiku...a special sub-set, perhaps?

I was born in Manhattan and grew up in Brooklyn so I can make no claims as to not being a native speaker. My capability with poetry is instinctive and I have small conscious control. There is a poet somewhere inside and at good times he takes over.

DEMON INSIDE

There is, down deep inside of me,
The engineer who makes my engine go.
He pulls my pulleys, spins my gears to see
Me run, to manipulate me, fast and slow.
A dented topper rides astride his curly mop,
Baggy cloth coat, shoes split apart, open toed,
Cupid mouth, puffed cheeks, eyes that pop.
He’s Harpo Marx and it’s his bestowed
Energy which pulls my arms, my legs, my frame,
Sends me out on mysterious forays,
To seek odd things I cannot name,
To dance his unfathomable ballets.
He insanely pedals so my heart can thump
To squirt my blood from toes to hair
And kid the experts that my heart’s a pump.
He squashes bellows so I suck in air
And then, with spreading rubber grin
When I’m immersed in a silent group,
So quiet you could hear a pin,
Suddenly, he puts me in the soup.
His nature puts the coarse before the heart.
He strikes the activating button
And, uncontrollably, I fart.
When, on occasion, I act the glutton
In good company, to roundly squelch
My dignity, he deftly leaps to misuse
His agile skills to make me belch.
I dread to find myself bereft of tissues;
An opportunity he never fails to seize
With obvious unrepressed delight.
Invariably he induces a liquid sneeze.
I suppose there might come a night
When he steps forth in revelation,
In open friendliness, to say hello.
“I’m Geppetto”, he’ll confide, no hesitation.
“And you,” he’ll say, “must be Pinocchio.”

Jeff I hope my memory will help her recall other years ..I watched till late last night and st 9 the sun was gone but a soft sky lingered on...so today I feel a little sad knowing we will a few minutes less of evening light..

Jan I am SO GLAD you expressed your feelings about your poetry..I dont agonize over my poems ( I had a professor who told us she rewrote one poem 500 times , something I could NEVER do0 I never know what the last line is until it appears on my computer screen, I never know what I am going to write as it has always seemed as if something inside of me demanded to be heard and I was just the vehicle where it could be expressed. Perhaps I feel in your poems that same mystery I find in mine...Thanks so much for again sharing another of your poems..they are treasures to me..

Yesterday a friend called and I took the call in the sunroom ..as we talked I kept interupting her to tell about the birds in my back yard. A wonderful cardinal and his mate were feeding at one of the feeders, and two birds , parents of a younger bird were perched on the deck railing and they were bring the fledging a seed from my feeder and HUGE starling , my least favorite bird was making a mess in my bird bath but I did have to smile as he lifted a wing and splashed water under it ,much like humans do An arm lifted to splash water into our armpits ..anyway I choose to share this poem from Emily Dickinson today...anna

 
A Bird Came Down the Walk  
 by Emily Dickinson. 

A bird came down the walk:  
He did not know I saw;  
He bit an angle-worm in halves  
And ate the fellow, raw.  

And then he drank a dew  
From a convenient grass,  
And then hopped sidewise to the wall  
To let a beetle pass.  

He glanced with rapid eyes  
That hurried all abroad,--  
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;  
He stirred his velvet head  

Like one in danger; cautious,  
I offered him a crumb,  
And he unrolled his feathers  
And rowed him softer home  

Than oars divide the ocean,  
Too silver for a seam,  
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,  
Leap, splashless, as they swim.

Jeff it might up to six weeks for my book to get to you. The publisher is a little slow. If you haven't got it by than let me know. Also, the book is a combination of poems and short stories. That's why it's 496 pages long.

Song for Our Time (Part

:

Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin both die in 1970
And Kent State students protesting the Vietnam War
Are killed when National Guardsmen open fire

"The Pentagon Papers" detailing America's involvement
In Vietnam are submitted to the New York Times
While "All in the Family" premieres on television

Five men are arrested inside Democratic National Headquarters
Creating a scandal for Richard Nixon and a Pulitzer Prize
For Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein of the Washington Post

The Supreme Court rules under
Roe verus Wade that women have
The unrestricted right to abortion

The last American troops leave Vietnam
Discos reign as Americans do "The Hustle" In Space Americans and Soviets exchange visits

The skyrocketing demands for
"Denim jeans and jackets"
Makes their production double

Woody Allen's "Annie Hall" wins Best Picture
Spielberg's "Close Encounters of the Third Kind
Is released as is George Lucas's "Star Wars" in 1977

Jim Jones and 900 followers drink
Kool-Aid spiked with cyanide in a
Mass suicide in Jonestown, Guyana

On Three Mile Island in Pennsylvania
100,000 people are evacuated because
Of a nuclear-related accident

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" (1970 ~ 1979)

COMPOSING

My thoughts, when fashioned into words,
Words which twist and interlock
And echo on themselves in rhyme and beat,
When sounded, ring like choruses of bells,
Or waves that swirl and separate and meet.

Words and thoughts, when married into form,
When joined and folded into shapes
Wherein their grasp holds to each other tight
And yet extends a reach into the world
Engenders sorcery to make a magic light.

So, complete, these origamis of the mind
Encage, engage a coterie of notions
That weld into a small totality
Like a perfect little paper boat
To be launched onto an endless sea.

Mea culpa, Jan. I'd mis-remembered details of your bio (it's on web someplace). But you did spend your major adult years in Finland...that part I'd remembered right.

In early 1980s I'd opened a new door to enjoyment: modern classical music. Much of that for me was by Finns. Perhaps you know of, or even knew some of these composers:

- Aulis Sallinen. I was a new DC-area resident in 80s, and National Symphony Orchestra's longtime music director Mstislav Rostropovich (cellist, conductor, exiled from cold-war Russia) liked to champion this Finn composer, premiering many of Sallinen's new works. I used to own CD's of Sallinen's 2 earliest operas, "The Horseman" & "The Red Line." Since these, he has racked up 5 more operas and 7 symphonies...likely even better than those I knew from early 1980s.

- Jean Sibelius. Everybody's favorite Finn composer. Mine too. Very "romantic" style; very beautiful music.

- Merikanto, Kokkonen, & Rautavaaro: Other 20th century Finn composers of note.

Scrawler: your 70s song passed over those awful "leisure suits" for men; and those double-knit dresses for women. You did mention Disco; but not TV's "Midnight Special" (cultural events all; sad to add).

Also, after I get your book...I will be alert as to what I can do to tweak your memories of the 1940s. I'm not much older'n you, but I grew up with uncles/aunts (in their prime then). So I've a bunch of "strictly 40s stuff" in my fond memories; will wait to see if your book needs help before suggesting anything here.

Here's a poem someone recently called to my attention. (I was WAY too busy, until just recently.) It was sung by Bette Midler in her acclaimed 1979 film "The Rose," lyrics written much earlier by Amanda McBride:

Some say love, it is a river
That drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor
That leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger
An endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower
And you, its only seed

It's the heart, afraid of breaking
That never learns to dance
It's the dream, afraid of waking
That never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken
Who cannot seem to give
And the soul, afraid of dying
That never learns to live

When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snow
Lies the seed that with the sun's love
In the spring...Becomes the rose.

This webpage tells how Amanda came to compose this lyric...and how it later got exposed (bigtime) in Midler's movie: http://www.amcbroom.com/rose.html

Jan Sand, I enjoyed very much "Composing." Wonderful.

Jim in Jeff, "The Rose" is good too. Thank you for the link.

Demons

 
Break the boundries 
That control creativity 
Let loose an innerself 
Climbs 
Soars 
Seeking reality 
Always 
Just beyond 
Fingers touch 
Then sleep 
Until  
Next  
Time

Is special and is what I hoped this discussion would be. Thanks to Jan Sand who continues to share his wonderful poetry , To Jim in Jeff who contributes his thoughts and favorites , to Scrawler who shares her poetry and to Louie who is doing something he does well ..and to all who just come and read and take away a memory for that day.. My appreciation..

In America’s Favorite Poems by Robert Pinsky and Maggie Dietz I came across this one , a favorite of homemaker in Texas who loved it first because of the use of shade vs. sun and then found it had been written at Buchenwald. I found it so moving I felt I had to share it with you, It is by Robert Denos France 1900-1945 and was translated by X J Kennedy. I can recommend this book of poems for those who love to read anthologies of poetry, Each poem was chosen by some American , people that offered their favorite and why. I cannot make a statement but allow you to make your own. anna

 

LAST POEM 

I have so fiercely dreamed of you  
And walked so far and spoken of you so , 
Loved a shade of you  so hard 
That now I have no more left of you. 
I’m left to be a shade among the shades 
A hundred times more shade than shade 
To be cast time and time again into your sun -transfigured  life.

Anna, that's beautiful!

Louie 1026, I love "Demons" too. Creativity does come and go. Sleep, sometimes, is the best medicine. Then, it comes again.

Mount St. Helens volcano erupts
"Voyager I" probe explores Saturn and
John Lennon is shot in New York City

American hostages in Iran are
Released by the Ayatollah Khomeini
After 444 days in captivity

In February 1980 Americans were
Witnessed to "The Miracle on Ice" when
The American Hockey Team beat the USSR

AIDS is recognized as an epidemic
The Vietnam War Memorial is dedicated and
The first successful heart transplant is performed

In organized crime John Gotti is suspected
Of murdering Paul Castellano of the
Gambino family in New York City

Michael Jackson tells everyone to "Beat It"
Chart toppers include Prince and The Police and
Madonna releases her first album "Like a Virgin"

On January 28, 1986 the space shuttle
"Challenger" explodes after lift-off
And the world mourns America's loss

Steven Spielberg's "ET" thrills audiences
"Platoon" earns Oscars for Oliver Stone
Dustin Hoffman wins an Oscar for "Rain Man"

The Exxon Valdez runs aground in
Alaskan water and ten million
Gallons of oil pollute the waters

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" (1980 ~ 1989)

Thanks one and all for your poems and comments.

THE BEACH

We had often
walked there hand in hand
or arm-in-arm.

The years
brought changes to the sand
the shells, the wave washed debris;
even our footprints
shortened by time
Changed their shape.

That day
our clothes were balloons
in warm wind, and wind surfers
Like bright-winged dragon flies
skimmed the ocean.

Children's voices
clamoured for games, for sea and sun
as we felt time sink down
like the sand beneath us

We knew the beach so well
the sea, sky, the ever-changing
tide driven line of shells
but we did not know
we were walking there
for the last time.

Mavis Wentworth.

Do You hear them....

 

Count 
If you dare 
The tears flowing 
Touching her cheek 
No I didn’t put them there 
Did you 
Listen 
The Bells are ringing 
Singing the Angelus 
Tolling each moment 
In the Polish fields 
While 
Trains passing  
To captivity, oblivion 
Carrying you and me 
Clicking wheels on a railroad track 
Where are they going 
Clicking...clicking 
And it is cold 
Sleep 
Sweet baby 
Tomorrow  it will stop 
Forget all this 
Sleep 
Maybe 
The Bells will remember

Your poems touch me more than others ..perhaps it is the poem itself or the image it conjures or my own memories disturbed and recalled but the poems you offered today are those ..and I thank you each for them ..I think we must be in some sort of cosmic sync since the poem I chose for today fits in..anna

 
Unsaid 





So much of what we live goes on inside— 

The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches 

Of unacknowledged love are no less real 

For having passed unsaid.  What we conceal 

Is always more than what we dare confide. 

Think of the letters that we write our dead. 





Dana Gioia

That is a heartbreaking poem, wonderfully done. It hurts and it opens my eyes a bit wider at the same time. I find that poetry is a good outlet for grieving and for letting out pain and painful memories, regardless of vintage.

Anna - that poem is also marvelous. Like art and humor, I think we like poetry the most when we can say, "Yes... I recognize that... yes... that's how I felt," or when it opens our eyes to the deeper feelings of others about things we recognize but really had not felt or recognized to that depth. I like it so much when it communicates some shared feeling with me, or twangs some chord that resonates within me.

This is one of mine written yesterday..it was 8PM and I marveled at how it seemed so much earlier and how lovely and quiet it was ..the sun could not be seen beyond the many ancient trees that block my view but the sky was a soft glowing yellow that emanated from the area where the sun would be going down..it illumiated the edges of the trees and filtered through the canopy of leaves..it was just so lovely and I wanted to put my thoughts into a poem .but the last thing I saw before I returned to my computer desk was a firefly on the edge of my flower bed..twinkling like a star and so the last line of my poem is not my own but some little devil that decided to write it for me ..a surprise I can tell you but I never know just where I end and my muse begins...hope it makes you smile! anna

 
I love a summer’s eve  
when  eight  o’clock seems like six  
when the sun  slides slowly in the west  
trailing a gentle yellow path   
when the  trees are still and each leaf  
seems quiet and the roses   warm  
from the day’s bright sun   
send their perfume rising to my room  
 just as the  yellow slowly fades to gray  
I see a firefly  flick his tail  
and lets his lady know he is ready   
to play  along the garden path  

makes me envious ! 
.........and I laugh!  

anna Alexander  
June 24, 2005, 8:44 PM©

Oh, Anna!! Great!

A lovely poem from a lovely inspiration! Bravo! Would that humans could light up their backsides to find love. A much simpler system for sure. Now I'm laughing! LOLOL!!!

Anna,

I love both poems. Thank you.

Zinnia,

I feel the same way. Could never express my feelings as well as you have here,

"Like art and humor, I think we like poetry the most when we can say, "Yes... I recognize that... yes... that's how I felt," or when it opens our eyes to the deeper feelings of others about things we recognize but really had not felt or recognized to that depth. I like it so much when it communicates some shared feeling with me, or twangs some chord that resonates within me."

DISSECTION

What hookwords must I fashion
To jam into the guts of my mind
And so, with straining tendons
Pull out the flowers and
The black slime creatures
So I may examine my own biology?
These soft machines are tenacious,
Secretive, clever as chameleons
And elusive as eels. What would I see
If I could lay them out in white enamel trays?
And, more to the point, what would do
The looking? I suspect, along with Plato,
I am mere shadows that race through
The soft pulses of the machineries
Of the dynamics of my energies,
Like a seagull zooming inbetween
The valleys of a rolling sea.

When

An elephant can slide

Down a mountain side

I could write rhymes all day

About an elephant who slid

Never telling about the fib

Of who caused the mountain slide

That buried all the peanut brittle inside

But let’s really get logical

Separate fantasy from the biological

Count

Scratch marks on the mountain side

For each fantastical ride

Caused by an elephant’s backside

Now don’t get judgmental

Not a cause cerebral or mental

Not a case of animal abuse

Since on the way down

The elephant did cry

“Yipee! One more time”

So for a trip most enjoyable

Sit on an elephant’s tummy

While he’s sliding down the mountain

On his backside

Yellow ribbons become a symbol
For American troop support
Operation Desert Storm begins

"Dances with Wolves" is released
"Ghost" and "Hamlet" are also released
Spielberg's "Schindler's List" is released

Neil Simon's play "Lost in Yonkers" premieres
"All the Pretty Horses" by Cormac McCarthy debuts
As does Jane Smiley's "A Thousand Acres

Jeffrey Dahmer allegedly cannibalized 17 victims
And O.J. Simpson is arrested for the murders of
Nicole Simpson and Ronald Goldman

The term "surfing the net" is coined by
Jean Polly as 1,000,000 computers are
Connected to the Internet Society

The fear of terrorism is escalated with
The bombing of the World Trade Center
Which kills six people and injures over 1,000

The Oaklahoma City bombing kills
168 people, leading to the arrest of
Army veteran Timothy McVeigh

In Littleton, Colorado two teens
Kill 15 and wound 23 at
Columbine High School

As the end of the century approaches
The world prepares for the ultimate
Challenges of the year 2000 and Y2K

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" (1990 ~ 1999)

Even the serious ones make me smile when I think of Louie's contribution...as always we have the best of the world's thoughts here and I love them all.

I have been complaining about the lack of rain and yesterday am I woke to rain on my skylight and today more of the same and if the weatherman is to be believed ( and remember he is wrong as often as he is right) we will have rain more or less for the next week. My dog is not a rain dog..he looks at me when I open the door and offer him a chance to go out and his face says as he backs away YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING>>.

As for me I am going to share a poem and the last line will tell you what I am going to do..anna

 
Twenty-First of June 

The yellow elegies of spring 
Burned up in the heat 
Weeks ago, dead 

Before their time. And now 
It's official, I lay 
This wreath of words 

On the rose: I throw a handful 
Of dirt on the dirt. 
The green shoots, 

The rootlings brave in snow: 
Grow fat and lazy now, 
And the big trees 

Bulge with birds, a leafquake 
Of wind and raw song, 
Piping hot. 

The season's just begun, and already 
I can smell the seeping 
Wounds of pinebark. 

Air that blisters in the sun: 
Already I can feel  
The sweat 

Slide down the face of summer and  
Pool in the steamy streets. 
Whatever is ahead of us, 

I don't want to know. Just let me 
Sit here in the shade and  
Listen to 

The small talk of the rain. 

Elton Glaser

Wow, Anna! That is a terrific poem. So descriptive and so poetic at the same time. Thank you.

SUBWAY

One stares most carefully
At no one...
At the spaces between the faces
Where the gaze must graze
On rivet heads and ads,
Summonses to college grads
And then shift down to shoes,
To socks, to toes of those
Who paint the nails bright rose
Or pearl or pink. Time now to think,
To let the mind thunder through dark tunnels
To the past where paths diverge.
Perceptions of events flash by.
Stations in an express run.
Things one did or must be done.
Bleached memories venture out
With blinking eyes,
Rock gently with the subway car.
Irrelevant, one sees in surprise,
With things the way they are.
Their past energies diluted
Feelings enfeebled, muted.
Vital signs in their designs
No longer of significance,
They have lost all relation,
Then the jolt breaks the trance.
You are at your station.

Oh, Jan: that really takes me back to my commuting days. Thank goodness they're over.

I so enjoy your poetry! Thank you again!

NEW YORK

If I entwined my hair with flashing light,
Inscribed my forehead bright with fire red
Diagrams of curves and clouds to bring to sight
The cavorting shapes moving in my head;
If I dyed my ears blue, drew a banana on my nose,
Placed between my lips a round glass eye,
Hung each armpit with a yellow rose,
Strung glass bells inside my thigh
To titillate my genitals and tinkle
On arousal, wound ribbons out of gold
Around my calves to curl and crinkle
As I strolled into the subway crowd, bold
In all my manic glory, perhaps a face or two
Might glance my way, dismiss this clown
And return to puzzle out the clue
For ten across, maybe six down.

LOLOLOLOLOLOL!!! Brilliant!

Oh, Jan -- wonderful. Once when commuting by subway in New York, I was on a train that was stuck in an underground tunnel for three hours. Everyone sat there in their miserable shell, not talking or looking at each other. I thought later, if I'd only said "Hey, does anyone know a good song to sing?" the whole experience could have been different.

But, then, of course, New Yorkers have seen all that before.

This is the last in the series "A Song for Our Time" from 1900 ~ 2001:

Software mega-giant Microsoft is found
Guilty of antitrust violations and ordered
To break up into two separate companies

Human Genome Project have mapped
The genetic code of a human chromosome
Raising medical, legal, and ethical questions

The New York Yankees became the first
Team to win three World Series championships
Since the Oakland Athletics did in the 1970s

Republican George W. Bush is declared the
President-elect when the U.S. Supreme Court
Declared the recount in Florida unconsitutional

California's energy crisis worsens as rising
Temperatures and record shortages force
Rolling blackouts across the state

On March 5, 2001 a 15-year-old freshman
Opens fire at a high school in California
Killing two students and wounding 13 others

Before Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh is executed
He quotes in a final statement from the poem, "Invictus," "I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul"

Hijacked airlines slam into the Twin Towers in NYC
Another hijacked Airliner crashes into the Pentagon
And another airliner crash landed near Pittsburgh

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" (2000 ~ 2001)

I haven't been able to contribute many thoughts here lately. I've been "moving piecemeal" to a quieter, more rural apartment. But I've taken time out to read all your many...overwhelmingly poignant sharings, forum folks!

I was raised rural...REAL rural. So here's one that spoke to my childhood memories...and (blushing) dare share it with you good forum folks.

The Passing of the Backhouse

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 (adamantly) that it was NOT his.

I don't know why they didn't want to claim it, its a great poem.

BUG BLUES

I happened on an arthropod,
A jointed legged fellow,
Who sang a tragic little song
Which ranged from shriek to bellow.
It glared at me with facet eyes.
It gnashed its sideways jaws.
More threatening, I'd say,
Than many mother-in -laws.
" I had a lovely love," it sang,
" Six legs of sculptured form
Would make Brancusi grit his teeth
Or drown in chloroform.
Her thorax glittered like a gem,
Dark green with streaks of yellow.
Emotions went all loop-de-loop
In me, a simple fellow.
Behind, her convex abdomen
Promised me for eggs.
Ten thousand babies, could she make
With sixty thousand legs.
Four transparent wings she had
For flights profound, profane.
They glowed with spectral iridescence -
Enchanted cellophane!
But then an evil bee flew by
And saw her as a morsel.
It flexed its pincers as it swooped
And grappled her by her dorsal.
Off it flew! I stood transfixed.
My love it stole away.
I swore revenge on all its tribe.
They will regret that day.
So now," he sang, "I stalk the land
Through grasses and through trees.
I am the great bee bopper
Because I bop the bees."

I am glad I dont have the time to visit here for when I do arrive I am met by thoughtful post and funny poems that rhyme...A subway was new to me when I traveled East and sat in silent fear that the dark tunnel of a subway would keep me so,,like others I do my crossword puzzles preferring them to keep my mind away from thinking about all the fears that man succumbs to, Good to find your posts..We have had some really great rain, no flooding but steady and my plants all look fresh and clean and the grass is looking green and I just took my time and did those mundane things that rain allows the time..and found a poem in a little book called Poet's Domain which shares the contributions of the members of the Poetry Society of Virginia ..I asked for and recieved permission to share any poetry as long as I give credit...today I share a poem I could have written..because it certainly is true for me...is it true for you? anna

 
Recipe for Happiness 

According  
to William James 
father 
of American psychology  
we are happy  
because we laugh  
not laugh  
because we are happy. 

Are these words 
of profound insight 
spoken 
by a Solomon 
or absurd nonsense  
spoken  
with scholarly 
tongue in cheek? 

For me  
happiness is a bluebird 
alighting 
on a tree 
outside my window 
as I drink  
my morning coffee 
and avoid 

listening  
to the news  

Dorothy W. Millner 
member of Poetry Society of Virginia  
With permission

RAINS

There are rains that drag fog skirts
Across the country-side in stealthy hiss,
That, gently, in determination
Dampens down the grass with sodden kiss
Of sky to earth as caring as a mother
Calms her resting child.
There are rains of panicked horses’ hooves
That illuminate their stampede
With angry lightning flashing on black roofs
While trees sway and shudder in dismay
And water demons pound on window panes.
But some rains come and merely sit
And drum in steady patient siege,
Work soft hammers on the dents and wrinkles of the day
Smoothing anger and distress to flat peace,
Tempt shy dreams to peek from hidden thoughts
And welcome in safe surrender to sleep’s release.

A wonderful poem and you captured rain and gave it back to us in rhyme thanks so much Love every word ...anna

JAN: I too, I love the rain, and I love your poem.

And Anna, that was great.

Great poems! Love them one and all.

The Invisible Man

We used to identify a man
By his employment and the state in which he lived
But now I'm not sure I can

Once you manufactured pulp and paper in the Camellia Street
Or drilled oil and gas on "The Last Frontier"
Or was a printer in the Grand Canyon State

Once you grew grapes and flowers in the Golden State
Or manufactured food products in the Land of Opportunity
Or manufactured machinery in the Centennial State

Once you manufactured aircraft engines in the Nutmeg State
Or manufactured nylon and apparel in the Diamond State
Or were in sevices in the Sunshine State

Once you manufactured textiles in the Peach State
Or refined sugar in the Hawaiian Territory
Or grew potatoes, peas and sugar beets in the Gem State

Once you manufactured machinery in the Prairie State
Or manufactured transportation equipment in the Hoosier State
Or were in insurance in the Hawkeye State

One you manufactured industrial machines in the Sunflower state
Or were in wholesale and retail trade in the Pelican State
Or manufactured paper and wood products in the Pine Tree State

Once you manufactured food in the Old Line State
Or manufactured machinery and goods in the Bay State
Or manufactured transportation equipment in the Great Lake State

Once you grew corn in the North Star State
Or grew wheat and hay in the Show Me State
Or grew weat and barley in the Treasure State

Once you grew corn, hay and wheat in the Cornhusker State
Or discovered silver in the Silver State
Or manufactured machinery in the Granite State

Once you manufactured chemicals in the Garden State
Or were in services in the Land of Enchantment
Or manufactured books and periodicals in the Empire State

Once you manufactured textiles and tobacco in the Tar Heel State
Or grew spring wheat, barley and rye in the Peace Garden State
Or manufactured transportation equipment in the Buckeye State

Once you manufactured petroleum in the Sooner State
Or cut down Douglas fir and Ponderosa pine in the Beaver State
Or was a steelworker in the Keystone State.

Once you manufactured costume jewelry in the Ocean State
Or grew tobacco, corn and cotton in the Palmetto State
Or grew corn, oats, wheat, and sunflowers in the Coyote State

Once you were in construction in the Volunteer State
Or manufactured machinery in the Lone Star State
Or was a steelworker in the Beehive State

Once you manufactured machine tools in the Green Mountain State
Or manufactured textiles in Old Dominion
Or cut down Douglas fir and Cedar pine in the Evergreen State

Once you manufactured machine in the Mountain State
Or manufactured machinery in the Badger State
Or extracted minerals in the Equality State

But now I'm not sure I can
Identify you from your state or job
Because you have become the invisible man

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" (1930 ~ 1939)

Can you identify the states I've mentioned? During the depression men went from state to state trying to find work and in a sense lost their identies and became invisible.

Scrawler, I can name almost all your states...by their nicknames. And I agree with your images of PA, NC, OK, OR, & some others. I think your images of MO, VA, TN, TX, AZ, & some others needs more work. But your choices might have better fit 1930s than today.

Title of your poem fits your underlying msg. But same title was also a 1952 novel by Ralph Ellison (1914-1994) that was required reading in many 1980s college American Lit classes. His was about how a black man could seem invisible in a "Jim Crow" society...thankfully, an era now buried in America's sordid shameful past.

This webpage has a brief bio of Ellison: http://www.levity.com/corduroy/ellison.htm

While I'm on subject of black writers, I'll applaud a few Angelou gems.

Several years after her best-selling 1970 first book of her autobio, "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings" (her pains and trials of growing up black in a whites-dominated world), she wrote a follow-up poem, "Caged Bird." Its several verses alternate between thoughts of a caged bird and a free one, with each verse separated by this poignant 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.

Isn't that...lovely? Some other Angelou gems are well worth sharing too. Another time. This above one should stand alone...IMHO.

I completely agree with you. Maya Angelou has long been one of my very favorite writers, poets, speakers, etc.

Thanks for sharing that one today!

Here is a MAGNIFICENT site for writers that I thought might interest some of the poets here:

Freelance Writing

This has jobs, publishers by category with information about submissions, a newsletter, tutorials, and many other resources. It is the most comprehensive site I've seen.

Poetry seems rather obviously missing from the site.

I did a site search and came up with this:

Poetry Info. It's not a heap of stuff, but it is some, and the part about scams is important, for sure. The first scam link is broken but the one at the bottom works.

I think what I was actually thinking was that a lot of people who write poetry also write other things and thus might be interested in that site.

I think poets might look at the various sub-topics for publishers and look at any publishers who might include poetry as part of a book, which might be listed in the descriptions. There is also a section under "General" about e-book publishers which might be relevant for poets and probably other things under various headings.

I do know of one "on demand" publisher online where a person can publish any kind of book and it costs nothing. They only print a book if someone orders it. Then they ship it, and then they get a percentage and you get your cut. I think they might even do the ISBN but don't quote me on that. As I recall, that one would have a full-color cover and black and white pages and I'll be happy to dig out the link if anyone is interested.

Hi, Thanks for the information, but I have the feeling that poetry is not emphasized because the audience for published poetry is too insignificant to make the effort worthwhile.

Thanks to Claire (Winsum), who extracted this from something I wrote to her and put it in lines and sent it back to me!

Boxing Match
Karen Weston, 1 July 2005

I love
people who think
inside and outside
the box,
through the box,
on top of and under
the box, and then
take the box
and sculpt it
into something
quite beyond
a box.

STORIES

My mother told me tales
Of incandescent whales
That floated through the skies like live balloons.
They’d been blown from out the sea
From a spot quite near Capri
By huffy puffy windy strong monsoons.
She told me that their glow
Could drive the clouds to snow
Which, at times, was made of lemonade
Or when weather became lucky
Somewhere south of east Kentucky
The snow came down ice cream of purest grade.

The stories mother told me
Would frequently enfold me
In worlds where oddest things have occurred.
There was, she said, a cave
Where rabbits, small but brave,
Ruled a hundred thousand frogs and a bird.
Raising mushrooms for their meals
They bartered surplus off to seals
For variety of diet, mostly fish
Which they fried with lima beans
By concocting wild cuisines
Which for frogs was an appetizing dish.

So, with ogres, dragons, thieves
And djinns made out of leaves
I gained a sense of what was really real.
And, frankly, what I see
As normality,
Has, for me, very small appeal

I love it, Jan. I'm going to read that one to my grandboy tonight and he will be as thrilled as I am.

Lost
Winds howled
Slashing winds
Cold winds
Alone in the darkness

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" [1910 ~ 1919]

You dance the fox trot
The kangaroo dip and the grizzly bear
And the horse and turkey trot
As you spin across the room

You dance the crab step
And you twirl to the waltz
Not to mention the two-step
And bunny hug

You dance the camel walk
And the chicken scratch
The lame duck and the fish walk
But how do you do the snake?

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" [1910 ~ 1919]

funny Jim you should mention Maya Angelou since I just spent some time reading some of her poems. THEY DO SING !

Jan last year I was reading something about the surge of interest in poetry. That many colleges are offering classes in poetry and all sorts of places are holding open mikes for local poets to read their poems. We have two coffee shops and a huge B&N that offer open mikes monthly..In fact I will be reading this coming Friday at a local place called Java Joes..interestingly the open mike programs are promoted and organized by some of the people from my senior poet group and I keep in touch with a variety of senior poets on line and they are all reading poetry at a number of places. That I find is encouraging to me.I find my grandchildren brought up to say "puter" when they are two ( their shortened version of computer) who read on line and love poetry. I have written some verses just for them and they love to hear them ..there is a delight I see that brings me a joy to know in spite of all the "thing:" they are involved in they enjoy something I enjoyed from my childhood ..poetry.

Since the fourth of July is tomorrow I offer this poem .. remembered from my youth..anna

 
BY THE RUDE BRIDGE 

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

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

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

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

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thanks for that freelancewriting website link. I've quick-scanned it, and will have good use for it soon.

Thanks also for your "on demand" publisher. Sounds a better deal for me than I've just been contemplating (local print-shop plastic bindings; Trafford Publishers; etc).

I'm writing a book about my Grandparents and their nine kids' life-story in each's words and personalities (eleven sections). When finished, I'll "book it" as a gift to my cousins and cousins' kids. But it's also developing into a "migration saga" of possibly wider interest.

If you wish, please share that "on demand" website's url with me (either here or via email).

- Jim in Jeff.

Here's another interesting publishing site.. I'm still looking for the one I mentioned before... and the dang name of it is right on the tip of my brain, too!

http://www.publishamerica.com/

And yet another that has terrific articles about self-publishing, trade publishing, etc.:

http://www.fonerbooks.com/cornered.htm

Another good link:

http://www.ubuildabook.com/ubuildabook/pricing.html They specialise in short-run printing

And now back to the Poetry... sorry for the interruption.

Happy Fourth Of July to all

May this be a meaningful day for all ...and may you celebrate with family and good friends.. anna

Jeff my book is an "on demand" book. One of the reasons it takes so long to get is that they don't print until you want it and they can print one copy or several copies. The part that I liked about this process was that you don't have "extra" copies on the shelves.

Hip

hip
cool cat
flips his wig
can you
dig it
daddy-O

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" [1960 ~ 1969]

A little blast from the past on this 4th of July. Have a safe and happy holiday!

Life
Karen Weston, 4 July 2005

Life?
Scrubbing the floor
is no less sacred
than praying.
Creating
a simple line,
a single stroke
a random note
is no less magnificent
than creating
a masterpiece.

A tear is
as profound
as a sermon.
a glance
is as meaningful
as a kiss.
Every moment is life
no moment
more real
than another.

TODAY

Night’s black still dominates.
The winter’s cold sequesters mice
As furry golfballs in their holes.
Round silent puffs of birds
Stay captured with the moon and stars
In nets of tree branch twigs.
My consciousness, with searching finger,
Reaches to the bookshelf of my days.
Behind my shuttered eyes
I cannot tell if the questing digit
Pulls down the right succeeding volume.
It does not matter.
Whichever volume it may be,
It is today.
It has its own yesterdays and tomorrows.
It may be a slim book of child,
Or a thick tome heavy with the past.
It does not matter.
They are all todays.
I lift my eyelids to the dawn
And start to read.

The Moon...

Before my face reminding of different places searched for existence

 and a wonderment at the size of hands and feet to manipulate environment that reaches to stars in dark indigo panels stretched from horizons infinitely curved around a finger 

It strayed behind a cloud that darkened her face making stars  shine brighter in a mind’s eye and trees around reaching high, fuzzy sticks could not touch the center points of light sparkling crystal nibs fixed on the screen stealing her light 

The Moon’s silence can be felt down to here running across the sky keeping pace step for step comets, asteroids nature’s space crafts, rock, ice weaving ellipses tugged here, there solar winds, suns, galaxies sitting close by marveling at voiceless splendor 

Fingers could not touch the Moon since  a child reached for the silvery dish discovering it was beyond a beginner’s grasp and could not be taken to bed with teddy bears and lions bringing light to a dark bed gazed through an open window as it passed by 

My love loves the Moon turning eyes from mine flirting against the stars to capture the glow in her hair marking silvery strands teasing light from strings, beams flowing in space gathering a silver cloak enveloping white tinted shoulders feeling the dampness of a kiss 

When it is time to go let it be in Moon glow through a window creeping slowly across a pillow saying good night, good night, good night for it was a grand love affair

Lovely poems.

A Book for Kids

THE TRIANTIWONTIGONGOLOPE

There's a very funny insect that you do not often spy,
And it isn't quite a spider, and it isn't quite a fly;
It is something like a beetle, and a little like a bee,
But nothing like a wooly grub that climbs upon a tree.
Its name is quite a hard one, but you'll learn it soon,
I hope.
So try:
Tri-
Tri-anti-wonti-
Triantiwontigongolope.

It lives on weeds and wattle-gum, and has a funny face;
Its appetite is hearty, and its manners a disgrace.
When first you come upon it, it will give you quite a scare,
But when you look for it again, you find it isn't there.
And unless you call it softly it will stay away and mope.
So try:
Tri-
Tri-anti-wonti-
Triantiwontigongolope.

It trembles if you tickle it or tread upon its toes;
It is not an early riser, but it has a snubbish nose.
If you snear at it, or scold it, it will scuttle off in shame,
But it purrs and purrs quite proudly if you call it by its name,
And offer it some sandwiches of sealing-wax and soap.
So try:
Tri-
Tri-anti-wonti-
Triantiwontigongolope .

But of course you haven't seen it; and I truthfully confess
That I haven't seen it either, and I don't know its address.
For there isn't such an insect, though there really might have been
If the trees and grass were purple, and the sky was bottle green.
It's just a little joke of mine, which you'll forgive,
I hope.
Oh, try!
Tri-
Tri-anti-wonti-
Triantiwontigongolope.

Sorry, felt like a bit of light relief today, and Dennis surely brings that.

Anneo

What great poems for a summer's day!

Hidden Movies

Mr. Smith goes to Washington by stagecoach
As Blondie brings up baby with Gunga Din
All the time they could hear drums along the Mohawk
As Beau Gest said, "Goodby, Mr. Chips"
And the wizard of Oz was gone with the wind

Blondie was in boy's town bringing up baby
While Jezebel took a holiday
But the lady vanishes with Pygmalion
And how about those adventures
Of Tom Sawyer and Robin Hood

Captains Courageous soon learned the awful truth
As did Charlie Chan on Broadway
And Stella Davis at a day at the races
And Topper at the Good Earth
But Dick Tracy was on radio patrol in the lost horizon

Camille suggested they follow the fleet
The great Ziegfield desire was to go by showboat
Flash Gordon wanted darkest Africa
Or the undersea kingdom
Everyone knew there were things to come

Anna Karenina was on the Barbary Coast
With the bride of Frankenstein
Meanwhile Captain Blood was trying to
Prevent mutiny on the Bounty
Only the Scarlet Pimpernel know how dangerous it was

Cleopatra was chained to a black cat
Along with the thin man and babes in Toyland
It happened one night as they waited for
The return of Chandu the Magician
On mystery mountain

The invisible man had dinner at eight
On 42nd street with a bombshell
He had duck soup and
The fatal glass of beer
Dying, he cried, "I'm no angel"

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and Dr. X
Were all staying at the Grand Hotel
The mummy and Scarface were also there
Along with Tarzan, the ape man
They were all trying to solve the airmail mystery

Charlie Chan carries on
With Frankenstin and Dracula
Continue their monkey business
With Svengali while battling with Buffalo Bill
On Danger Island to prove who is king of the wild

It will soon be all quiet on the western front
The Indians are coming
And so is the ace of Scotland Yard
And the lone defender with Rin-Tin-Tin
They will solve the murder at the big house in Morocco

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember) [1930 ~ 1939]

If you type "on demand publisher" into Google you get links to explore.

Been having great fun catching up on 35 posts. Thanks to all.

Anneo! That poem would be such fun to read to children with all manner of voice inflections. And also for us - true kids at heart.

While I have been enjoying meeting my new neighbors family from Michigan and eating hot dogs and watching fireworks on TV ( wish it had been up close and personal but hey at least it was grand) you have all been busy sharing some absolutely wonderful poems.

I havent printed any out but think I must ,,From Jan;s to Louie's wonderful sharing of thier own poetry and Zinnia who reminds us even little things are important, And anneo with that absolutely delightful poem ..that is one I have to share with my grandchildren whom she met while she was here and Anne Ogle what fun to romp through your mixed up old time movies Now that is a nostalgic trip and made me smile and nod my head and say YES YES I remember too.

Did I forget any? I just enjoyed reading all of them ..and thank you for sharing ..

Today I turned to my book of Emily Dickinson;s poems and found a small one about summer and will post it here ..The bees are busy at my flowers, the squirrels are eating my apples before they are ripe and throw the cores at me, butterflies gives extra blooms to my back yard and everything including me is just enjoying summer hope wherever you are you are enjoying summer or in the case of anneo I hope winter will not be too bad.

 
The bee is not afraid of me, 
I know the butterfly: 
The pretty people in the woods  
Receive me cordially. 

The brooks laugh louder when I come,  
The breezes madder play. 
Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists? 
Wherefore, oh summer’s day? 

Emily Dickinson

Let's not forget to mention Ira Gershwin's "Summertime." It reached millions more ears & eyes because brother George put it to music.

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good lookin'
So hush little baby
Don't you cry

One of these mornings
You're going to rise up singing
Then you'll spread your wings
And you'll take to the sky

But till that morning
There's a'nothing can harm you
With daddy and mamma
Standing by

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good lookin'
So hush little baby
Don't you cry

Lost to any summertime exchange -

Diamonds skittish across fluid space
blinds eyes captive to the sunlit white
stabbing all but sound.

Slap, slap, slap on the shore,
soft pats slip along the gunnels
on small boats moored in the bay.

Screeching close, then echoes on the wind,
in an instant gray shadows flutter
into dark shapes with flashing wings.

A gull skims low, dives beneath
the diamond field, silent with its prey,
body stretched, ghosting the sun,

lost to the searchers
peering through the blinding light
to plunder for body or soul.

07/06/05

THE FROG PROBLEM

The frog, whose bulging bulbous eye
Sits on his head way up high
In order to perceive a fly
Is a sort of stodgy guy.

His tongue, rolled up inside his head
Flows out like a carpet, red,
To guarantee that he’s well fed.
A bright idea, when all is said.

If you and I could leap like him,
We’d need a likewise back limb,
Muscular and streamlined, slim,
And very useful for a swim.

But frogs are getting scarce of late,
Or, so statistics indicate.
No princes now, at this date,
To turn to frogs to compensate.

Re "A Scarcity of Princes"; Jan,that's hilarious!

I truly have no need to know,
Yet catlike wonder if 'tis so:

Is "Frog Problem" and other gems
Jan's spontaneous creation of them?

Or are these stored and pulled up
From his past repertoire's cup?

At any rate, my sincere applause
For wit to fit most every cause.

Our resident poets have a "witty dash"
That's double, nay triple, Shel and Nash!

Sincerely sent, and sincerely meant
Further accolades could now be sent.

P.S. - I do have a plaster fake-rock with a frog atop and flowers at base on my patio near tomatoes, its inscription: "Princes sometimes turn back into frogs." Great minds run alike (an old Ozarks Hills saying).

Brava, Barbara! Your poignant "beach scene" is a vivid summertime tribute and addition. Thanks!

Poetry vs Song Lyrics: These often are synonyms. And lots of 20th-century poets obtained wider ears...by getting their words set to popular music. Bob Dylan; Judy Collins; Ira Gershwin; lots of poets better known today as songwriters.

Here's a summertime song written by Johnny Mercer, a prolific 4-decades lyricist:

"Summer Wind"
(from 1965 movie "The Pope of Greenwich Village)
(best-selling record by Frank Sinatra)

The summer wind
Came blowin' in
From across the sea
It lingered there
So warm and fair.

All summer long
we sang a song
And then we strolled
On golden sand
Two friends and the summer wind.

Like painted skies,
Those days and nights
They went flying by
The world was new
Beneath the bright blue umbrella sky.

Then softer than
That piper man
One day it called to you
And I lost you
I lost you to...the summer wind.

The autumn wind
And the winter winds
They have come and they have gone
And still those days, those lonely days
They go on and on.

And guess who sighs
His lullabies
To all the nights that never end?
My fickle friend,
The summer wind.

Umm... the summer wind.

THE PRINCE’S TALE

The prince rolled his eyes.
He twirled his mustache.
He emitted several sighs,
Shoulders shrugged with panache.
His palms opened to the skies.
“Memory can be slippery”, he said,
“Like mud. Sometimes it dies.
Or then again, it may be fed
By loss. I remember well the day
The princess spotted me, bent down,
Kissed me on the nose. Without delay
I felt panic, leaped upon her gown.
My bones creaked and grew
And in a snap, I joined humanity.
No longer I was the frog I knew.
She proclaimed love! This seemed insanity!
But, she was determined, so, we wed.
She did admit that, for a former frog
I was not too bad in bed.
She snored and slept like a log.
To be a man, I accept
Held some compensation, some surprise.
I converse like an adept
But retain an appetite for flies.”

JIM: great. I'm listening to the Frank Sinatra recording as I type.

JAN: great! Another hilarious one.

Jan I can just imagine you sitting there laughing at your own poetry ...great ...and Jef a lot of poetry has been set to music and for some that makes it easier to remember..To name a few America the Beautiful, The Star Spangled Banner, I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair and any number but those were at the top of my memory list so I toss them in...Funny I have been singing Summertime ..and Johnny Mercer was one of my very favorites. Since we lived so many places his Anyplace I hang my hat is home really resonated with me...

I hate to keep confessing that so many things are keeping me from posting here..Of Course the latest from London breaks my heart. It was a town I loved years ago when I had the opportunity to visit and the Brtish people have had to endure so much in my lifetime, the blitz,the buzz bombs ,so much and this now ,,in our local paper this morning there were notices that a group of students from William and MAry have been on student year abroad in England not too far from London..teh parents were notified that all were okay and anneo 's daughter lives there and was trapped in one of the subway's bombed..She is all right and we are all glad that she is ..so this morning when I was thinking of poems my mind turned to ones about England and this is the one I share today..I know we will all keep the people of England in our thoughts, I know they have the courage to endure but how terrible that they must.. anna

 
Robert Browning - Home Thoughts, From Abroad   

Oh, to be in England 
Now that April's there, 
And whoever wakes in England 
Sees, some morning, unaware, 
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
In England—now! 

And after April, when May follows, 
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! 
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—  
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, 
Lest you should think he never could recapture 
The first fine careless rapture! 
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
The buttercups, the little children's dower 
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

WORDSMITH

How to attack the world,
Wring gold or sustenance
From its tough shell?
I have tried to craft
Words into jewelry,
Into demonic masks
Of necromantic strength,
Into common useful tools
To hammer down
The nails of necessity,
Screw tight the bolts
That prevent
My treasonous components
From exploding in revolt
To wander in the jungles
Of impracticality.
All comes to nothing.
I end slobbering
While giggling goblins
Finger through
The pockets of my mind,
Chew holes in my clothes,
Lick my ears and between my toes
So I sit within the grotesque crowd
In helpless laughter.

I wrote this poem on 9/11/01. Once more I'd like to dedicate it to those who lost their lives in London.

drops of summer rain
collect and slip slowly down
broken girders

Finding something here when I come in ..It is like opening a cupboard and finding a tin of goodies and knowing they will be a treat...thanks .here is the poem I chose to share this day...anna

 
Tarantella 

DO you remember an Inn,  
Miranda?  
Do you remember an Inn?  
And the tedding and the bedding  
Of the straw for a bedding,  
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,  
And the wine that tasted of tar?  
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers  
(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?  
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,  
Do you remember an Inn?  
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers  
Who hadn't got a penny,  
And who weren't paying any,  
And the hammer at the doors and the din?  
And the hip! hop! hap!  
Of the clap  
Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl  
Of the girl gone chancing,  
Glancing,  
Dancing,  
Backing and advancing,  
Snapping of the clapper to the spin  
Out and in--  
And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!  
Do you remember an Inn,  
Miranda?  
Do you remember an Inn?  

Never more;  
Miranda,  
Never more.  
Only the high peaks hoar;  
And Aragon a torrent at the door.  
No sound  
In the walls of the halls where falls  
The tread  
Of the feet of the dead to the ground,  
No sound:  
But the boom  
Of the far waterfall like doom.  

Hilaire Belloc

J3

To sit remote,
In the middle of the sky
Within a flimsy rig
Of canvas and steel pipe.
Icy air smokes between my feet
Like dragon's breath.

Three thousand feet below
The insect nest
Of early morning traffic.
Colored mites
On lines of white
Move in mindless entropy.

The cub J3
Is cut to patterns
Of stability.
The wispy touch
Of a forefinger -
More thought than act,
Disciplines the stick
To counter engine torque
And rest wing tips
Flat to the horizon.

The lion roar
Of four cylinders
Drowns the atmosphere
In healthy din.
On occasion, some defect
Spins the prop
With only three,
Causing some anxiety.

But hard habits
Keep the eyes alert,
Head in steady swivel
To spot, along the route,
Security in smooth fields

On which I could alight
In careful shallow glide.

This huge stiff phony bird
With rigid limbs
Moves in clumsy simulation
To artful graceful swoops
Of any common gull
And generates in me
Innate dissatisfaction.

I would,
In dream of Icarus
Slip on feathered gloves
To glow translucent white
On porcelain blue sky
And rise with huge breath
Of gentle winds
Swiftly to the zenith
Where faintest inclination
Moves my fingertips
To play on symphonies of air
Through flocks of zooming swallows
Spinning in dynamic joy.

JAN: WONDERFUL. As one who has spent hours watching gulls swirl and play in the updrafts.

Thanks for your poems. Your poem, Anna, is much appreciated because they are hammering on my apartment building - so the din of hammering seems very real to me. They don't work on Sunday, so I'm enjoying the silence.

Love is Like Rain:

Love is like Rain
It starts as drizzle
A fine rain falling steadily

Then it begins to pour
Rain coming down in heavier doses
A great raindrop hits you hard

A heavy rain - washes over your head
And down the sides of your neck
And if you're not careful you'll drown

DESCENDANTS

When I was young,
Big steel clanking machines
With bellies full of red hot coal
Rolled the asphalt flat
To make the streets.
Their brethren chuffed the countryside
Dragging groaning boxcars
And a caboose.
Huge columns, black smoke,
Sometimes fire,
Celebrated their adventures.
These dinosaurs are now extinct.
On occasion, one appears in a cowboy movie.
Machines, these days,
Are more subtle.
They spit out toast,
Spin my wash,
Sing to me in the stolen voices
Of Caruso, Pavarotti, Presley and Sinatra.
They instruct me how to calculate,
When to cross the street.
They imitate the voices of my friends
Who talk to them from far away.
Any night now
I expect a concoction
Of cables, pulleys, plastic and silicon
To pull aside my covers,
Slip down in beside me,
Stroke my hair,
Whisper in my ear
In the breathless tones
Of Marilyn Monroe.

Well we have it all here I would say ..love,a flight in a lightplane ..where I would not it reality go ..but do understand the desire to fly with the swallows...but then I would BE a bird..and of course Jan offers a bit of the absurd ..but oh what a dreadful thought if one day it would be true ..a robot for a companion ( and would a computer qualify?) thanks to all. I am in the process of going through all of my discs etc and putting them on CD;s and printing some out in hopes of doing a book and came across one I know I have never shared, A few years ago before my hearing disappeared I was in a program at our church called Study Buddies..we helped children in the 6th grade from a school next door that were in danger of failing..they brought their text books and we would help where needed ..sometimes we learn things we never knew ..what I learned is explained in the poem I chose for today..after reading this in the childrens book I sat right down and wrote the following poem..anna

 
Matthew Henson  

Robert Peary did not stand alone  
Beside him stood another American  
Matthew Henson, a man of color. 
Together they found a bleak and frozen world. 
To Matthew fell the honor of planting at the top  
On the Northern axis, The Stars and Stripes. 
Two men, educated by different routes. 
Peary in the halls of academia. 
Henson wherever he could find a home.  
A place to feed his mind. 
Henson followed Peary’s star  
Found one of his own. 
Co-discovers in the frigid cold. 
The honor to both.. 

The North Pole!  

anna alexander  
fall 1997  
all rights reserved

SPARK

What joins wit to weight is matter
In filagreed ionic fields
That seine sensation from the scatter,
Covet it in horny shields
To integrate, elucidate, eliminate and formulate
Through cross-looped pathways, pulsing nodules,
Granulating Time and Space,
Coursing through recursive modules
At a phased electric pace,
Distilling consciousness at last
Between the future and the past.

in
1957
little richard
Enrolls
in
bible college

in
1958
elvis presley
is
Drafted by the
u.s. army

in
1958
jerry lee lewis
Marries
his 13-year-old
cousin

in
1959
buddy holly
the big bopper
and
ritchie valens Die

in
1959
alan fredd
Payola
by
record companies

Rock
'n'
roll
the
beat
goes on

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" [1950 ~ 1959]

They skip, spring and seem to pirouette
around the room. A hundred or more ricochet
off my living room walls not unlike happy
children at play. Vibrant colors swirl around -
Blood colored, ruby and maroon. Prussion blue
and robin's egg blue, canary, one is white and
one coal black. Some have stripes that seem
to twirl as they bump and crash. Each seems to
have a mind of their own as they bounce in crazy
unpredictable ways.

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" [1960 ~ 1969]

Scrawler, my order of your "A Century To Remember" book arrived today. At first glance, it seems more than I'd hoped for.

I'm committed in off-line pursuits thru next weekend, so won't enjoy your book for a few days. But I did today quick-scan your "1940s" section, and thought it covers significant events of that decade fairly fully. You'd earlier expressed here a weakness for events of that decade (your tottler years). I'll comment further after I've read your book.

Jan, you are TOO MUCH! But you know so, I'm sure. I hope your myriad modern-day musings are being immortalized in print.

Annafair, your 1997 Matthew Henson paean is lovely. Scholors today (tho not the general public, I fear) do now refer to this early 20th-century feat as: "Peary & Henson's" pioneer acomplishment.

There's a somewhat similar man in the Mount Everest records...a local Sherpa named Tenzing Norgay, who accompanied Hillary and many others before and after him to slopes of Mount Everest. Here's a link to more about Norgay: http://www.tenzing-norgay.com/about/tenzing1.html

CURE

To discover
How to stem,
Dissuade, destroy
Corrosive memories
That fester in humanity;
To lance the boils,
Drain the evil fluids,
Clean and cover wounds,
Disperse human insanity,
Histories must be forgot
Without regrets
Who killed whom
And when and why.
Hates and angers that besot
The growling shifting crowds,
Cancel out all shifting debt,
Forget, forget, forgive, forget.
Hit reset.

I am trapped indoors ,held a willing captive by the cool air of an air conditioner,....Even at midnight it is HOT and I find it incredible that once I lived without this fake artic breeze..We only survived because my mother kept the window shades drawn and made us come inside during the heat of the day where my two younger brothers and I would play cards and eventually fall asleep on a colorful quilt my mother made...Thunderstorms puncuate the day and lightning splits the sky at night and my computer is off and I sit and read whatever is handy or challenge myself to solve cryptograms..Thank you all for your attendence here,.Anne your book arrived today ..I only had time for a quick glance,but I liked what I saw!

Jan you either have a mind that thinks in rhyme or a store of poems to share ..either way we are all glad you are here.

Jef you share your thoughts and are generous with your praise ..thanks

After an hour spent reading poems by some poets I have never known I am depressed .. I know I have written poems about death and dying but these were too much ..I did find one I felt I could share...so here it is ...anna by the way I dont grow grass but allow moss to invade my yard and dandelions are welcome guests...

 
Vachel Lindsay - The Dandelion   

O DANDELION, rich and haughty,  
King of village flowers!  
Each day is coronation time,  
You have no humble hours.  
I like to see you bring a troop  
To beat the blue-grass spears,  
To scorn the lawn-mower that would be  
Like fate's triumphant shears,  
Your yellow heads are cut away,  
It seems your reign is o'er.  
By noon you raise a sea of stars  
More golden than before.

INCIDENT

Somewhere,
In the dust before a wattled hut,
A nascent Einstein squats,
Inscribing careful lines;
The interlocking curves and points
Ensnare the universe.
His small black hand
Lightly manipulates
The dried twig,
Precisely piercing suns
And herding galaxies
To march in rhythm to his melody.
Then, with silent sigh,
On sore, bespeckled limbs
And knobby joints
He stumbles back into the dark
To die for some benighted idiot
With tastes for caviar and Cadillacs.

I'm very glad both your books came at the same time. Now that its summer you'll have a chance while enjoying the artic winds of air conditioning (lucky stiffs!) to relax and enjoy it. Thanks again for the support from both Anna and Jeff.

JIM: thank you for the biography of Tensing Norgay. I own the film of the expedition in which his son reached the summit of everest, and saw the film of him leaving mementos of his father there. Very touching. I understand later, his son said he would not climb Everest any more, but don't know details. I do know that all of the expeditions, by dumping their trash, are polluting what, for the Sherpas, is a sacred mountain.

LITTLE PAUL

Little Paul,
No one at all
In anybody’s book,
Had one skill
To make you thrill -
He sure as Hell could cook!

He started out on common things
Like broccoli and onion rings,
Salad greens, al dente rice,
Crisp potatoes fried in oil,
Carrots gently brought to boil,
Frozen pudding served on ice.

He mastered every way to make
Cookies, candies, fluffy cake,
And then invented variations
Made with strange unknown spices,
Assembled them with odd devices,
Evoking happy exclamations.

Enrolled in schools in Paris, France,
He cooked with charm, elegance,
Learned techniques about the oven,
Mastered bar-b-ques and grills,
Sharpened knives, spun pepper mills,
Was picked to cook for a witch’s coven.

There they made strange demands
With screeching voices, waving hands.
They gave him rather suspect meat
To be cooked with blood and slime.
It was, he thought, a messy time,
But he succeeded, - no defeat!

This warped his tastes, his ambitions.
He cooked with no inhibitions.
His culinary spectrum grew.
He steamed old shoes, unskinned mice.
He baked a horrid cake with lice.
Anything arcane and new.

His feel for strangeness matured, grew.
There was no thing he wouldn’t do.
A flying saucer came from space.
Odd things came out to see our world.
Paul fried them up with bacon, curled,
And sprinkled them with thyme and mace.

One day they found his kitchen cleared.
It seemed that Paul had disappeared.
They found his shoes up on a shelf.
His greatest challenge had been met.
His reputation had been set.
For Paul’s last dish was himself!

dancing from side to side and from place to place
with flashing lights and a hot, crowded dance floor
jimmy the fox with the blue velvet girl with the finger-
painted face - fantasies heightened, evoked by the songs
love to love you baby and i feel love - donna summer
and the rolling stones and rod steward and the
bee gees - stayin' alive and saturday night fever
dive into dreamland when winter goes pop - yes
embrace the funky, repetitive throbbing beat -
escape vietnam and watergate and the engery crisis -
this is not music for changing the world - this is music
for having a good time - and the beat goes on

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" [1970 ~ 1979]

Where my computer is OFF most of the day and in the nightime too and I am being lazy since there really isnt much to do..I cant sew because my machine is a computer too..and so I just read whatever I pick up from my bookshelf..and Jan I love cookbooks but your poem may change my mind ..It did make me laugh so thanks for that ..I love all the thoughts we share here as well ..as soon as my computer was available I just clicked on a CD of my own poems and found one written last year that rather sounds like what today revealed..I just leave you with this poem and wait for the next round of storms..anna

 
No place to go  

The promised thunderstorms arrived  
Clouds a hundred shades of gray  
Boiled upward and suddenly  
Lightening like a surgeons knife  
Sliced across the sky   
Slitting the belly of clouds   
Releasing a hundred millions drops of rain  
It poured across my roof  
Flowed down, a weighted curtain  
Across the window glass.  
Funny how something so gray  
Was still translucent and I could see  
Gusty winds tossing fresh green leaves  
Branches still newly formed swayed  
And shook in an anxious dance.  
Torrents of water pounded the skylights  
Demanding entry and angrily beat  
The plastic dome. It seemed to desire  
To be an unwanted , unwelcome intruder in my home  
A momentary pause fooled me  
Into believing the storm was gone  
A quick ray of sunlight , a brief respite  
A fleeting calm   
Again the thunder breached the peace  
A celestial river coursed downward from the sky  
Drowned me in its flow  
And I am caught in its undertow  

anna alexander  
May 20, 2004©

MEETING

We have traveled long,
We have journeyed far
To meet you on this highway
Beneath an alien star.
Our home was plundered cruelly,
Our planet rendered totally.
The races there destroyed the air.
Tales told anecdotally
Recall the splendor of our Earth
Which we barely could repair.
Eons upon eons did we labor to arise
From dull sluggish creatures
Through drills of evolutions
To gain intellect, further features
That revealed the solutions
To the mysteries of space.
Greetings, then from planet Earth,
To life as rational as ours.
I extend my tentacle to yours
To welcome a stranger from the stars

Anybody--- my son has a small press company as a sideline. You might communiciate with him about publishing. See what he has to say. He publishes; printing is done in Kentucky or somewhere.

I know Anne has already published. But not Anna and Jan.

http://lovinghealing.com/

ANNA, I really enjoyed your poem about the thunderstorm... great stuff !

Yesterday it was 60 years since the first atom bomb was exploded.... I offer this poem without comment about that terrible development....

NO ORDINARY SUN

Tree let your arms fall:
raise them not sharply in supplication
to the bright enhaloed cloud.
Let your arms lack toughness and
resilience for this is no mere axe
to blunt, nor fire to smother.

Your sap shall not rise again
to the moons pull.
No more incline a deferential head
to the winds talk, nor stir
to the trickle of coursing rain.
Your former shagginess shall not be
wreathed with the delightful flight
of birds nor shield
nor cool the ardour of unheeding
lovers from the monstrous sun.

Tree let your naked arms fall
nor extend vain entreaties to the radiant ball.
This is no gallant monsoon's flash,
no dashing tradewind's blast.
The fading green of your magic
emanations shall not make pure again
these polluted skies... for this
is no ordinary sun.

O tree
in the shadowless mountains
the white plains and
the drab sea floor
your end at last is written

Hone Tuwhare.

trevor.

a hail of silent death
rains down from the
growing mushroom

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" [1940 ~ 1949]

Marj - Thanks for that link! I know someone who can use it and I also know a great community where I want to post a link.

Trevor - That is a stunning remembrance. Thanks so much for sharing it!

WARNING

Two thousand years ago a star appeared
To promise love, to promise peace.
To calm the world that what it feared
Of death and cruelty would cease.

It lied

Sixty years ago mankind contrived
An artificial star to end a war.
It shined mightily. Very few survived
It’s glare. This star, as the one before

Implied

The world now would be safe, secure
From further conflict, homicidal hate.
Happiness and peace would be sure
But there’s nothing more slippery than fate.

The seeds of galaxies of death
Now store in nations' secret places.
Weapons from the ordinance of Seth
Now lurk, await, in rocket cases.

Beware of stars.

Once

 
I had 
Really truly had 
A pocket full of Jellybeans 
Nestled gently in my pocket 
Rolling around my fingers 
Who positively stated 
They, the jellybeans 
Were happily there 

When I removed my Jellybeans 
One by one 
To taste the sun 
Lifting each one 
Before my eye 
Each one claimed a color 
For his very own 
And these I placed 
One by one 
Gently 
Daintily 
Delicately 
Elegantly 
Exquisitely 
In an immaculately impeccable 
Candy Dish 
Sitting there, 
On the windowsill 
A well tuned chorus 
Waiting to greet a Rainbow 
The colors of the sky 

Jellybeans are little things 
Made of little stuff 
Bringing many joys 
Sure enough

The poems some have written and some you have shared and I feel so thankful we have this place...Trevor thanks for the compliment ..seasons repeat themselves each year so in time a poem written in another time again is true..I recall when they tested an atom bomb, was it in New Mexico? I was in a taxi on my way to a Cardinal game in St Louis and we knew the second it would be tested and it seemed everyone held their breath, I know I did for some feared the explosion would not stop there but be felt around the world and there would be no more..sometimes I think that is what happened and we are dead and only think we live. Makes one think,

Jan I dont know how old you are but I feel you must have been affected by poems you read as a child..because there is something in each one that reminds me of other poets and other times and poems I read when I was young.

Louie you remind me often of how we forget the simple things that really make up life...well we are in a Bermuda High and expecting 100 in the shade with a possible 115 heat index. I am glad my home is nestled in what was left of a forest for the trees help a bit to keep me cool ..or perhaps I only imagine they do..My hearing loss has a profound effect on my thinking and I have been reading poems that affected all my thinking from childhood on. I dont know at what age I read them but whatever I am today and how I feel about life was influenced by poetry. so this is one when first I read I loved and am glad to share it with you today ..anna

 
From Sunset to Star Rise 

GO from me, summer friends, and tarry not:  
I am no summer friend, but wintry cold,  
A silly sheep benighted from the fold,  
A sluggard with a thorn-choked garden plot.  
Take counsel, sever from my lot your lot,  
Dwell in your pleasant places, hoard your gold;  
Lest you with me should shiver on the wold,  
Athirst and hungering on a barren spot.  
For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge,  
I live alone, I look to die alone:  
Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge,  
Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back,  
My heart goes sighing after swallows flown  
On sometime summer's unreturning track. 

Christina Rossetti

forget your empty dreams
bow before the purple pharaoh
and conform

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" [1950 ~ 1959]

Louie's Jelly bean poem is pure delight. A treat for the eyes and imagination.

Love to come here and read all the posts.

The purple pharoah can just stay away from my thinking!

TERMINATOR

Sunlight steaming off
The furnace of the Sun
Bastes the rotisseries
Of Venus, Earth, Mars et al.
That line that separates
Night from day,
That walks each sphere
From dark to light,
A delineator labeled
Terminator.
That line within our lives
That slides from birth to death,
The boundary on which we surf
From yesterday into tomorrow;
What kind of sun
Shines life into our lives,
Pours perception
Into the empty flask of time
To nourish knowingness
Into the bloom of life?

JAN In your poem The New Age, there is a line :-

Sixty years ago mankind contrived
An artificial star to end a war

That reference to 60 years leads me to believe you must have just composed that poem in these last few days.

It remains a mystery to me how a poet creates his work, and an even greater mystery is how it can seemingly be done in a moment. It truly is a great gift that you writers have ..

I see you are well versed in Solar Physics and Cosmology. Were, or are you a physicist ? ++ Trevor

No, I am not a physicist nor a scientist. I attended Stuyvesant High School in New York back in the late 30's which gave me a good scientific background and remember well the day the atomic test was revealed. I read a lot of science fiction which anticipated atomic power. I am trained as a professional industrial designer which makes me more an artist than a scientist. I like words and like to play with them and am perpetually frightened at the technical capability and social incapability of my fellow humans. And whether I initiate it consciously or not, ther words just keep coming. I would rather be better at mathematics than poetry but am stuck with what I've got.

We are so glad you are stuck with what you got..so you remember the day they tested the first atomic bomb...??I think I am a bit younger than you but not by much..and since I believe inside I am really 22 that always poses me a problem...

When I think of all the things that have changed and happened in my life and how others think this thing changed us or that thing changed us to me the thing that changed us was what I am enjoying in this heat wave.. air condtioning.. My summer childhood was spent out doors , either in the back yard under the grape arbor my father planted there, or on the swings we had two one on the back porch and one on the front..each evening everyone sat outdoors on the front porch, Even as a child I KNEW everyone within the block on which our home resided, I was a welcome visitor in their homes and often in the evening my mother would take me on a stroll around that block.. We would stop and chat with all and even now all these years later I think of thier names and how safe I felt when I was a bit older and was allowed on a summer eve to walk alone around the block.

We were NEIGHBORS but more than that we were friends..courtesy relatives abounded in my life , how many aunts and uncles who were not related except by being a nieghbor did I have ..? Dozens , along with my blood relatives who were numerous (13 paternally 11 maternally) I think back and see what I felt then, wall to wall relatives.

As I have mentioned poetry has played an important part of my life ..In the morning the St Louis Globe Democrat was delivered and in the afternoon the StLous Post-Dispatch.Exceot for the dictionary which I read voraciously , the Bible the newspapers were my library. and I READ it not just the funnies but the whole thing. My curiosity knew no bounds and still doesnt and in the morning paper on the editorial page were daily poems from Edgar Guest .. I loved his poems and read them, cut them out and treasured them..I am embarrassed to say their down homey wording almost makes me cringe now but then they were wonderful and each one was a lesson in love, family, caring,Is it my age or being cooped up in this heat wave but I am being haunted by memories and I can say truthfully the haunting is not frightful but wonderful I am living my life over in a hundred ways because with my hearing almost gone I find I am becoming more insular and it is my memories that sustain me.. Here is a poem by Edgar Guest I thought of this morning and I am sharing it with you..anna

 
Home 
by Edgar Guest 

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home, 
A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam 
Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind, 
An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind. 
It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be, 
How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury; 
I ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, 
Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything. 

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; 
Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it; 
Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then 
Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men; 
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part 
With anything they ever used -- they've grown into yer heart: 
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore 
Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb marks on the door. 

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh 
An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh; 
An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come, 
An' close the eyes o' her that smiled,  
an' leave her sweet voice dumb. 
Fer these are scenes that grip the heart,  
an' when yer tears are dried, 
Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified; 
An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories  
O' her that was an' is no more -- ye can't escape from these. 

Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play, 
An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day; 
Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year 
Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear 
Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run 
The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun; 
Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome: 
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home.

One morning under gray quilted clouds I walked the RiverWalk watching the waters creeping in the river in the cool crisp air blowing down the Chattahoochee since there had been no rain for more than a week and with the rocky river bed poking above the water line like a wrinkled old man’s chest lying in a half-full morning bath waiting for the birds to scratch his tummy and The Mill Dam quiet...no white wall of foamy water splashing beneath the wall...all of it needed for the power house discharging below the spillway to turn the lights yellow and make the mill rumble in the breezes passing through the city while murmuring lights crawling on the riverside across the Dillingham Bridge of five arches add to the early noises rebounding from the clouds wondering how the resonance blending with the train horn in the city’s song embraces the world wakening the hills and fields to a new day.

OLD MEN FEED THE BIRDS

In all the parks in all the world
The old men sit
And feed the birds.
The old men sit
At noon and dawn
For they well know
They will be gone.
But all the birds
In all the world
Will still sing out
To raise the sun,
Will still loud sing
To set the moon.
To welcome leaves
When comes the Spring.
They bid farewell
When winters blow,
They range the sky.
To poles they go
To know the Earth
In part and whole
Across the continents they fly.
And so, with grain,
With crumbs of bread,
Men fight the force
That makes things dead.
So life may soar
Nor all things fall
Men give their bread
As gifts to all.

Jan, that poem tore at my heart and perhaps my soul as well. Thanks for sharing it with us.

"Feed the birds": wonderful. Startling images. Socks you right down inside. I feed birds around my house several times a day.

I liked "The River" very much. I felt like I was viewing the scene.

funny you should write a poem about feeding birds..it is something old ladies do as well ..mother in winter would bake a pan of cornbread for the birds using bacon fat ( we NEVER threw it away ,,made wonderful pie crust and cookies )as an addition and crumbled it to strew in our back yard..Until this heat came the birds did too.. lots of them every day to feed at my feeders and sip water from the bird bath.. lately I have noticed there were fewer .and wonder if they think "Hey did we go far enough North this year?"

While I complain and I do about this heat ( lost my computer connection last night I expect it was due to the heat..) I also complain about the cold but also this is NOT the first summer nor I expect the last when we will hide in our homes , drink copious glasses of iced tea or water and pray ..Here is a poem I wrote during another hot summer ..anna

 
Where are ... 

the summers of my youth? 
the green room  
where moon vines 
made a wall 
to shade us from  
noonday sun 
in evening  
from the porch swing  
we made a breeze 
pushed our feet  
against the floor 
listened to katydids 
watched fireflies 
make stars upon the yard 
today hidden  
in an air conditioned house  
sun a searing  
dish of brass 
chars the grass 
flowers  
droop  
in  
death 
await with me  
the first cool 
breath  
of  
fall... 

anna alexander7/15/97 
all rights reserved

Boy, oh boy, Anna. That poem is exactly "it".

THE VICTIMS

After strong rain
Broken bodies litter the streets.
Curious vagrant breezes
Finger the black membrane wings.
The bright bent bones
Glitter in the storm’s afterlight.
They are kicked away
Into gutters,
Stuffed away
Into trash baskets,
Thrown away
Into obscure corners.
There is no gratitude
For guardian angels
Who spread their wings
To shield us from liquid punishment
From the skies.
Umbrellas are cheap.

Jan! that poem reminds me of our annual fish fly invasion.

JAN: I have been a bird lover and feeder for almost 40 years. It is not only old men who feed birds. I loved your poem.

I thought the poem was about umbrellas? Enjoyed it, too!

DARK TROUBLE

The need to sleep is absolute.
There’s no resistance to it.
When work or interests object,
Nature commands, “Just do it!”
I do not like, each night, to find
Myself in strange and occult places
Threatened from before, behind,
With wickedness with evil faces,
Where scenery can change and shift,
Where memory can blur and drift,
Regardless how you search and sift,
All efforts crush the precious gift
Of logic and good sense.
Awakening is such relief
For clarity to commence,
To flee the murky fief
Of fear, ambush, and fright,
Freedom from that awful grief
Until the fall of night.

You always seem to capture things just right ,.I loved the umbrella poem Umbrellas and I have a love/ hate relationship..I have had expensive umbrellas . cheap ones ,small ones, large ones , ugly one, pretty ones and it doesnt matter how many I have had I NEVER HAVE ONE WHEN I NEED ONE>>.and they are evil too ...always collapsing when it rains and only work perfect when it doesnt matter ...sorry I alone could keep umbrella makers in business ...since I lose them , abuse them , misuse them , accuse them ..and it is too early in the am or too late at night for me to make any sense except I loved the poem...this heat is cooking my brain me thinks anna

Oh it is that time of year again when anything and everything that can enter any crack will come inside out of the heat looking for water...If you have never lived in the deep south you have no idea how large these water bugs [roaches] can be...5 and 6 inches are common...

An Elephant Is Crossing My Room
There’s this elephant walking across my floor you know the kind, it skitters and hides in the dark looking for water and crumbs. When sighted, my single approach is to storm and splat winged bodies del cucaroachas into two or three inches of gore. One look at these creatures, my tongue does a curl, my mouth a sour jaundice pinched arc as I squish and mash them, e´uwe - their black legs and wings pressed askew. In August they fearlessly whirl flying, I’m chased from the room, a coward I reach for spray power, prothrin and methrine them dead. Periplaneta, these giant water bugs six legs majestic on stilts. My prejudice look, tempers my tread, I cower before the stately walk of this elephant crossing my room. They live in the trees say neighbors and friends, their forty knees too many to hide. Mata al contacto the spray can approves but no, mi cabeza me duele - estoy enfermo.: (mee kay-bay-sah may dway-lay -- es-toi en-fer-mo)
And so like the elephant afraid of the mouse I sit on the sofa and grouse as this five inch tree monster strolls a walkway to dine on what ever my vacuum no el finde.

THat is hilarious, Barbara!

I had a nightmare last night and Jan's poem touches it just right.

We lived in Texas years ago for over two years and NEVER HAVE I SEEN SUCH MONSTROUS ROACHES... we had just settled into this apartment in Waco , had purchased some groceries but had not put them away.. Both my husband and I laid down for a nap while our little girl was sleeping...I really didnt go to sleep since I kept thinking I needed to put those groceries away ..I heard a noise coming from the kitchen and went in to see what it was.. one of the grocery bags on the floor was shaking and I yelled for my husband to come telling him there was a mouse in the bag..he flicked the light on when he came in to see better and out of that bag crawled this enormous ROACH a full 5=6 inches long and crawled up the wall across the ceiling and disappeared in the cupboards !!!!For the rest of our time there I was always cautious opening the cupboard, Put everything in glass jars and NEVER ate until each dish was rewashed and dried ..when I mentioned this everyone just nodded and said yes they had them too!!!!!

Have been busy trying to copy poems from an earlier computer onto floppies so I can put them on CD;s and found one that resonated with me because yesterday I saw a lovely dragonfly in my front yard When we first moved here 34 years ago we had such a variety of birds and insects ..and dragonflies it seemed by the 100's but over the years this bit of country was overtaken by progress and many things disappeared , the red headed woodpecker, herons, etc fireflies and dragonflies ..but in 2002 I was overjoyed to see some fireflies and dragonflies again and wrote this poem.anna

 
A Dragonfly  

Each summer you arrive skimming o’er the grass  
Stitching a pattern in the air with your stiletto body 
Gossamer wings, sheer, transparent hold you aloft 
Some say your life span is but a day  
You have lived in the pond as struggling larvae  
Until you emerge to leave behind your watery birth 
Take your place in the summer sun  
Years ago a platoon of dragonflies would feed in my yard  
A cloud of darting, exuberant beauties dining amid my garden 
Each summer your number is less, now only a few  
The pond is smaller, almost gone, the still waters  
No longer mirror the sky and skaters who once  
Glided on winter’s frozen surface must seek a false pond 
And pay to enjoy what used to be free  
Will silt fill in your birthing place ? 
Will summer come and you be gone? 
And children see only  pictures of what used to be? 

anna alexander 
7/30/02©

Anna, the way you are about umbrellas I'm that way about sunglasses. At the beginning of each year I buy several pairs of sunglasses and by summer time I have none! I've either lost all of them, sat on them and broken them or they just vanish into thin air. I'm convinced that the "little people" have taken them and are laying in the sun in Ireland.

I've given up on umbrellas. I don't even try. I was lucky if they lasted even a day before I lost them.

But my husband has one umbrella that's years old. It's broken: half its spokes stick out, it's so faded I can't remember what color it was, it's much too small for him, but somehow, it's always there!

THE AFFLICTION

So much is said so casual
Of love. A toy. A dingle-dangle.
Something to chew like chewing gum
To improve the smile, and at the end,
To stow away beneath a movie seat.
It is a utility to sell perfume, underwear,
Flowers and chocolates and cigarettes.
One would not suspect the black plague,
Leprosy and gangrene to damage less.
Once possessed by its totality
Its loss could forever or (to be realistic)
For the remainder of a life,
Find no flavor more to live.
Life should be on guard against love
That the appetite for common things
Not be lost. Life is accorded only once.
It should not be easily degraded nor dismissed.
Take it from one who has known love
And found it dangerous.

I loved it, too. Tooooo funny! LOLOL!!! Those nasty beggars give me the jizzles, too. A goose walked over my grave just thinking of them!

I would write the phonetic Spanish this way:

(mee kuh-BAY-suh may DWAY-lay -- ais-TOY een-FAIR-mo)

My head aches -- I am not well.

(Literally, it says "my head aches me.")

Now look-a-here ! 5-6 inch insects ? you're all exaggerating surely ! ++ Trevor

great Suggestion Zinnia SoCA - I will change it on my notes -

-- and no exaggeration 3kings - spiders as big as your fist and ahum water bugs, as we call them to be polite since there is no house without them in summer - not only can be a half foot long but in August they fly - brrrr - my best defence so far has been to leave the house for a day while I set off some of those aerosol bombs in the attic - they live in the Bermuda grass and in the live Oak trees - I have St. Augustine grass but my house is surrounded with huge Live Oaks that are great for helping to keep that hot sun off the roof but as the saying goes - at what price glory -

The green worms on tomato plants are bigger than in most areas I have learned - folks thought I was pulling a Texas grin on them when I used to casually tell them how the kids back when they were in their early teens and getting their first bee bee gun [big cause for celebration - I am almost grown kinda celebration] - well they would sit on the back patio and shoot the worms off the tomato plants that were about 60 to 70 feet away in the veg. garden - we ended up picking a lot of bee bee shot out of our mouths eating fresh picked tomatoes till their aim improved - all to say some insects really grow large the futher south you go and so it is easy to see the jump made by movie writers is not an imagination out of the fantastic, just further enlarged.

another small poem that again only gets a chuckle if you live in the South - the patio and screens have Geicos skittering on them all the time or the Geico quietly lays still in the sun - the Geicos get in the house and are on the walls - well like any healthy little boy they go after them trying to catch them - I think the little boys think they can put them in a jar like other bugs - well the the tail of the Geico comes off in the boys hands - so there are all these Geicos with no tails till the boys are school age - while in school that gives the Geicos some relief but the real relief only comes when the boys are grown and off to college - so I did this poem.

A Geico skitters
boys have grown and moved away
Geico has a tail

This is an item from News of the Weird to inspire poets about lively seniors.

Hyperactive Seniors

Lawrence Brown, 91, was arrested in June after an armed standoff with police, who said he was operating a drug market out of his home in order to, according to one officer, "supplement his Social Security income" (Chicago). Dorothy Densmore, 86, was arrested in May for having called 911 20 times in a 40-minute period to complain of poor pizza-service delivery and then biting the officer who came to question her (Charlotte, N.C.). Vera Tursi, 80, who uses an oxygen tank and a walker, was nonetheless arrested in June and charged with running a prostitution service out of her apartment in a low-income project (Lindenwold, N.J.).[Daily Southtown, 6-29-05] [Charlotte Observer, 5-24-05] [New York Times, 6-6-05]

The site can be found at http://www.newsoftheweird.com/archive/index.html

Trevor I was there in Texas and that was no exaggeration and we had these spiders as Barbara said almost as big as the palm of my hand and scorpions...I NEVER took a shower without first carefully noting of there were any scorpions in there and we placed our babies bed more or less in the middle of the room so the wall walking, crawling creatures would not get in her bed and even pulled our bed out from the wall after these huge spiders would appear..the gieckos were welcome since they ate insects etc..

and Jan you have a great sense of humor giving us that link as inspiration for poetry LOL didnt that senior MADAM run one for seniors?? I read in our local paper one did even used senior in her more or less ad! It does show we are not just sitting around LOL anna

What is outside

 
That appears to be 
Must see inside  
To see the outside 
And all it seems to be 
An ever recurring chore 
That turns  
Returns to 
What is inside  
A mystery 
Since I created me 
From all that is outside 
Which tried to create a ME 
Always contrary 
To what was wished to be 
The walls move 
Sometimes squeezing aspirations 
Confining shape 
Substance 
The sky floats around 
Sometimes touching the ground 
Or reaching so high 
It disappears into stars 
Leaving wonderment 
In this little me 
Floating in between

Back in the 60s my husband and I went back to New Mexico to visit his family. Now I'm a little old city gal from San Francisco and I was not used to having my bathroom separated from the house and I was pregnant to boot. Well, to make a long story short, I waddled out to that there "out house" and was just settling in when the biggest, badest, meanest spider and his whole family hopped up on my leg. Have you ever seen a pregnant lady RUN half naked out of am "out house" screaming at the top of her lungs at break-neck speed! It's not a pretty sight. I couldn't wait to get back to California where the spiders are tiny, weansy.

The Summer Sandpipers:

spindly summer sandpipers
skitter past my sandcastle
silther into the sea

Anne M. Ogle

On this 90 degree day this little poem makes me want to "silther into the sea" too!

SOLAR SORCERY

Three witches and a magic man
There are, who weave their spells
Around the sun, who cast their nets
Across the stars, snag the moon
To wring it dry of mystery
And tilt the world for secret reasons
Creating for themselves, the seasons.

The first witch stands so tall her hair
Forms a snare for iron clouds.
She sucks the night between the stars
And breathes it out upon the Earth
To chase the day away to cringe
And slip slim in-between the hours.
Her eyes are crystals, faceted,
That transform yellows from the sun
Into sharp violets, hard prussian blues,
Cold hues sharp fanged to bite the eyes
With poisons from far galaxies.
She sharpens stars to needle points
To pin dark time into immobility.
This witch is fascinated with the stars,
Devises imitations out of ice
In quantities immense
To blanket continents,
To enshroud all fertility,
Beneath which life is sung to sleep
With whistling winds and howling gales
And soft moaned icy breezes.
The moon with her one white eye
Outlines black bones
Of enchanted sleeping trees
Against the glow of blue snow.

The russet sister dispenses briskly sweeping air,
Rips aside dustcovers of the winter,
And kneads hard earth with flagellating rains
To infuse the dough of life with wet and warmth.
Her winged acolytes fling sharp sounds
To pierce the shells of cold, crumble frozen blocks
To make passage for green fingers seeking light.
Marrow from the bones of trees is seduced
To generate green eyes to blink in warming mornings.
Her sunlight inspires dormant ideas
Of vegetable metropoli, skyscrapers made of wood
That stretch and groan and strain through lubricating rains,
Erect rigs of twigs to ensnare the solar glare.
Within the black tombs of earth,
Capsules pop, hordes of hungers squirm awake
At her thermal touch ,disperse in spreading rings of life
Feeding upon themselves, reconquering territories
Lost long months ago.
They make symphonies of snapping chitin jaws.
Now she capers to voracious tunes, scribes mossy runes
On dumb stones, dissolves abandoned stars on the ground
Her sister left behind, teaches them to warble
As they tumble over pebbled pathways to the sea.
Spring fogs materialize over isolated dying snowbanks,
Specters to arise and haunt the upper atmosphere,
Descend to the permanence of the frigid poles.
Brown witch magic now unravels
Enchantments of her sterile sister.
She dances in with turmoiled winds
And waltzes out again in carnivals of zephyr.

The warmest witch of all, a gleeful butterball,
Do-si-dos her sister as she rolls in,
Bouncing the hot beach ball of the sun,
Trailing hot breezes, gesticulating torrid magic passes
To intensify, not destroy, the fury of creation
Initiated in the Spring. The arpeggios of clashing teeth,
Crescendos of consumptions and conceptions
Interweave multitudes of forms, dominating and dying,
Transmogrifying flesh from shape to shape,
Intertwining energies from space and substances of Earth,
Urged on by hot whirlwinds, thunders and lightnings,
Hissing pounding inundations from a turmoiled sky
Raised to insane angers by the manic dance
Of the round witch.
The enchanted Earth responds in burgeoned blossomings,
Gulping down the sun’s atomic fires to create
Mushrooms and mice, starfish and strawberries, bacteria and bats.
It raises steel tipped stone cities, sinks shafts for diamonds and gold.
It spurts robots into outer space, weaves daisies
Into chains to crown the heads of laughing children.
Then, with great sighing winds, the green queen departs,
Abdicating to her brother, the sorcerer of sleep.

He treads cautiously on stage
In a descending glissando of humming air.
He is a creature of sticks and shreds,
Clacking as he walks, dun rags pendulating in short arcs
In the icy drafts that null the summer’s heat.
His head, in horrid contrast to his spare frame,
Bobbles, an orange balloon, a harvest moon,
A grinning pumpkin face with red ember eyes
Slashed to reveal skewed teeth, a picket fence to Hell.
His strength is not apparent, but the trees know.
They scream orange, yellow and red
And drop their leaves in dread.
The birds know, and they flee.
And some butterflies disappear to Mexico.
Others, appalled, wither and die,
Secreting secret messages of their cunning architecture
To be reconstructed when the sun returns.
He shuffles through huge drifts of dead leaves,
Cackling and muttering in an empty-headed way.
Bears hide in caves, hedgehogs dig tombs,
Water creatures burrow in the mud.
Small six-legged nations troop away to drowsy destinations.
At the end, this mortician to the world
Unfolds wide ragged pterodactyl wings,
Shrieks for his gaunt sister to descend
And slowly flaps away to outer space.
She responds to his call and, black abyss above her head,
Arrives in swirls of stars.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

There always seems to be a sonnet, that somehow fits occasions.

Anneo

But we all hear different tunes.. Jan I marvel at how words. descriptions flow from your imagination. They tumble out , they dance and they tell a story and paint pictures ..more real than real ..anneo with Shakespeare I dont thing we can ever go wrong..he examines the human nature and shares what he has learned ...

Since my hearing has started to lock me in .. I find poetry I once read now in a different light ..The following poem has always captured me ..I cant tell why . perhaps the rythmn , the words, the idea but now when I re read it today I saw myself both the person knocking and the listener inside.. I am both ..I am knocking on your door asking for admittance but I dont hear anything only my own voice calling .and I am the person within who doesnt understand what the person at the door requests..and we are both lost ..so I share this poem with you today .. You make of it what you will as we should every poem..anna

 
Walter De La Mare 



The Listeners 

"Is anybody there?" said the Traveler,  
    Knocking on the moonlit door;  
And his horse in the silence chomped the grasses  
    Of the forest's ferny floor.  
And a bird flew up out of the turret,  
    Above the traveler's head:  
And he smote upon the door a second time;  
    "Is there anybody there?" he said.  
But no one descended to the Traveler;  
    No head from the leaf-fringed sill  
Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes,  
    Where he stood perplexed and still.  
But only a host of phantom listeners  
    That dwelt in the lone house then  
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight  
    To that voice from the world of men:  
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair  
    That goes down to the empty hall,  
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken  
    By the lonely Traveler's call.  
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,  
    Their stillness answering his cry,  
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,  
    'Neath the starred and leafy sky;  
For he suddenly smote the door, even  
    Louder, and lifted his head:--  
"Tell them I came, and no one answered,  
    That I kept my word," he said.  
Never the least stir made the listeners,  
    Though every word he spake  
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house  
    From the one man left awake:  
Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,  
    And the sound of iron on stone,  
And how the silence surged softly backward,  
    When the plunging hoofs were gone.

SOME MORNING

I want to come awake
Some morning when the birds
Speak with small silver knives
That slice each round moment
Into shining shreds, dripping
Yellow light that has
A sour pungent sweetness.
I want to smell expectancy
So that it penetrates
From my nostrils to the back
Of my head to make my neck hair
Stiffen into hedgehog quills.
I want to touch familiarity
So that its friendly form
Twists like a mummy monkey’s paw
And nothing is the same again,
And each minute with its whiskers
A-tremble on both sides of a pink nose
Pushes into the present out of the dark
Future, scoots into the past
Through flames of delight.
I want to be young again.

I am behind in reading messages. I do not know whether to begin at the end or the beginning. Anyway, I did catch Anna's beautiful poem about "Matthew Henson." Anna, another poem which proves you are a true poet.

Trying to catch up.

Can't afford a new Easter hat
Then gather needle and thread
And this and that and
Turn an old hat into new

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" [1930 ~ 1939]

Jan and Anna love your poems

Scrawler,

I like that one.

I shared it via email with a former co-worker friend, now a 4-year widow. She and hubby worked for me in St Louis, 1970-76. Since then, he and she retired and began building light airplanes...a good retirement-life endeavor. I've kept in touch...via emails.

She loved Jan's "flying feelings" poem. Her husband wrote maybe only one poem in his life...to her on either her birthday or their anniversary. In her reply, she shared it with me...and I am moved to share it with all here. Poetry is like communications...needs both a speaker and hearer to work. Which was so in the "Come Fly With Me" poem (his widow speaks first, below):

Thanks for the poem. Yes, I certainly associate with that. Here is one you can send Jan:

COME FLY WITH ME

Come Fly With Me My Love, To where the sea meets the sky. We'll watch the rippling water And the birds wing on high.

Come Fly With Me My Love, To where the clouds caress the mountain. We'll see the snow peak glisten Like cotton candy that's just been spun.

Come Fly With Me My Love, To where the moon and stars shine bright. We'll watch the night shadows dancing, Until the sun warms us with light.

Come Fly With Me My Love, We'll be lovers and we'll be friends, To share these times together, Until life's rainbow ends.

P.J.

Note: Written for my beloved husband, Gary, on his 53rd birthday. His life's rainbow ended 10 years later...Nov. 15, 2001. I framed this poem and placed it in the casket.

THE OTHER ALICE

There had to be that electric moment
At the silver surface of the mirror
When the two Alices coalesced
As when a diver into a summer pond
Becomes a four legged monster
Without heads, without arms.
Then, in similarity to the creation
Of a virtual particle pair from this
And Dirac space, the other Alice
Came here while ours
Plunged into Wonderland.
So this confused girl
Came to encounter factions of our world
Far more disturbed over imaginary beings
Touted to control the world, over laws solemnly passed
To be unobserved by mutual consent by all,
Over societies in panic about imaginary lines
Dubbed international borders, over traditions established
In ignorance and fear and just plain habit
Hundreds of years ago, over imagined values of squares
Of colored paper,
Than
The fates of their beloved children, the welfare
Of fellows indistinguishable from themselves,
The conditions in their world that permitted them to survive.
She had many funny stories to relate
When she went back.

Thanks again for all the posts for the poems for sharing ..Jef thank your friend for sharing her poem..and you are so right a poem needs a listener..and if any of you are not reading the poems outloud try it..

I am a complainer I guess .. was I always so ? but then I dont recall a summer like this one when the heat just takes your breath away, when walking from a car to store or back to my front door I feel I am being baked ...it is an oven outside ..next year when hopefully we will have a summer of normal temperatures I can sigh and tell all how HOT it was this year..and if it becomes an unusually cold winter I will quietly wish for a bit of this heat..I found a poem about hot weather and share it here. the poet tells what he needs to survive hot weather .... to live I think of darkened rooms,shades drawn against the sun's intrusion, pitchers of real lemonade and my younger brothers playing cards on a quilt on the living room floor...from my memories ... anna

 
Ballade Made In The Hot Weather 
William Ernest Henley 
1849-1903 
—To C. M. 

Fountains that frisk and sprinkle 
The moss they overspill; 
Pools that the breezes crinkle; 
The wheel beside the mill, 
With its wet, weedy frill; 
Wind-shadows in the wheat; 
A water-cart in the street; 
The fringe of foam that girds 
An islet’s ferneries; 
A green sky’s minor thirds— 
To live, I think of these! 

Of ice and glass the tinkle, 
Pellucid, silver-shrill; 
Peaches without a wrinkle; 
Cherries and snow at will, 
From china bowls that fill 
The senses with a sweet 
Incuriousness of heat; 
A melon’s dripping sherds; 
Cream-clotted strawberries; 
Dusk dairies set with curds— 
To live, I think of these! 

Vale-lily and periwinkle; 
Wet stone-crop on the sill; 
The look of leaves a-twinkle 
With windlets clear and still; 
The feel of a forest rill 
That wimples fresh and fleet 
About one’s naked feet; 
The muzzles of drinking herds; 
Lush flags and bulrushes; 
The chirp of rain-bound birds— 
To live, I think of these! 

Envoy 

Dark aisles, new packs of cards, 
Mermaidens’ tails, cool swards, 
Dawn dews and starlit seas, 
White marbles, whiter words— 
To live, I think of these!

 
"Heat waves shimmering" 
Matsuo Basho    

    Heat waves shimmering 
one or two inches 
    above the dead grass.

at the edge of the
aluminum flower pot
Monarach butterfly fanning

Even the butterflies are fanning in 90 degree heat!

Northern heat wave broke
Southern neighbors open doors
Quiet in July

Crack says the thunder
Doe and Fawn look and listen
Foretelling rain.

Wow! Rain!

Wow! Did it rain today coming down in 32 gal.bucket fulls splashing ground with silver droplets skipping round and round circles running around themselves until socks were wet and ankle highs were ankle high in cool running water flowing down the gutter in front of the front lawn where grass became a giant slurpy just slurping up the deluge dropping from the clouds hanging over the trees then looking up a face full of rain washed the mist from eyes seeing the rainbow colors of the green earth caressing mind, letting heart splish splash in rhythm with the drumming rain beating shoulders running down spine squishing between toes feeling sweet watery coolness inside all around

Mark Twain, on his way to Alaska, spent a few weeks in Portland, Oregon during a summer in the 1800s. He said, "It was the best winter he'd ever spent during summer time." Portland has always been famous for its long winter-like conditions until recently. I can't help but wonder what Twain would have thought about our 90+ degree weather here in the last few days. Rain! (I never thought I'd say this.)But yeah let it rain! Oh, please let it Rain!

It seems our heat wave is broken ..and of course with numerous thunderstorms and like Louie said RAIN ..my poor plants who could barely survive with my watering them looked at first beaten down but today they seem perky and lift their blooms above the ground.

My computer has been off and to be honest I have been extremely lazy ..sleeping in and just listening to the rain found a small poem and share it here ...anna

 
Cinquin for fall  

Heat fades  
Autumn awaits   
Roses  brown, flowers spent  
I am left sans a song , robin’s  
Left, gone! 

Anna  Alexander 
8/20/04©

And, Scrawler, isn't it unusual for Colorado to have the 100s which I saw on the weather map the other day?

We have overcast today and what a relief, but we are expecting it to hit over 100 degrees within the next few weeks. They promised RAIN! for today, but so far no show! I've been doing the RAIN dance all day long. Yes, 100 degrees is very unusual. I got my Nature magazine today and there are several articles in it where they fear that if the temperature keeps rising the HOT water in the streams and rivers will start killing off the fresh water fish. And now the government wants to bulldoz all my wonderful trees. I'll be moving soon because they're making my apartment complex into a parking garage. I think my family wants me out of here, before I throw myself in front of a bulldozer. So if see a little old-gray-haired lady on the six o'clock news under a bulldozer it's probably me! I'm sick about what will happen to the animals I've come to love and all my trees! This can't be progress. Sorry if I was ranting!

Scrawler Anne: that is a very sad happening coming up. It's not progess- it is business.

Here are 10 poems by Langston Hughes. They do tug at your heart - to me they are explicitly musical also.

10 Langston Hughes poems

But my youngest daughter who is expecting my 8th grandchild early Ocotber is in the process of moving and I have been helping her and will be doing so off and on until she is settled. She has two older children a girl 11 and a boy 10..so Nana is ON CALL and of course the oldest of my granchildren is a girl who just turned 12 ..this is a busy time in all of my grandchildren's lives since they are not only involved in school but lots and lots of extraculicular actvities to which Nana is expected...

Marj thanks so much for that link to Langston Hughes poems , He is one of my favorite poets and since I lived in an integrated nieghborhood as a child I not only knew and played with black children I also was aware that everyone wasnt like my family so a lot of his poetry really resonates with me.

I hope to be back later with a poem..summer is nearly OVER isnt It??? Gosh I am so ready for AUTUMN ..anna

Scrawler I am so sorry to hear about "progress" we have had a real debate here as the city wanted to allow Wal-Mart to build another store ( we have 3) in a wonderful and just about the only green space left, I saw a whole neighborhood destroyed , the place where I was born and lived to adulthood ..torn down and made into an interstate ,It was tragic beyond measure as the people who lived there and were displaced , like my mom, had no place to go ..they didnt get enough from thier homes to buy another and many were very senior people who had expected to die in these homes. Mother found a place in senior housing and since there were six of us she also visited us a lot but some of those neighbors whom I knew well were just lost .all their memories were gone ..these were the homes where they raised thier families and the house where thier husband died..My mother kept in touch with some of them and even now I find it heartbreaking to know how their last days were spent. Please dont throw yourself in front of a truck but I want you to know I understand and hope you can find a good place, Hugs anna

Old political idealism
Old romantic dreams
Religious certainty
Gone to smash

A great new house
A shinny new car
Selling stock at a high price
Gone to smash

America free from poverty
America free from toil
American prosperity
All gone to smash!

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" [1920 ~ 1929]

Anna thanks for your words of encouragement. I'll try to keep my cool.

Here is the link I posted in the poetry course to Langston Hughes reading some of his poetry:

LANGSTON HUGHES TALKS ABOUT AND READS POETRY

What sad changes you all are going through. Scrawler, I hope you find another place as beautiful. Anna, it's really hard when your grandchildren move away. I went through it a couple of years ago. I do everything I can to stay in touch. We talk on the phone, and I constantly search the internet for fun links I can send them.

 
I go, 
thou stayest- 
two autumns. 
-- Buson

MarjV

August 4, 2005 - 06:22 am

Fireflies" 
By Karl Kirchwey   

Those nights the fireflies love best— 
windless and a little humid— 
when they are current in the pasture, 
busy in their greeny traffic, 
signaling beneath the stars 
("Like a nightclub's marquee," she says, 
remembering Fifty-Second Street), 
then I think pleasure is like this, 
accomplished in a perfect silence 
undeceived by loneliness.   

And in the morning on the lawn, 
seedpods of Eastern cottonwood 
lie scattered open, white and brilliant, 
as if true to some child's account 
of what pleasure becomes with daylight. 

http://slate.msn.com/id/2119067/

annafair

August 4, 2005 - 06:47 am

Joan isnt it odd how just a few lines can convey a whole song??and marj "I think pleasure is like this accompanplished in perfect a silence" I love that because when I think of how much pleasure one obtains from just being quiet in a quiet place .it is the most soothing to the heart and soul.

now you can all laugh but a poet friend has challenged me to write a LOVE SONG ..ha ha He is a 92 year old gentleman from Wisconsin and he writes sonnets about political events. He doesnt go on the net just uses his webtv to keep in touch with family and friends,.He has been a collector of concretions for 33 years and if you want to know what they are than google He sent me one and mentioned someone gave him a CD so I sent him a CD of old time love songs and he says everytime he listens to it he wants to write a love song!! and challenged me to do the same LOL here is mine which will give you all a smile ..anna

 
You are love  

How did I get so lucky to have found you? 
Just when I needed someone to love ? 
How many years have I waited  
Looking for someone to be true? 

You are LOVE,, You are  
Everything I hoped to find  
You are castles in air  
The beautiful person in my mind  

You give me the freedom to soar  
To fly on gentle air   
To find a place among the stars  
You are love,  You are love  

And you are mine! 

anna Alexander August 4, 2005, 9:32 AM©

JoanK

August 4, 2005 - 07:00 pm

Anna: great, as always.

Marg:

How easily it lights up, 
how easily it goes out-- 
the firefly 
-- Chora

annafair

August 4, 2005 - 08:02 pm

And I love the firefly I remember the mason jars we would fill on a summer eve well not really fill but would bring them in and I would lay awake for hours just watching that lovely color..Now I wouldnt capture them ..there arent as many as there used to be and perhaps it is because we captured them''Here is a poem I wrote actually there were 3 all with the same name about bones..this is based on a true story ..anna

 
dem bones  

carcass of a steer  
frozen in a winter storm  
hidden from the searchers eye  
hid to save itself  

the storm  
claimed its hide  
spring revealed  
bleached skull  

bare bones  
winter food for  
lurking predators  

still you serve  
a greater purpose  
the old man  
scares his great grandchildren  

viewing where “MR.BONES” 
in shaded mystery lies ... 

anna alexander  

9/6/97 all rights reserved

annafair

August 5, 2005 - 06:06 am

Somehow I always picture August in a chiffon dress,,,her skirts moving slowly as she passes by..and then when the month is over she hurries to say goodbye ..and that is what I wish .she would hurry and say goodbye!! In yesterday;s email my first born ( she hates me to call her the oldest) told me about the blackberries they are enjoying. The bushes this year are so full she picks a quart every other day and they are enjoying them served a number of ways ..I recalled this poem and I share it today///anna

 
 August 



When the blackberries hang 
swollen in the woods, in the brambles 
nobody owns, I spend 

all day among the high 
branches, reaching 
my ripped arms, thinking 

of nothing, cramming 
the black honey of summer 
into my mouth; all day my body 

accepts what it is. In the dark 
creeks that run by there is 
this thick paw of my life darting among 

the black bells, the leaves; there is 
this happy tongue.  

Mary Oliver

Scrawler

August 5, 2005 - 08:26 am

the summer sandpipers
skitter past my sandcastle
silther into the sea

Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember" [2000 ~ 20001]

MarjV

August 5, 2005 - 11:14 am

Thanks, Joan. Pretty !

Love that about the blackberries; Mary Oliver is just so neat.

Sandpipers are a very special bird to me. When we spent summers at a cottage in Ontario on Lake Erie always the sandpipers were plentiful in early & late summer. They skitter so neatly along the edge just where the wavelets would break.

JoanK

August 5, 2005 - 11:30 am

Mary Oliver does it again! Her poems always hit something in me.

We have tons of blackberries out back, but I never get any. No matter how early I get up, the birds beat me to it. But they attract Indigo buntings to nest nearby -- one of the most beautiful of birds. So what my tongue misses, my eyes get.

Indigo buntings and sandpipers in the same group of messages -- what a feast.

Jim in Jeff

August 5, 2005 - 04:23 pm

Y'all poets posting here are...too much! Great thoughts. Do get 'em published elsewhere too, fond forum friends.

I'm merely a poetry fan. Today's NPR news announces a new Shel Silverstein CD and book. (NPR = National Public Radio)

Here's a link to NPR's today's info about it: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4787324 (and an excerpt from it):

Now, six years after Silverstein's death, there's a new CD with some of his best-known poems and songs. And there's a book, Runny Babbit, a collection of previously unpublished poems made up of spoonerisms, where the first parts of words are transposed. ("Runny's Jig Bump," for example, begins: Runny be quimble, Runny be nick, Runny cump over the jandlestick.)

Mitch Myers, Shel Silverstein's nephew, wrote the liner notes for the new CD and helped compile the new collection of poems.

I guess it's obvious that I'm a Shel Silverstein fan.

anneofavonlea

August 5, 2005 - 04:36 pm

A Lady who Thinks She Is Thirty
by Ogden Nash

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?

Anneo

annafair

August 6, 2005 - 03:24 am

Well I have only met a couple in REAL life but poems feed me and I love the poet JOAN I love sandpipers I feel I am like them scurrying about on short legs ..the only difference they can fly and when they do they live a trail of silver underwings flashing cross the sky ... Jef good to see you here and Shel Silverstein is also a favorite but then read my heading ..anneo LOL did you post that poem just for me??anneo knows something about me I THINK I AM ONLY 22 LOVE it thanks for posting it ...havent had time to research a poem for today ..lots going on in my days ..three birthday parties in a row I feel everyone I know was born in August but I was born in NOV and when I was young my mother had my birthday party in August as it was too cold in November .Probably explains why I grew up confused LOL will be back later so good to read your posts and happy to see you here ..anna

Scrawler

August 6, 2005 - 08:25 am

This morning my car had leaves on the hood and the temperature is 90 + still, but I can feel autumn swirling just around the corner.

The Tree and Me

The tree that stands outside my bedroom window
Is in the summer a dear friend
But in the fall becomes my mortal enemy

The tree spreads its branches
And shakes with all its might
Sending hundreds of leaves falling to the ground

At first I smile and do nothing
Then with a grin I turn on my secondhand leaf blower
And gather up all the fallen leaves

The tree is silent for a very long time
And then shakes and sways
Until only one leaf is left

I watch the last leaf fall to the ground
I hit the switch to turn on the blower
But nothing happens

Bending low I try to pick up the leaf
And that is when I hear my back go pop!
"Get the liniment, dear, the tree has won again.

I love Ogden Nash's poems.

annafair

August 7, 2005 - 12:36 am

I guess this in not the first year since we lived in Virginia we have had a HEAT WAVE . I found this poem when I was transferring my poetry from floppies to CD . from the context I would guess it was equal to our present heat wave..anna

 
HEAT WAVE   

HOT HUMID HEINOUS  
HORRIBLE  
HEAT  

DEBILITATING DEVASTATING  
DANGEROUS  
DEADLY 

SWELTERING SWEATING  
SALTED  
SECRETIONS  

RUNNING RACING  
RANDOM  
RANCID  

PLEADING PETITIONING  
PRECATIVE  
PASSION 

RELENTLESS RECURRENT  
REPETITIVE 
RIGOROUS  

DREAMING 

COOL MORNINGS  
COOLER NIGHTS  
RAIN MISTS  
END IN SIGHT  
FINSH  TO THIS  

DRATTED  
DEBILITATING  
DOLOROUS 					 

HEAT  

anna alexander  
7/30/99  
all rights reserved

MarjV

August 7, 2005 - 09:19 am

Oh,that is great, Anna. Fits it to a "t". Back into the humid 90s around here tomorrow.

annafair

August 7, 2005 - 12:22 pm

Sorry even with A/C everything seems HOT and dry and my mind wont let go as I faithfully feed and put water out for the birds..and even though there is plenty to go around the birds are testy and argue over the seed and water ..so HERE is another one ,,same theme by me ..anna

 
heat wave 		 

the air is oven heated  over heated  
the pretty flowers who in years past  
shared their beauty through the fall 
now droop and sag ,the blossoms faded 
as soon as a new flower opens  
it shrivels and turns brown  
does it wonder where its color goes 
there is no reflection but only  
earth tones that match the ground  
water from a hose helps to defray  
the damage that a heat wave  
costs ,,its bill too high and  
my tomatoes as I figure are  
now worth ten dollars per 
clouds appear but hope is gone  
these clouds have empty mouths  
like ours they are dry, 

anna Alexander  
August 7, 2005, 3:13 PM©

anneofavonlea

August 7, 2005 - 05:41 pm

Anyone hasnt noticed, Anna does NOT like the heat, lol.

Anneo

annafair

August 8, 2005 - 06:48 am

I think one had to live in the city before air condtioning drove us indoors and instead of watching the stars in the heavens come out at night we watch so called stars on a flickering TV screen..This poem reminds me of my childhood when evening softly came and oozed unhurriedly to night ..hope it reminds you of something special..anna

 
CITY DUSK 

by: F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940) 

OME out . . . . out  
To this inevitable night of mine  
Oh you drinker of new wine,  
Here's pageantry . . . . Here's carnival,  
Rich dusk, dim streets and all  
The whispering of city night . . . .  

I have closed my book of fading harmonies,  
(The shadows fell across me in the park)  
And my soul was sad with violins and trees,  
And I was sick for dark,  
When suddenly it hastened by me, bringing  
Thousands of lights, a haunting breeze,  
And a night of streets and singing . . . .  

I shall know you by your eager feet  
And by your pale, pale hair;  
I'll whisper happy incoherent things  
While I'm waiting for you there . . . .  

All the faces unforgettable in dusk  
Will blend to yours,  
And the footsteps like a thousand overtures  
Will blend to yours,  
And there will be more drunkenness than wine  
In the softness of your eyes on mine . . . .  

Faint violins where lovely ladies dine,  
The brushing of skirts, the voices of the night  
And all the lure of friendly eyes . . . . Ah there  
We'll drift like summer sounds upon the summer air . . . .

annafair

August 8, 2005 - 07:00 am

 
I am weighed down by heat  
and anneo reminds me I dont know heat 
from her outback retreat 
where only the jump ups  
hold grass and trees  
and the river weighed down  
by hot air moves sluggishly downstream  
where heat has burned the birds  
their feathers in other lands  
reflect earth there in her land  
the searing sun has colored them  
and painted them in the reds  
and gold of the suns favorite shades  
I concede I do not know her heat  
and bow to the outbacks clime  
and hope that somehow my heat will go 
when autumm comes again.. 

written for anneo my good friend 
from down under..anna alexander  
8/08/2005

anneofavonlea

August 8, 2005 - 01:01 pm

I think I like that.

Glad its established that we win in the heat department though.Ill concede you the cold, as we are having a very mild winter.

I believe our Anna could find poetry in anything, a great gift.

Anneo

annafair

August 9, 2005 - 05:23 am

Since anneo is from Australia I decided to post a poem by Australia's famed Bush Poet whose picture is featured on thier ten dollar bill, Andrew Barton Peterson known as A J BANJO Peterson 1864-1941. anna

 
Clancy of the Overflow 

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better 
   Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago; 
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him, 
   Just on spec, addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow." 

And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected 
   (And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar); 
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it: 
   "Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are." 

In my wild erratic fancy, visions come to me of Clancy 
  Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the western drovers go; 
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing, 
   For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know. 

And the bush has friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him 
   In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars, 
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, 
   And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars. 

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy 
   Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, 
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city 
  Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all. 

And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle 
   Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street; 
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting, 
   Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet. 

And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me 
   As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, 
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, 
   For townsfolk have no time to grow; they have no time to waste. 

And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy, 
   Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go, 
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal -- 
   But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.

MarjV

August 9, 2005 - 09:21 am

Great fun to read the Clancy poem. Thanks. Such visual images. Reminds me of Robert Service's poems.

Like :

Shooting of Dan McGrew

MarjV

August 9, 2005 - 09:26 am

And then, speaking of Roberts, I remembered Robert Bly - I like some of this work.

Here are several poems by him:

Robert Bly Online Poems

anneofavonlea

August 9, 2005 - 03:40 pm

We learned dear old Clancy off by heart, or got whacked with Sister's cane, brings back memories. Clancy was of course mentioned in the Snowy River poem,"he came down to lend a hand"

Anneo

annafair

August 10, 2005 - 12:57 am

Thanks so much for that link Robert Bly is new to me ..and I can see why you like him ....

and anneo it was fun finding this poem ....amd I too found it was a lot like Robert Service whom I loved and still am determined some day to go to Alaska ..

I have read this poem I share today many times as one person said Every woman dreams about such love. a quote from American's Favorite Poems What do you think? would you say the same ? and what about a man would he not want to be loved so?

 
I LOVED YOU 

I loved you; perhaps I love you still. 
The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished yet 
It burns so quietly within my soul, 
No longer should you feel distressed by it. 
Silently and hopelessly I loved you, 
At times too jealous and at times too shy. 
God grant you will find another who will love you 
As tenderly and truthfully as I. 

Alexander Pushkin 1799-1837

Louie1026

August 10, 2005 - 05:33 am

Lyrics for a Country Song

The other day

		 
I went to see the doctor 
And 
He said 
I need a sweet thang 
For my sweet tooth 
That will hold  
And caress me 
Move and possess me 
Make my brain whirl<re> 
Give my hair a curl 

He said 
I need a sweet thang 
To wrap right around me 
Completely claustrophobe me 
Make my bones ache 
Take away the belly ache 
     I need a sweet thang 
     Yeh A sweet thang 
Hey sweet honey pie 
Will you be my sweet thang 
Will you grab and hold me 
Will you squeeze me always 
Caress me 
Rub your shoulders on me 
Make my heart whirl 
Set your skirts awhirl 
Be my sweet thang 
Hey sweet honey 
Be my sweet thang

annafair

August 11, 2005 - 05:30 am

Louie you know that is a funny poem but also has a lot to say..we all need a sweet "thang" someone to brighten our day and cheer us on. And I hope everyone has a sweet "thang" somewhere ..thanks anna

annafair

August 11, 2005 - 05:38 am

In the past mid August I would be driving north to visit my daughter who lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains. I would leave the interstate and find a two lane country road and pass fields of corn and rolls of hay toasting like huge muffins in the sun, It is a road that always soothes my soul and when I would come to this rise in the road and for the first time again see those hills I would find tranquility..I am sharing a poem today that reminds me of that time..DO YOU HAVE A POEM THAT MAKES YOU FEEL THAT WAY? anna

 
A Green Cornfield  

The earth was green, the sky was blue:  
I saw and heard one sunny morn  
A skylark hang between the two,  
A singing speck above the corn;  

A stage below, in gay accord,  
White butterflies danced on the wing,  
And still the singing skylark soared,  
And silent sank and soared to sing.  

The cornfield stretched a tender green  
To right and left beside my walks;  
I knew he had a nest unseen  
Somewhere among the million stalks.  

And as I paused to hear his song  
While swift the sunny moments slid,  
Perhaps his mate sat listening long,  
And listened longer than I did.  

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

annafair

August 11, 2005 - 10:24 am

  
where have all the poets gone ? 
has summer heat sent your thoughts a’ scattering? 
are you holed up some place cool and sweet 
with a gray cat close by and a dog resting at your feet? 
do you avoid the day and only creep out at night  
testing the air to see if there is a soft breeze a’ wafting? 
have you lost your way ? found no path to poetry ? 
perhaps it is too narrow and the distance far  
are you sitting out there on a star ? 
ruminating about things here on planet earth? 
may we hope you will find some rest  
and when the heat retreats you will find your voice  
and sing your songs here .. 

anna Alexander  
8/11/05 ©

Éloïse De Pelteau

August 11, 2005 - 12:49 pm

Anna, after we talked on the phone I wanted to come here and enjoy the poetry, they are just wonderful.

I am sorry that you are having a bad heat wave and this year it is lasting so long. Even here in Montreal, in this cool country we are sweltering when the temperature reaches 90. I remember heat waves when I was a child but they didn't last this long.

Anna congratulations on your paper about a center for Proton Beam Therapy for cancer. I read your speech, it made me proud to be among your many friends.

Éloïse

patwest

August 11, 2005 - 01:42 pm

Here is a link to a news release about Hampton University and Proton-beam Therapy for Cancer. Anna Alexander, a discussion leader in Books, was chosen to present a positive view of the treatment.

Hampton University & Anna Alexander

ZinniaSoCA

August 11, 2005 - 06:51 pm

I can't tell you how proud I am of you! A friend of mine with my same cancer at my same stage received the proton beam therapy just shortly after I began treatment and she as been like new ever since. I was stunned when she told me that proton beam therapy was available so near me (30 miles!) and had been for years prior to my treatment. The damage done to my lungs and arteries by the other kind of radiation has caused ongoing problems for me ever since.

annafair

August 11, 2005 - 07:12 pm

I am so sorry and I only wish I could have shared this before but when I read Hampton University wanted to build a center right here I didnt hesitate to be an advocate for this treatment. I wasnt aware how many cancers could be cured using this method. My husbands treatment was 20 years ago and I am really shocked that this treatment has not been explained and promoted nation wide in that time..it is almost like they dont want to tell us how wondeful this treatment can be! Isnt First do no harm the medical worlds first dictum? We were fortunate when my husband was diagnosed that the team at Walter Reed were aware of the other options. I have no doubt removal of the eye would have stopped the cancer at that time as well but I know a friend who lost an eye and he can see well out to the remaining but having the peripheal vision meant a lot ..and we were so glad he could keep that ..and there was no nausea, no loss of hair or any of the things that accompany other treatments, My plea to the commission was let's give our citizens EVERY tool available ! I am sick at heart that you didnt have the opportunity to see if you could have been helped.. You have been very brave through a lot of things and I admire that...still I am saddened to think it might have been different.I am glad your friend was helped. My platform now is to see Virginia has this wonderful tool and right here where my family, my friends and my neighbors live, I have emailed the link to everyone I know locally and urge them to write to the newspaper and let the decisions makers know WE WANT THIS>.God Bless and I send you one of the many hugs shared yesterday ..anna

annafair

August 11, 2005 - 08:22 pm

This evening I felt like making a cup of tea...and while I was drinking it I saw my grandmother at the table with her sprigged teapot that held loose tea leaves and watched her pour the hot brew through a tea strainer ..and this is what I wrote ..so what do you remember ??and why did I remember this from so many years ago tonight?

 
memories of my yesterdays  

I take my tea with lemon  
in a real china cup , no saucer  
just the cup and add a bit of honey  
and stir it with a silver spoon  
and sit and think about tomorrow  
and wonder how the sky will look 

my grand mother used the cream  
from the top of the bottle of milk 
if the tea was too hot the cream would curdle  
and form streaks of whey across  
its silken sea and she would scoop 
them out and eat them up 

if the tea was just right the cream  
would move with her stirring spoon  
she would purse her lips  
make gentle waves as she cooled  
the muddle in her saucer    
it reminded me of my opal ring  

when she thought it cool enough  
she slowly returned it the china cup 
and daintily  sipped each drop 
 smacked her lips in pleasure  
and looked off to a place I could not see  
while I wished she would have invited me  

anna Alexander  
August 11, 2005, 11:14 PM©

Hats

August 12, 2005 - 06:49 am

Anna, I love your poem.

I enjoyed all the Langston Hughes poems and links too. I love his poetry, very special.

annafair

August 12, 2005 - 07:58 pm

I am a member of the Poetry Society of Virginia and this evening met with at least 20 fellow poets at a coffee shop locally for reading ..We even had the ten year old granddaughter of my friend who is kind enough to pick me up an bring me home..AND when I say she wrote a truly great poem I am only telling the truth

They have a theme each time and music was the one this evening and I was so surprised to see Louie's Country Western poem country western theme posted and asked him for permission to share it .LOUIE I DID YOU PROUD!! Using my best "Ten na seee" accent and yes that is the way I meant to spell it I gave that poem a twang for that thang an honestly had everyone applauding and hollering!I lived in NASHVILLE FOR 12 years we had 25-30 people there so you can imagine how loud the noise was! THANKS so much from all of us and especially me for granting me permission to share your Country music poem. IT MADE MY DAY!! anna

Louie1026

August 13, 2005 - 05:46 am

In The Bowling Alley

She sits alone

Except for wandering strangers

Who are

Sniffing the heat

That was denied them

Just a while ago,

Rejection presses

Heavily on their loins

They do not wish to trade commitments

Promises of love

For release that passes in a moment

 

She smiles 

Better to sit uncommitted 

The middle of the crowd 

Than an empty room 

Watching the others prancing 

In TV boxes 

Of sleek, sweet smelling bodies 

Irregularities and absorbing monthlies 

Form fitting undergarments 

The world is a lonely place 

Easier to 

Join the pontificating crowd 

Pay dues of quiet edifications 

Make own private accommodations 

Price the same, different donations 

The coinage of the market place 
Loneliness incurs expenses 

And everyone must pay, 

Bankruptcies proliferate

annafair

August 14, 2005 - 12:26 pm

You really show the world in your poems The one I am sharing today isnt nearly as good but I am too lazy in this heat to write or even read. this was a real person and a real event..he moved away when we were in the 6th grade and I never knew .because I would meet him at the nearest local movie theater on Sat morning and Sunday afternoons..a neighbor saw us and told my mother. and of course I was forbidden to go the movies for awhile and when I was allowed to date at 16 I never knew that innocent , fragile feeling again..

 
William Church Where are you? 

Funny how clear you are to me .  
Seasons have passed , 
Like leaves on  trees they have flown  
But the memories in my mind  
Are clear and speak to me of yesterday . 
When it was March and you were my first beau. 
You helped me send aloft my kite  
As we stood in the dusty field  
Where carnivals came each year, 
Where members of the Moose  
Gathered for picnic and barbeques. 
Where neighbor hood children  
Played soft ball in summers  , football  
In the fall. In winter it was a place  
To slide and build snow forts . 
But in March when the wind blew  
Just so it was a place to fly kites . 
No telephone poles impeded the goal 
To fly higher than other kites , 
To be the best at this springtime joy. 
I can see us there, a painting not on canvas  
But clear and sharp recorded in my mind. 
The wind is harsh and the kites fly high , 
Until they  collide and weight brings them down. 
I ran to where you stood to take my kite home,  
But your hand stayed mine and I felt its warmth. 
Shyly , our faces near ,you  brushed my lips  
With yours  and for a second  I was someplace else . 
Where are you William Church? 
I need to be someplace else again . 

anna  alexander  
March 24, 2005, 11:39 AM 
©

annafair

August 16, 2005 - 05:43 am

WOW what a display of thunder and lighting...It was what my mother called a thunderbumper! And it cooled off enough I was able to open some windows and smell that wonderful odor and feel some cool northern breezes..Of course I remembered the following poem from a delightful poet..anna

 
 Rain 



I opened my eyes 
And looked up at the rain, 
And it dripped in my head 
And flowed into my brain, 
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed 
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head. 

I step very softly, 
I walk very slow, 
I can't do a handstand-- 
I might overflow, 
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said-- 
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.  

Shel Silverstein

annafair

August 16, 2005 - 09:18 am

Perhaps I cant see you because you are in a fog or I am and your words are hidden like this poem..anna

 
A mind busy with imaginings  

This morning a fog has shrouded the corn field  
It is not mine but my neighbor across the road 
How different it looks with fog drifting  
Across the field , it seems both ethereal  and strong  
The corn rows in sunlight look green  
And serene. I anticipate the taste of fresh  
Niblets between my teeth, its sweetness  
A pleasure on my tongue and in my mouth  
But today the field seems menacing 
The corn stalks some alien army lying in wait  
They are a covert army , hidden in soft mists 
And they watch and wait for me  
They are patient knowing I will say  
It is only fog I see , nothing more  
Until I hear their soft step on my porch 

And they are there! 

anna Alexander  
August 16, 2005, 12:00 PM©

Jim in Jeff

August 17, 2005 - 04:59 pm

Annafair, I've lately been off-line busy. Sorry. This is one SN folder I hope will continue to thrive (and will...poetry says it all).

Tonight tho, I just want to post a thought that maybe deviates a tad. I've been learning a new language lately. I've a longtime family friend who is deaf. She comes thru my town several times a year, from her home in Jacksonville, IL to her family home near Branson, MO.

That means that my Jeff City, MO town (near her growing-up years at nearby Fulton's MO School of the Deaf) is about a half-way point. So she stops at Jeff/Fulton overnight. For a year now, I've been entertaining her while stop-over here...via tablet notes. We do well.

But unknown to her, I've been learning Sign Language...basic stuff, like ABC's and some phrases. When she next stops here...I intend to surprise her with at least a signed: Hi; Cousin; J-O-Y (her name is Joy). This for me, is a long dissertation to just say, Annafair, why don't you too learn a bit of Sign Language? Maybe you have, and do. I've a good book (and a good DVD). I do hope to surprise my friend when she stops here on her return from Branson, MO to Jacksonville, IL in late August.

Poetry tonight? I'll just share one more favorite Shel Silverstein:

Jim in Jeff

August 17, 2005 - 05:38 pm

My daddy left home when I was three
And he didn't leave much to ma and me
Just this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.
Now, I don't blame him cause he run and hid
But the meanest thing that he ever did
Was before he left, he went and named me "Sue."

Well, he must o' thought that is quite a joke
And it got a lot of laughs from a' lots of folk,
It seems I had to fight my whole life through.
Some gal would giggle and I'd get red
And some guy'd laugh and I'd bust his head,
I tell ya, life ain't easy for a boy named "Sue."

Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,
My fist got hard and my wits got keen,
I'd roam from town to town to hide my shame.
But I made a vow to the moon and stars
That I'd search the honky-tonks and bars
And kill that man who gave me that awful name.

Well, it was Gatlinburg in mid-July
And I just hit town and my throat was dry,
I thought I'd stop and have myself a brew.
At an old saloon on a street of mud,
There at a table, dealing stud,
Sat the dirty, mangy dog that named me "Sue."

Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad
From a worn-out picture that my mother'd had,
And I knew that scar on his cheek and his evil eye.
He was big and bent and gray and old,
And I looked at him and my blood ran cold
And I said: "My name is 'Sue!' How do you do!
Now your gonna die!"

Well, I hit him hard right between the eyes
And he went down, but to my surprise,
He come up with a knife and cut off a piece of my ear.
But I busted a chair right across his teeth
And we crashed through the wall and into the street
Kicking and a' gouging in the mud and the blood and the beer.

I tell ya, I've fought tougher men
But I really can't remember when,
He kicked like a mule and he bit like a crocodile.
I heard him laugh and then I heard him cuss,
He went for his gun and I pulled mine first,
He stood there lookin' at me and I saw him smile.

And he said: "Son, this world is rough
And if a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough
And I knew I wouldn't be there to help ya along.
So I give ya that name and I said goodbye
I knew you'd have to get tough or die
And it's the name that helped to make you strong."

He said: "Now you just fought one hell of a fight
And I know you hate me, and you got the right
To kill me now, and I wouldn't blame you if you do.
But ya ought to thank me, before I die,
For the gravel in ya guts and the spit in ya eye
Cause I'm the son-of-a-bitch that named you "Sue.'"

I got all choked up and I threw down my gun
And I called him my pa, and he called me his son,
And I came away with a different point of view.
And I think about him, now and then,
Every time I try and every time I win,
And if I ever have a son, I think I'm gonna name him:
Bill or George! Anything but Sue! I still hate that name!

annafair

August 18, 2005 - 06:30 am

Jef I wasnt aware there was a book and DVD about sign language. Our department of Parks and Services offer sign language classes and I have have thought of them but then sort of dismissed the idea since I can speak just cant hear and through the SHHH organization I belong to Self Help for hard of hearing our local chapter offers some help in sign language at each meeting ..What I would like is to take some classes in lip reading.BUT Jef YOU ARE SO SPECIAL to study this so you can greet your friend. One of my dear friends for over 30 years has a son now married and with children of his won who was totally deaf. After high school he attended the Gaudiet ( I am not sure of the spelling ) School for the deaf ..and met a young woman there who lost her hearing at 3 after a case of measles It was so amazing at thier wedding to see all of these deaf young people signing to each other. Their hands and fingers looked like a flock of butterflies...it was beautiful, amazing and wonderful.

AND I never KNEW Shel Silverstein wrote A Boy Named Sue but sure remember Johnny Cash singing it !GOOD TO SEE YOU BACK WELCOME and a hug to you ..anna

Eileen Tyrrell

August 18, 2005 - 06:30 pm

Try the Joy of signing, it's a good book, I worked in the deaf school as security and had little or no chance to speak with the kids but they were great. What broke my heart was to see the little ones having to stay there for the first time, it must have been frightening for them. I can recall the first time I tried to sign, the counsellor said "congratulations you have just called Kathy a B****h" and I was so embarrassed about it, fortunately the young girl understoond that I had made a mistake and that I was trying to communicate with them. Signing can be easy in some cases it the reading I found most difficult, practice your signing by looking in a mirror.

MarjV

August 19, 2005 - 09:33 am

Jim- I sure like that "Sue". How I loved to hear Johnny Cash sing it. There is a movie in the works about Johnny and his wife.

annafair

August 19, 2005 - 09:50 am

Thanks so much I am going to check it out ..and I can practice on my friends son and with her since she learned sign language so she could talk with him.,.

MArj I just read about the move last night ..Reese Silverspoon ? is playing June Carter Cash and Keenu ? whatever is his last name is playing Johnny Cash..when we lived in Nashville for 12 years we became country western song fans..some of the singers were like me ---awful but there was something SO Real about these folks you just learned to love them ....have lots to do but hope to return with a poem ..thanks again Eileen and Jef for the words to that I could never make out all of them ..anna

Eileen Tyrrell

August 20, 2005 - 12:04 pm

Anna is has just occured to me that the book I referred you to is American sign language and perhaps that is not the type of signing you use your way? I know I tried signing to an old neighbour when I was in the U.K last and he didn't understand a word I was saying because of the differences. Anyway you can but try.

MarjV

August 20, 2005 - 04:32 pm

I thought this poem had some really good thoughts on living in the deaf world. Since you have been talking about that i thought I'd post it.

"What is it like to be deaf?"  
People have asked me.  
Deaf? Oh, hmm... how do I explain that?  
Simple: I can't hear.  

No, wait... it is much more than that.  
It is similar to a goldfish in a bowl,  
Always observing things going on.  
People talking at all times.  
It is like a man on his own island  
Among foreigners.  

Isolation is no stranger to me.  
Relatives say hi and bye  
But I sit for 5 hours among them  
Taking great pleasure at amusing babies  
Or being amused by TV.  
Reading books, resting, helping out with food.  

Natural curiosity perks up  
Upon seeing great laughter, crying, anger.  
Inquiring only to meet with a "Never mind" or  
"Oh, it's not important".  
Getting a summarized statement  
Of the whole day.  

I'm supposed to smile to show my happiness.  
Little do they know how truly miserable I am.  
People are in control of language usage,  
I am at loss and really uncomfortable!  

Always feeling like an outsider  
Among the hearing people,  
Even though it was not their intention.  

Always assuming that I am part of them  
By my physical presence, not understanding  
The importance of communication.  

Facing the choice between Deaf Event weekend  
or a family reunion.  
Facing the choice between the family commitment  
And Deaf friends.  
I must make the choices constantly,  
Any wonder why I choose Deaf friends???  

I get such great pleasure at the Deaf clubs,  
Before I realize it, it is already 2:00 am,  
Whereas I anxiously look at the clock  
Every few minutes at the Family Reunion.  

With Deaf people, I feel so normal,  
Our communication flows back and forth.  
Catch up with little trivials, our daily life,  
Our frustration in the bigger world,  
Seeking the mutual understanding,  
Contented smiles and laughter are musical.  
So magical to me,  
So attuned to each other's feelings.  



True happiness is so important.  
I feel more at home with Deaf people  
Of various color, religion, short or tall.  
Than I do among my own hearing relatives.  
And you wonder why?  
Our language is common.  
We understand each other.  

Being at loss of control  
Of the environment that is communication,  
People panic and retreat to avoid  
Deaf people like the plague.  

But Deaf people are still human beings  
With dreams, desires, and needs  
To belong, just like everyone else.  

--Dianne Kinnee (Switras)

annafair

August 21, 2005 - 06:13 am

Eileen you and Marj are so kind to care and I can tell you I have many people in my workd that take the time to use a note pad and write out what I dont hear. The state has provided with a text phone and I have one good phone I can hear by using it. Not perfect but everyone is kind enough to enuciate clearly. I choose small restaurants to dine when I go out and always get small corner table and my friends and I can talk there. It is in crowded places I am lost and I have had to give up organizations I used to belong to. But STILL I am better off than most,. because once all sound was mine to know..and I am meeting people who have never heard at all. Sometimes it is frustrating , sometimes I could weep but I am so lucky, my computer has let me walk into the world ..and I HEAR voices from all over the world! I am learning "strine: from anneo in Australia, and Eloise has a charming French Candadien accent that comes though clear here on my computer, and your voices tell me you are caring people and to be truthful that is what I find here in SN love, anna

annafair

August 21, 2005 - 06:18 am

Mary Oliver just seems to have a poems when I need one..I love the pictures she is painting here and is one I love , anna

 
Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith 
Mary Oliver 

Every summer 
I listen and look  
under the sun's brass and even 
into the moonlight, but I can't hear 

anything, I can't see anything --  
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green  
        stalks muscling up, 
nor the leaves 
deepening their damp pleats, 

nor the tassels making, 
nor the shucks, nor the cobs. 
And still, 
every day, 

the leafy fields 
grow taller and thicker --  
green gowns lofting up in the night, 
showered with silk.  

And so, every summer, 
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing --  
I am deaf too 
to the tick of the leaves,  

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet --  
all of it 
happening 
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.  

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come. 
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine. 
Let the wind turn in the trees, 
and the mystery hidden in the dirt 

swing through the air. 
How could I look at anything in this world 
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart? 
What should I fear?  

One morning 
in the leafy green ocean 
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body 
is sure to be there.

Scrawler

August 21, 2005 - 09:23 am

I saw a movie the other night that told the life of Betoveen. It was called "Immortal Beloved." Betoveen was deaf as a child because his father beat him around the face with a cane. By the time he became an adult he couldn't hear his own music. Rather he felt the music by placing his head on the piano. When you listen to Betoveen's music, you get a sense of feeling the music rather than just hearing it.

I, too, I'm deaf and have learned to read lips and I although I can hear music and the TV to a certain degree, I find that if I place my hands on the instrument that I can "feel" the sound through my vibrations. I just got a new phone system with a loud speaker attached to it. When it rings it sounds like I'm in a cathedral with the "bonging" sound that it makes. I still have trouble hearing the door bell especially when there are other noises. I'm trained my cat to let me know when the door bell sounds (yeah right!) I think my cat has her own agenda.

annafair

August 21, 2005 - 10:33 am

I have sort of taught myself to read lips but the state offers classes locally and I hope to attend some this year. My cell phone, my text phone and also a phone I bought vibrates and whatever sound it makes I HEAR it! I have a light connection for both my phone and my doorbell,. The only problem I need more since I am not always in the room where the light flashes .i am learning to deal with this and I find there are more and more places that are helpful and less and less who act like you are an inconvenience ...AND hooray for SN and computers!!!!! I have had one dog who taught herself to let me know when the doorbell would ring in fact I would be alerted to her barking and start down the stairs and she would be halfway up to fetch me! Unfortunately pancreatic cancer took her from me .the dog I have now , a wonderful Golden retriever looks at me like I must be stupid not to hear the door,. He gives me this oblique look when I try to get him to bark when the doorbell sounds. LOL but I am going to keep trying and a member of my hard of hearing group has a HEARING dog which she is allowed to take with her much like a seeing eye dog. HERE FOR YOU FROM ME HUGS ...anna

MarjV

August 21, 2005 - 03:27 pm

Is there any place you can take your current dog, if you keep it, Anna, and train for it to be a hearing dog. Or even an individual trainer that could come????

And isn't it a wonder how we can easily communicate on our computers without sound. And meet people like we do.!

Louie1026

August 22, 2005 - 05:13 am

Can you tell

The difference

Between

A monkey

And

A giraffe

One can jump from

Tree top to tree top

The other

Touches the Tree tops

Without jumping

And

We are stuck in between

Can't have everything

( Sigh )

annafair

August 22, 2005 - 10:07 am

Marj I havent looked into it as yet I only read about it a month or so ago when I recieved my quarterly newsletter. I have never heard of this and hope she will be a meeting and I can find out more about her. I intend to call or go visit one of the dog training places and see if they have any idea of how to do it. I suppose if I had someone ring the bell and if he barked and was given a treat that might encourage him!! LOL heavens I would do it for a hot fudge sundae!

Louie sometimes you make me think, sometimes you make me sigh, sometimes you make me weep but this time you made me laugh >>thanks anna

annafair

August 22, 2005 - 10:12 am

And end of summer poem..this is from a site called Prairie Poetry and we are allowed to share the poems provided we give credit to the poet and call attention to the site. The home site offers readers an opportunity to buy a book of poems and if they do the profits go to support a prize for poets who share thier prairie poems.>Since the prairie is where I was born and grew up I found the poems very meaningful Hope you enjoy this poem anna

 
The End of Summer  

Turn and take the summer with you to its fall. 
Take away its outlook and its need-- 
the message of the sun at hilltop-- 
and hand it to the courier, who waits 
to run the valleys and the shade 
and hand it in good season 
to its heir. 

It has blessed you, truly once again 
but summer goes its way, it must, 
and craggy hands of autumn 
seduce you fresh with promises 
filled in blinding summer light, 
unnoticed, not ahead. 
Ahead lies cold incrimination 
that faults you yet again 
for missing twice the splendour. 

Do not rush estival’s cool end, 
for behind her is the icy breath of winter. 
Hold her hot against your form 
and let her breathe her lovefire on you 
and make you sweat 
beneath her crushing heat. 
Hold her as you know 
that she’ll be gone soon, 
and in her place will be the snow. 

    Peter J. Gorham 

link to web site  http://www.prairiepoetry.org/main.html

Eileen Tyrrell

August 22, 2005 - 07:08 pm

I too am losing my hearing and wear aids, that is until I sing with the choirs or drum, then out they come as the sound becomes overwhelming, however, I now have the bad habit of leaving them out and saying eh? huh? what? something I must learn to rid myself of. I dread the day when my hearing goes completely because I will no longer be able to sing with the choirs I love so much. However, I can still hear it in my head and play it on my keyboard so I am lucky.

annafair

August 23, 2005 - 08:33 am

I see grasshoppers or tiny crickets and so I found the perfect poem to share...anna

 
On the Grasshopper and Cricket 



The poetry of earth is never dead:  
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,  
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run  
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;  
That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead  
In summer luxury,--he has never done  
With his delights; for when tired out with fun  
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.  
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:  
On a lone winter evening, when the frost  
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills  
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,  
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,  
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.  

 Leigh Hunt.

MarjV

August 23, 2005 - 09:32 am

I did enjoy that poem, Anna. My kittys are now busy hunting crickets when we go outside for their little half hour consitutional.

Grasshoppers are just the most amazing jumpers!

I looked for more g. poems and found that one under the poet-ership of John Keats.

Jim in Jeff

August 23, 2005 - 03:31 pm

Leigh Hunt's "On the Grasshopper and the Cricket": an apt seasonal poem for sure! Also, my eyes perked up because same man some 200 years ago wrote one that's stuck in my memory...for most of MY 200 years.

Here 'tis:

Leigh Hunt. 1784–1859 (slightly updated by Jim in Jeff)

 
ANNA kiss'd me when we met, 
  Jumping from the chair she sat in; 
Time, you thief, who love to get 
  Sweets into your list, put that in! 
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, 
  Say that health and wealth have miss'd me, 
Say I'm growing old, but add, 
      Anna kiss'd me.

P.S. - Re those two versions of Sign Language...turns out, I'm learning a bit of both. My "The Art of Sign Language Phrases" by Christopher Brown uses "Signed English." And my "American Sign Language Dictionary" by Martin L.A. Sternberg uses, as its name implies, ASL. I've not gotten into my DVD course enough yet to know which it uses. For my few simple signs (Hi, Bye, How are you, etc), there's not much difference...but other phrases will have some differences, Eileen informs us.

Eileen Tyrrell

August 23, 2005 - 03:48 pm

The kids at the deaf school, especially the lads taught me to swear, but I think I may have forgotten a lot of it, thank goodness. All I know is they got the biggest kick out of signing to me and while I was trying to figure it out one or two lads would take pity and tell me what they were actually saying. Deaf or not boys will be boys.

annafair

August 24, 2005 - 05:45 am

I am glad you liked the poem ..with autumn almost here I wonder why I am seeing so many crickets and grasshoppers. do they KNOW When I find a cricket in the house in winter I am reminded that is supposed to bring good luck and do I recall well that there are such things as cricket cages?

Oh Jef how kind of you to change Jenny to Anna ..I hope the kisses I give are as special as Jenny's always seemed to be. I am getting a lot of information about learing to sign and asked the other day about lip reading..and a new doctor I was trying out I dont think will work he finds it tedious to write out what he is telling me ..and I agree but dont deaf deserve a doctor ?

With Autumn nearly here and I am GLAD to report the back of our heat wave seems to be broken and I can feel autumn along my arm and am ready to buy the wood for my little stove and think of cool nights with the windows open and the need to snuggle beneath a coverlet while I sleep Here is a poem I have never seen before by a favorite poet of mine..hope you enjoy,....smiles to all from me anna

 
 My Indian Summer 



  Here in the Autumn of my days 
My life is mellowed in a haze. 
Unpleasant sights are none to clear, 
Discordant sounds I hardly hear. 
Infirmities like buffers soft 
Sustain me tranquilly aloft. 
I'm deaf to duffers, blind to bores, 
Peace seems to percolate my pores. 
I fold my hands, keep quiet mind, 
In dogs and children joy I find. 
With temper tolerant and mild, 
Myself you'd almost think a child. 
Yea, I have come on pleasant ways 
Here in the Autumn of my days. 

Here in the Autumn of my days 
I can allow myself to laze, 
To rest and give myself to dreams: 
Life never was so sweet, it seems. 
I haven't lost my sense of smell, 
My taste-buds never served so well. 
I love to eat - delicious food 
Has never seemed one half so good. 
In tea and coffee I delight, 
I smoke and sip my grog at night. 
I have a softer sense of touch, 
For comfort I enjoy so much. 
My skis are far more blues than greys, 
Here in the Autumn of my days. 

Here in the Autumn of my days 
My heart is full of peace and praise. 
Yet though I know that Winter's near, 
I'll meet and greet it with a cheer. 
With friendly books, with cosy fires, 
And few but favourite desires, 
I'll live from strife and woe apart, 
And make a Heaven in my heart. 
For Goodness, I have learned, is best, 
And should by Kindness be expressed. 
And so December with a smile 
I'll wait and welcome, but meanwhile, 
Blest interlude! The Gods I praise, 
For this, the Autumn of my days.  

Robert W. Service

Scrawler

August 24, 2005 - 08:11 am

"In the country the darkness of night is friendly and familiar, but in a city, with its blaze of lights, it is unnatural, hostile and menacing. It is like a monstrous vulture that hovers, biding its time." ~W. somerset Maugham

With these words I bid thee farewell, while I go to the darkside. Not only am I going to a new city, and a new apartment I'm also getting a new computer system. And you know what they say about old dogs, well with this old dog it goes double.

I hope the system will be up and working, but in case I should lose you all. I just wanted to say how I've enjoyed your company. May you find peace always and may the force be with you.

annafair

August 24, 2005 - 08:52 am

I trust you will find everything better in everyway ..and happiness is always just around the corner and you will be going around three ergo THREE TIMES AS MUCH HAPPINESS ..we will LOOK and WAIT for you to return..hugs to you ..always ..anna

JoanK

August 24, 2005 - 04:17 pm

ANN: As I said in Middlemarch, if you don't come back we'll send the Saint Bernards out to look for you. We need you here!!

annafair

August 25, 2005 - 04:30 am

Yesterday I watched a bird ,.he was not a winter bird but one that appears each spring at my feeders. I have no idea what kind of bird but he was rather small and perky. He was hopping around and finally hopped to the an overturned planter saucer I had resting upside down on the deck's banister. He was like an actor on a stage, For ten minutes or more I watched him turn to the right and then the left, His head was lifted and his beak was busy with his song or perhaps his bird words..No other bird appeared but when he was finished he took off and a dozen birds followed him to the top of a huge ancient oak...I had this feeling he was telling them it was time to go, And I found a poem about a mocking bird in Autumn anna

 
Autumn Poem 
Mary Oliver  

In the last jovial, clear-sky days of autumn 
the mockingbird 
in his monk-gray coat 
and his arrowy wings 

flies 
from the hedge to the top of the pine 
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely — 
 
it's more like whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges. 
All birds are birds of heaven 
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well 
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the evening, 

its ticks and wheezings, 
and so I have to wait a long time 
for the soft, true voice 
of his own glossy life 

to come through, 
and of course I do. 
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look 
inward 

to the sweet spring of himself, that mirror of heaven, 
but when it happens — 
when he lifts his head 
and the feathers of his throat tremble, 

and he begins, like Saint Francis, 
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock, 
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches, 
I am recalled, 

from so many wrong paths I can't count them, 
simply to stand, and listen. 
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness 
of desire, ambition, accomplishment. 

Now the bird is singing, but not anymore of this world. 
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is trying 
to type it down, in lumped-up language, 
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.

MarjV

August 25, 2005 - 09:28 am

THat's quite fantastic a poem, Anna.

Jim in Jeff

August 25, 2005 - 02:24 pm

Scrawler: In a city, you'll gain a good habit of using the nearby public library. And today, all of them offer free Internet terminals. So use that to check in here, time to time, should your home system fail or falter.

I'm at a public library terminal, at least half my visits here. There's also street cafe's here (mid-Missouri) that offer customers free I-net connections while sipping their latte's. Some also offer a "hot-spot" for personal laptop's radio access to I-net (needs special hardware in one's laptop, and must be within a "hotspot" area).

Anna, your beautiful poem selections do bespeak a longing for end of summer...tho 'tis but mid-August's dog-days just yet.

Beautiful poems and beautiful thought (summer's over) though; I think I'll up and go play Vivaldi's "Autumn" concerto on my "record-machine."

JoanK

August 25, 2005 - 08:37 pm

ANNA: I love that poem.

annafair

August 26, 2005 - 07:36 am

Because this summer was one of over heated days when just to go outdoors to fill the bird feeders and see there was water in the birdbath took my breath away I have longed for autumn weather for cooler days BUT I have missed the lazy days outdoors sitting on the deck eating my breakfast or in the evening just feeling the day close down and standing in the yard and seeing all the stars wheeling by ..so I chose this poem today because I HAVE MISSED THE SUMMER STARS>>>anna

 

  Summer Stars 



Bend low again, night of summer stars.  
So near you are, sky of summer stars,  
So near, a long-arm man can pick off stars,  
Pick off what he wants in the sky bowl,  
So near you are, summer stars,  
So near, strumming, strumming,  
So lazy and hum-strumming.  

Carl Sandburg

MarjV

August 26, 2005 - 11:39 am

Same here Anna. I always have gone to our park on the river/lake in the summer evenings. Not this summer. Can't deal with the heat & humidity. I didn't even get to go watch this last full moon rise off the water.

Jim in Jeff

August 26, 2005 - 02:09 pm

Here's one that has stuck with me since...drive-in movies years. And below, I've "bold-faced" the phrase that stuck with me most:

Lazy Summer Night
Words & Music by Harold Spina
Recorded by The Four Preps, 1958

It's such a lazy summer night,
There's not a moving thing in sight
It's all so qui - et, no ri - ot,
Why, even in the thicket, Mister Cricket's
Slowin' down.

It's such a lazy summer night
That in-spi-ra-tion point is right
For fan - cy dream - in'
And seem - in'
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 such a lazy summer night,
Tonight the fi - re flies will light
The way for lov - ers, for lovers like us
To love.

It's such a lazy summer night!

And may I dare update that phrase a tad just for today?

Romance runs robust
The last two weeks in August.

(My apologies to Mr Spina and to Four Lads, who brought much pleasure to me and others with their "summer song.")

annafair

August 28, 2005 - 10:40 am

Since I lived all of my youth in the midwest near St Louis where the Mississippi flowed I never saw a seagull until I moved away and landed where they fly inland and land on inland lakes and fast food places parking lots ..I know they are scavengers but then I think perhaps we all are to a certain extent..any way today I found a poem about gulls and share it with you ..the author is L.M. Montgomery author fo Anne of Green Gables etc ..anna

 
THE GULLS  
                I  

SOFT is the sky in the mist-kirtled east, 
  Light is abroad on the sea, 
All of the heaven with silver is fleeced,  
  Holding the sunrise in fee. 
Lo! with a flash and uplifting of wings 
  Down where the long ripples break, 
Cometh a bevy of glad-hearted things,  
  'Tis morn, for the gulls are awake.  

                 II  

Slumberous calm on the ocean and shore  
  Comes with the turn of the tide; 
Never a strong-sweeping pinion may soar,  
  Where the tame fishing-boats ride! 
Far and beyond in blue deserts of sea 
  Where the wild winds are at play, 
There may the spirits of sea-birds be free– 
  'Tis noon, for the gulls are away.  

                 III  

Over the rim of the sunset is blown  
  Sea-dusk of purple and gold, 
Speed now the wanderers back to their own,  
  Wings the most tireless must fold. 
Homeward together at twilight they flock,  
  Sated with joys of the deep 
Drowsily huddled on headland and rock– 
  'Tis night, for the gulls are asleep.  
L.M.Montgomery

JoanK

August 28, 2005 - 05:04 pm

Great poem!

annafair

August 29, 2005 - 06:40 pm

But I have been GLUED to the TV watchng the hurricane ..I looked for an appropiate poem and this one is by the author who wrote it after her community was hit by tornadoes.. I just couldnt use a cheerful poem after the devastation of todays hurricane. Hope all who might have been or in its path come through without harm. anna

 
And The Storm Comes  

by Charlotte O'connor  

the sky clouds over, 
the wind picks up, 
the hail comes down, 
and the storm comes, 

the rain falls down, 
the wind is faster, 
the sound is louder, 
and the storm comes, 

the lights go out, 
all goes quiet, 
the wind seems still, 
but the storm comes, 

the wind sounds again, 
and the hail bangs down, 
the roar is heard, 
and the storm comes, 

the walls come down, 
people are hurt, 
much is damaged, 
and the storm leaves, 

the wall are built, 
the graves are laid, 
the storm is gone, 
and the nightmares stay.

Hats

August 30, 2005 - 05:38 am

Anna,

Thank you for the poem. The words really capture the mood. The last line "the nightmares stay" put a lump in my throat.

MarjV

August 31, 2005 - 02:55 pm

I echo Hat's sentiments exactly!

Scrawler

August 31, 2005 - 03:48 pm

I made it. I never thought I'd make it back. I moved from the country to the city and I'm still not used to all traffic noises. I no end but trouble with the phone company and the internet service. So I'm here once again surrounded by lots and lots of boxes. I have all my books clearly marked, but I have to wade through them to get to the poetry books. Will be back with more poems soon. I missed you guys! It's nice to be back.

JoanK

August 31, 2005 - 04:15 pm

SCRAWLER: great to see you back!! I'll tell the Saint Bernards they won't be needed. How is your new place (or can't you tell yet)?

annafair

September 1, 2005 - 02:40 am

My computer has been acting up ..and I have DSL but it is SO SLOW and I have tried everything to make it move faster ..defrag, cleaning out files etc .. and I had a poem in edit to share and when I checked it NO POEM so I will try to return later today with the one I had or another..

AND ANNE YOU KNOW WE ARE SO GLAD YOU ARE BACK and Your move was successful..

and that last line was the one that made me decide to use that poem and as I watch the pictures out of our coastal states I wonder if anyone who lives through this will ever be free of the nightmares ..just as a viewer I know I wont, God BE WITH THEM ALL...anna

Scrawler

September 1, 2005 - 09:58 am

Each - its difficult Ideal
Must achieve - Itself -
Through the solitary prowess
Of a Silent Life -

Effort - is the sole condition -
Patience of Itself -
Patience of opposing forces
And intact Belief -

Looking on - is the Department
Of its Audience -
But Transaction - is assisted
By no Countenance - Fr790

No one, not Bowles, not Higginson, not Susan Dickinson had approved of Emily's best work until about the mid-1860s. What that says, is that she never gave up writing. She continued despite the disapproval. But it also tells us that her writing was improving to the point that people were now taking notice. Hope has always been one of Emily's themes and it is hope that I want for all those people who have encountered Nature's fury.

annafair

September 2, 2005 - 06:28 am

thank you I am having trouble finding any poem I feel appropiate for this time in our country...I feel totally lost in the sorrow and sadness of this time..here is one that I found ..and I cant say it is right but it is all I have to offer today...anna

 
The Rains 
Phillip Levin 
The river rises  
and the rains keep coming.  
My Papa says  
it can't flood for  
the water can run  
away as fast as  
it comes down. I believe  
him because he's Papa  
and because I'm afraid  
ofwater I know I can't stop.  
All day in school I  
see the windows darken,  
and hearing the steady drum  
of rain, I wonder  
if it wil1 ever stop  
and how can I get home.  

It did not flood.  
I cannot now remember  
how I got home.  
I recall only that the house  
was dark and cold, and I went  
from room to room calling  
out the names  
of all those I lived with  
and no one answered. For a time  
I thought the waters had swept  
them out to sea  
and this was all I had. At last  
I heard the door opening  
downstairs and my brother  
stamping his wet boots  
on the mat.  

Now when the autumn comes  
I go alone  
into the high mountains  
or sometimes with my wife,  
and we walk in silence  
down the trails  
of pine needles  
and hear the winds  
humming through the branches  
the long dirge of the world.  
Below us is the world  
we cannot see, have come  
not to see, soured  
with years of never  
giving enough, darkened  
with oils and fire, the world  
we could have come  
to call home.  

One day the rain  
will find us far  
from anything, crossing  
the great meadows  
the sun had hidden in.  
Hand in hand, we  
will go forward toward nothing  
while our clothes darken  
and our faces stream  
with the sweet waters  
of heaven. Your eyes,  
suddenly deep and dark in that light,  
will overflow with joy  
or sadness, with all  
you have no names for.  
This is who you are.  
That other life below  
was what you dreamed  
and I am the man beside you.

JoanK

September 2, 2005 - 03:42 pm

That poem was perfect.

ZinniaSoCA

September 2, 2005 - 03:54 pm

That is a really touching poem!

3kings

September 2, 2005 - 05:38 pm

Annafair. excellent poem ! Glad you seem to have overcome comp. troubles. I'm right in the middle of them here. Whole pages from Snet which were there yesterday just seem to vanished, and this comp no longer can find them. ++ Trevor.

ZinniaSoCA

September 2, 2005 - 05:54 pm

I'm off on Haiku again... and again on the subject of food, which I have decided to call "Paiku," having been inspired from a friend who writes Haiku about road rage and such and calls it "Honku." So here are some recent attempts:

More Paiku ©K. Weston 2005

Dear chocolate pie Rising above your sweet peers What spiritual gifts!

Pizza! Extra cheese! Friend to the fat and funny, Slap me! Slap me, please!

Dreaded cheeseburger! Champion of salt and fat May I have two, please?

Scrumptious lemon pie silky smooth yellow filling Sweet soaring meringue.

Munch potato chips A salt and fat festival. Bag of wrongdoing

The lovely Twinkie Idol of junk food addicts Worshipping TV

Salad with boiled eggs, Ham, cheese, croutons, ranch dressing Who says it's healthy?

Liver, oh, liver! Once a beloved health food Now, carcinogens.

Liver, oh, liver! Once detested Thursdays Yay, carcinogens!

Lowly sauerkraut Companion of fat spareribs Cholesterol fest!

Arroz Basmati Cooks with gentle scent of flowers Glycemic treasure

Beautiful t-bone! Who can consider mad cow Blessed with nirvana?

Canned peas. Sickly grey, nauseating blasphemy. Regurgitation.

Scrawler

September 3, 2005 - 08:51 am

I'm not sure how anyone can follow your Paikus, my stomach will never be the same - I may never eat canned peas again. Thanks for your post.

annafair

September 3, 2005 - 05:35 pm

OH GEE I have never liked canned peas .. their green color reminds me somehow of olive drab and look tasteless and are ..but you did bring a smile to my face and that I appreciate .. thanks anna

annafair

September 3, 2005 - 05:39 pm

I have to confess it still seems to be limping along when it should be marching and sometimes it takes forever to do what ever it is supposed to do but it is better ..only using one crutch now instead of two.. hope yours is healing too.. anna

I found a poem by accident and share it with you . anna The author was born in 1861 and died in 1937 and I think he would be weeping at the TV coverage .. anna

 
In Louisiana    
by Albert Bigelow Paine   



The long, gray moss that softly swings 
   In solemn grandeur from the trees, 
   Like mournful funeral draperies,-- 
A brown-winged bird that never sings. 

A shallow, stagnant, inland sea, 
   Where rank swamp grasses wave, and where 
   A deadliness lurks in the air,-- 
A sere leaf falling silently. 

The death-like calm on every hand, 
   That one might deem it sin to break, 
   So pure, so perfect,--these things make 
The mournful beauty of this land.

MarjV

September 4, 2005 - 07:37 am

Oh those Paikus - fun!

Scrawler

September 5, 2005 - 09:12 am

drops of summer rain
collect and slip slowly down
broken girders

annafair

September 5, 2005 - 09:37 am

For me this has always been a special time of the year. New apples would appear in the stores, ( no stored apples then) my beloved Aunt Nora and Uncle Reed would take me with them on weekends to find country places where country hams and bacon were for sale and bunches of bittersweet to bring indoors to cheer the winter days, and Sorghum and grapes to make jelly and jam and the last of the blackberries ..at last the summer heat would fade and at night the open windows brought sweet northern breezes ...and the first fires of autumn would perfume the air and school would start.. I can just see all of these in my mind and hug them to my heart ,..here is a poem I found that recalls September to me..anna

 

September 

              The golden-rod is yellow;  
               The corn is turning brown;  
             The trees in apple orchards  
               With fruit are bending down.  

              The gentian's bluest fringes  
               Are curling in the sun;  
             In dusty pods the milkweed  
              Its hidden silk has spun.  

             The sedges flaunt their harvest,  
              In every meadow nook;  
            And asters by the brook-side  
              Make asters in the brook,  

            From dewy lanes at morning  
              The grapes' sweet odors rise;  
            At noon the roads all flutter  
              With yellow butterflies.  

            By all these lovely tokens  
              September days are here,  
            With summer's best of weather,  
              And autumn's best of cheer.  

            But none of all this beauty  
              Which floods the earth and air  
            Is unto me the secret  
              Which makes September fair.  

            'T is a thing which I remember;  
              To name it thrills me yet:  
            One day of one September  
              I never can forget.   

Helen Hunt Jackson 
1830-1885

JoanK

September 5, 2005 - 09:34 pm

That poem is perfect for me, since I was married in September, fifty years ago.

annafair

September 5, 2005 - 09:50 pm

I am so glad this poem was special to you. I was married the last of July and I think if I had it to do over again I would have chosen September! And I hope you had a wonderful 50th anniversary .. We didnt make it that far but almost to our 45th which I am thankful for.. We did have a big celebration on our 40th and people kept saying why dont you wait until the 50th and I said well we will do it again then So I am glad we made every year count so we didnt and I dont now have any regrets..We lived and loved every year of those nearly 45 years. hmmm was just remembering that song called September Song I think I recall the words and I am going to post them now If I leave any out or use the wrong words just remember I am doing this from a memory that is getting old by the minute.. anna

 
Septembr Song 
Oh its a long, long while from May to December  
And the days grow short when you reach September  
And the autumn leaves sets the trees aflame  
And we havent got time for a waiting game. 
And the days dwindle down to a precious few  
And these few precious days I'll spend with you' 
These precious days I'll spend with you! 
I have no idea who wrote that song and I am trying to think who sang it...but it is a good way to live .

ZinniaSoCA

September 5, 2005 - 10:54 pm

Well, Frank Sinatra, for one...

and I have a recording of Willie Nelson doing it.. not nearly as well as Sinatra, though.

When I was a young man courting the girls
I played me a waiting game.
If a maid refused me with tossing curls
I'd let the old earth take a couple of twirls
And I'd ply her with tears instead of pearls
And as time came around, she came my way
As time came around, she came.

But it's a long, long while from May to December
And the days grow short when you reach September.
The autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
And I haven't got the time for the waiting game.

Oh, the days dwindle down to precious few;
September, November.
And these few precious days I'll spend with you.
These precious days I'll spend with you.

Anna - your post has two "pre" tags at the beginning and three at the end, and your last sentence is included inside the "pre" tags and I think that is what is making the page go wide.

JoanK

September 5, 2005 - 10:59 pm

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh, Sinatra!

annafair

September 5, 2005 - 11:59 pm

AH Frank Sinatra I can almost hear him singing that song and thanks so much for the correct lyrics I am rather proud I did remember a lot ...and I cant change what ever I did wrong ..It didnt show up on my screen before I left it ..so everyone will just have to excuse it...I am singing it right now LOL and you all can be VERY GLAD this doesnt have sound since off key is MY KEY lol hope you all have a great day..anna

Eileen Tyrrell

September 6, 2005 - 04:03 am

I really am enjoying this site, I like poetry but some I cannot understand, but I'm slowly learning, there was somebody else who sang September song before Frank, no real voice at all, rather rasping and yet touching, some chap to do with films, John Houston comes to mind, but I could be wrong on that.

ZinniaSoCA

September 6, 2005 - 09:55 am

I did a bit of digging and came up with some interesting history for "September Song." It was written for a play in 1938, "Knickerbocker Holiday." Some other well-known people who recorded it were Johnny Ray in 1959 (Eileen - I'm betting that's who you are thinking of.) Sara Vaughan, Jimmy Durante, and (would you believe it?) The Beatles. The Beatles were the first rock group to record it and I read that it was a regular part of their repertoire.

annafair

September 6, 2005 - 09:56 am

I am sure like me your hearts are heavy as you watch the coverage out of our southern states. I searched for a poem but couldnt find one that said use me .. and because my own mind was so full of the face of sorrow I wrote a poem about Katrina it is not the best but it was just something I had to do ..I dont ask you to like it but to listen to the pain I have tried to express. anna

 
Katrina is a lady’s name but that will not be her fame  
Her anger was immense as she curled herself into a cloud 
Then spread herself across the sea, a tyrant wind  
She did not care how violent she blew  
Nor how much water her mighty wings spewed  
She did not care how many cities , how many homes  
She viciously tore down, and left nothing but an emptiness 
To earn her a fearsome , famous crown 
She will be remembered long in the chronicle of time  
And we who saw her wicked tongue, felt the sledge  
In her hands against our country’s side  
Will shed enough tears to float a battleship on the eventide  
Someday the wounds will heal, but the scabs will leave scars 
Nothing, nothing will ever be the same , except the  moon , the sun , the stars.  

anna alexander  
September 6, 2005, 12:35 PM 
©

ZinniaSoCA

September 6, 2005 - 10:20 am

Previously called the largest natural disaster in U.S. history, the Galveston hurricane of 1900 killed approximately 6,000 people. I keep hearing estimates that Katrina will have killed 10,000. I had ancestors in Galveston and I have one old photo of the storm. I've read poetry about it in the past and I remember one epic poem in particular but I can't locate it online. Here is a link to another one, however:

http://vlqpoetry.com/v3e3/colab.html

Galveston is an island, so there was simply nowhere to go.

Anna - Your poem is wonderful, of course! You have such a gift for expression. One of the main functions of poetry for me is to work through grief and pain, and I think that holds true for many, if not most, poets, and you are one of the best among those.

annafair

September 7, 2005 - 06:40 am

I cant recall a time when I have felt so moved by events. I have watched in horror and filled with sadness many things in my life and this event with Katrina has been the worst The only comfort is when I see families reunited and those helpless rescued, anna

 
 The Sad Shepherd 



  THERE was a man whom Sorrow named his Friend, 
And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming, 
Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming 
And humming Sands, where windy surges wend: 
And he called loudly to the stars to bend 
From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they 
Among themselves laugh on and sing alway: 
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend 
Cried out, Dim sea, hear my most piteous story.! 
The sea Swept on and cried her old cry still, 
Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill. 
He fled the persecution of her glory 
And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping, 
Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening. 
But naught they heard, for they are always listening, 
The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping. 
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend 
Sought once again the shore, and found a shell, 
And thought, I will my heavy story tell 
Till my own words, re-echoing, shall send 
Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart; 
And my own talc again for me shall sing, 
And my own whispering words be comforting, 
And lo! my ancient burden may depart. 
Then he sang softly nigh the pearly rim; 
But the sad dweller by the sea-ways lone 
Changed all he sang to inarticulate moan 
Among her wildering whirls, forgetting him.  

William Butler Yeats

annafair

September 8, 2005 - 07:06 am

It would seem autumn is here ..I see the birds gathering in the trees and they are hungrily seeking food from my feeders, I know they are thinking of heading south as soon as the first hint of artic air reaches here,. So I chose a poem of autumn and remember as we head into autumn our friends down under will be looking forward to spring..anna

 
Poetry of John Keats (1795-1821) 

To Autumn 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,  
   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 
   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 
       To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 
       For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.  

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
   Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
       Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
   Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 
       Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.  

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 
   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
   Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
       Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 
   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; 
       And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Jim in Jeff

September 8, 2005 - 03:08 pm

Pssst...Anna; it's still summertime.
I've swum outdoors every afternoon this glorious week.
Don't ye be a-wishing yer preco-shush life away, bonnie Lass.

I've been mostly off-line since Katrina. It reminded me that
my nearly-89 aunt Ethel still does volunteer (receptionist)
work one morning a week at our local hospital. So when the
needs sprung up all around us (from Katrina), I up and got
into some volunteer work too. Is plenty room for me out there lately.

Tonight I want to report that my "signing" to my deaf friend's latest
"pass thru" our town...went off smashingly well. She was mighty
pleased that I'd taken the time to learn my ABC's and a few phrases.
She calls herself and her students/friends "deafies"; and told me
that deafies almost always use ASL (gestures-oriented) rather than
Signed English. So...after she left I bought an ASL basics-book.

Re September...it's got both the best of summer and start of autumn.
Helen Hunt says same, a fer piece better'n me:

September
by Helen Hunt Jackson

The golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.

The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook.

From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.

By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summers's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.

annafair

September 8, 2005 - 06:24 pm

Good for you ..the voluntering I miss that but to be honest I am useless on the phone since REALLY cant hear and almost useless in person since I have to keep saying I am sorry would you mind repeatign that again? But bless your aunt for her continued volunteering and for YOU for getting out there and doing something too..

Well it is a mite cooler here ..my a/c is off and the windows are open and by morning I need a light blanket ..I get up early so I can water my plants since we need rain..

And thanks for the Helen Hunt Jackson poem it does just sound like autumn and I have had a hard time ignoring the tragedy we are seeing on TV..so I really havent been as good about posting here myself. GOD BLESS ALL ..anna

Jim in Jeff

September 11, 2005 - 01:15 pm

Today most of us in America are pitching in, in whatever ways we can,
re the Katrina tragedy. As did WW-II vintage Rosie the Riveters;
And as did all of America...pretty much "in masse" four years ago, this date.

In seeking an apt "Sep 11" poem to share here today, I was amazed to
find that...just ONE of many websites has accumulated 53,898 ordinary
folks' sentiments expressed in personal poems about that infamous event.

I couldn't choose just one among them to share here. All were written
by folks saddened (almost beyond words) by these tragic deaths.
Thankfully, they did find a few words to share. Here's the link, from
which one can select from among 53,898 poems. Or one can first search the list
by poet's name. Perhaps some forum friends' names are among the posts there...?
http://www.poetry.com/us_tragedy/searchgroup.asp

ZinniaSoCA

September 11, 2005 - 03:31 pm

Today is a happier day for us, as it is the 21st birthday of one of my granddaughters. But for a phone call from a former pastor, the entire family would have been on the American Airlines flight, and but for a second, but missed, phone call, they would have been meeting him at Ground Zero.

It is sad that her birthday is forever marred by the events in New York, but on the other hand, it's glorious that she still has a life and that no one ever forgets it.

annafair

September 11, 2005 - 08:41 pm

Like you Zinnia my oldest was born on this day 54 years ago. She was our first born which she prefers to oldest .. when that day was forever marked by the horror of the collapse of the twin towers she refuses to celebrate it as her birthday I honor that as we honor those who left it that day Like you Jef I wanted to find a poem and as you found out there were many but I finally decided to use the one I wrote. Not because I think it is the best but because I was looking for something else on a disk and it was there I didnt recognize the title I had used so I decided it was a sign I was to share it . I am sorry to be late posting it but it was an unusual day it is also Grandparents day and my family remembered me but in the back of my mind was what this day will always mean ..and here is my poem..anna You will note I didnt write this on that day I simply couldnt and it wasnt until the 17th I could even begin to articulate my feelings ...the reason I didnt recognize the poem was because I had saved in under That Dark Hour and only changed it to post it here today...

 
9/11/2001 

My tears wont come  
though they lay just beneath  
the ducts are plugged  
with pain and hurt and grief  
for those whose last minutes  
were spent in agonized surprise  
how could it happen here? 
and why? 
some ask how 
could God allow this to be 
it was not God who flew 
the planes and delivered  
those souls to Him for eternity  
He gave man free will  
He did not make them toys  
To be moved about  
at his pleasure  
He pardons us for the abuse  
of his free will gift  
He holds our bleeding hearts  
we find ourselves  
looking upward  
knowing His help  
will be there in our dark hour 

anna alexander  
9/17/2001 ©

Scrawler

September 12, 2005 - 10:42 am

Autumn Refrain

The skreak and skritter of evening gone
And grackles gone and sorrow of the sun
The sorrows of sun, too, gone...the moon and moon,
The yellow moon of words about the nightingale
In measureless measures, not a bird for me
But the name of a bird and the name of a nameless air
I have never - shall never hear. And yet beneath
The stillness of everything gone, and being still
Being and sitting still, something resides
Some skreaking skrittering residuum,
And grates these evasions of the nightingale
Though I have never - shall never hear that bird.
And the stillness is in the key, all of it is,
The stillness is all in the key of that desolate sound.
~ Wallace Stevens

Interesting poem. I especially like the beat of the poem.

ZinniaSoCA

September 12, 2005 - 11:05 am

Another beatiful, touching poem that really reaches our feelings about that awful day. I prefer to think that it was just that one that was awful and commemorate the rest for things like the birth of your firstborn and my granddaughter.

annafair

September 13, 2005 - 07:45 am

Yes I can see why that poem resonated with you.. Since my hearing is just about gone I feel a silence that is rather profound ..and I too will not hear the sounds slipping away. But last night I was out late and as usual in Septemeber the night is clear, no summer haze to soften the moon and stars .. and there against the black night was a moon . was it half or a bit more or less? And the stars were pinned on that dark sky and I came across this poem today.

.Zinnia thanks for your comment and like you I do remember when it was a day to celebrate my daughter's birth and her spirit in the face of losing her sight..anna

 
CALM IS THE FRAGRANT AIR" 
William Wordsworth 

          CALM is the fragrant air, and loth to lose 
          Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews. 
          Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; 
          Look up a second time, and, one by one, 
          You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, 
          And wonder how they could elude the sight! 
          The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, 
          Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers, 
          But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers: 
          Nor does the village Church-clock's iron tone                
          The time's and season's influence disown; 
          Nine beats distinctly to each other bound 
          In drowsy sequence--how unlike the sound 
          That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear 
          On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear! 
          The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun, 
          Had closed his door before the day was done, 
          And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep, 
          And joins his little children in their sleep. 
          The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade,  

                 Flits and reflits along the close arcade; 
          The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth 
          With burring note, which Industry and Sloth 
          Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both. 
          A stream is heard--I see it not, but know 
          By its soft music whence the waters flow: 
          Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more; 
          One boat there was, but it will touch the shore 
          With the next dipping of its slackened oar; 
          Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay,                        Might give to serious thought a moment's sway, 
          As a last token of man's toilsome day! 
                                                              1832.

annafair

September 14, 2005 - 08:12 am

From a French poet Paul Verlaine 1844 -1896 .How do you view this poem >? it seems so different than many ,..anna

 
Autumn Song  

The long sobs 
of autumn's 
violins 
wound my heart 
with a monotonous 
languor. 

Suffocating 
and pallid, when 
the clock strikes, 
I remember 
the days long past 
and I weep. 

And I set off 
in the rough wind 
that carries me 
hither and thither 
like a dead 
leaf.

Scrawler

September 14, 2005 - 09:53 am

Cypresses

At noon they talk of evening and at evening
Of night, but what they say at night
Is a dark secret.

Somebody long ago called them the Trees
Of Death and they have never forgotten
The name enchants them.

Always an attitude of solitude
To point the paradox of standing
Alone together.

How many years they have been teaching birds
In little schools, by little skills,
How to be shadows. ~ Robert Francis

I was enchanted myself with this little poem - there is so much imagery here. It also reminded me of my childhood summers in Monterey. I can't tell you how many times as a child I've driven by "The Lone Cypress" without really noticing it.

annafair

September 14, 2005 - 11:15 am

Thanks for that poem ..love the imagery especially about the bird schools teaching how to be shadows. lovely ..well I am off to await Ophelias wind and rain ..thank goodness we are SUPPOSED to be ONLY brushed here..anna

MarjV

September 14, 2005 - 04:52 pm

I just looked at cypress tree images on google. Fascinating tree.

Scrawler

September 15, 2005 - 09:10 am

He drinks because she scolds, he thinks;
She thinks she scolds because he drinks;
And neither will admit what's true,
That he's a sot and she's a shrew. ~ Ogden Nash

annafair

September 18, 2005 - 12:02 am

With all the things that is happening in the world it is hard to find time to do the things I love best. Yesterday I spent a day at a workshop in Virginia Beach on poetry. It was unique to me in that several poets are putting poems to music, We had 3 poets reading and soemtimes singing the poetry It was really interesting and all the poets who attended were invited to email any poems we think would make a good musical program to the artist who is promoting this,

We were all members of the poetry society of Virginia and we had about 100 poets in attendence. Have to say I enjoyed hearing them read thier poetry very much, Since I was away all day I chose to dine out and when I came out of the restaurant there was this wonderful full moon so I looked for a poem about a moon, The one I chose is by North Carolina's Poet Laureate Kathryn Stripling Byers from her book Black Shawl. Along with the one I chose were several other poems from her book and I would recommend to those that are interested this would be a worthwhile poetry book to read and purchase Here is her poem..anna

 
Full Moon 

Full moon says look I am 
over the pinebreak, says give me 
your empty glass, pour 
all you want, drink, look 
out through your windows of ice, 
through the eyes of your needles 
observe how I climb, lay aside 
what you weave on your looms 

and see clouds fall away 
like cold silk from your shoulders, 
be quiet, hear the owl coming back 
to the hayloft, shake loose 
your long braids and rise up 
from your beds, open 
windows and curtains, let light 
pour like water upon your heads, 

all of you women who wait, raise 
the shades, throw the shutters 
wide, lean from your window ledge 
into the great night that beckons 
you, smile back at me 
and so quietly nobody can hear you 
but you, whisper, “Here am I.”

MarjV

September 18, 2005 - 09:35 am

Anna! That poem is gorgeoue picture in words. I liked it very much. Tells us not to hesitate- take action. ~Marj

Eileen Tyrrell

September 18, 2005 - 10:04 am

This poem came in a quarterly magazine called "This England."

The World by William Brighty Rands.

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world,

With the wonderful water around you curled,

And the wonderful grass upon your breast-

World you are beautifully drest.

The wonderful air is over me,

And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree,

It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,

And talks to itself on the top of the hills.

You friendly Earth! how far you go,

With wheatfields that nod, and rivers that flow,

With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,

And people upon you for thousands of miles!

Ah! you are so great and I am so small,

I tremble to think of you, World at all;

And yet, when I said my prayers today,

A whisper inside me seemed to say,

You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot;

You can love and think, and the Earth cannot.

Scrawler

September 18, 2005 - 10:36 am

Song of Open Road:

I think I shall never see
A billboard lovely as a tree
Perhaps, unless the billboards fall,
I'll never see a tree at all. ~ Ogden Nash

annafair

September 18, 2005 - 11:05 am

The more I read Byers poem the more I feel her thoughts ...and yes it tells us to dream and live..and then the wonderful one you found Eileen ..thanks so much for sharing and for dessert we have Ogden Nash .. hearty meal of poems ...they help to slake my thirst ..but never will they fill ....I find I can never get my fill of poetry..and here is one I was just reading ..anna

 
Overtones  

William Alexander Percy  



I HEARD a bird at break of day   
  Sing from the autumn trees   
A song so mystical and calm,   
  So full of certainties,   
No man, I think, could listen long         5  
  Except upon his knees.   
Yet this was but a simple bird,   
  Alone, among dead trees.

Eileen Tyrrell

September 18, 2005 - 08:23 pm

This may not be poetry as such but my father always wrote this in my autograph book and today I think it holds true with all the crime we read of.

Boy Gun,

Great Fun.

Gun Bust,

Boy Dust,

Hard Luck,

Amen.

Jan Sand

September 18, 2005 - 11:59 pm

THE GUN

This day there seems
Small concept
Of the chemistry,
The way a meme
Can invade a dream,
Distort its centrality,
Dye, infect, englobe
Discrete components
To its design,
Forge from diversity
A dire unity.

The gun is,
In simplicity,
An engine of
Internal combustion
That dispatches
Its free piston
On death's mission.
But its meme
Is digital -
Death's finger
To annihilate
Its designate,
A pointer on the hand
To eliminate on demand.

This metal flesh
Once joined at arm's length
Infects the mind
With an evil strength.

An object
Can contain an idea.
The Bible is an object.
The U.S. constitution
Is an object.
A gun
Is an object.

That boy
Who murdered, maimed
Other kids at school
Was not a boy
With a lethal toy
Was not a boy
With a gun.

That was a gun
With a boy.

annafair

September 19, 2005 - 12:51 pm

You both have captured my thinking about guns ...Your fathers brief and to the point And Jan who always gives us something special to consider shares a horror in poetic form which to me always hurts more than just reading a story, It makes FEEL the gun's message which is to destroy. Thank you both and Jan we welcome you back ..anna

annafair

September 19, 2005 - 12:58 pm

I wanted to let you know I emailed Kathryn Byer about sharing her poems and she not only said yes but sent good wishes to all who come here. She was originally from Georgia but made North Carolina her home .

For twenty summers until my husbands death our family spent two weeks each year at Nags Head NC and our youngest daughter graduated from Elon College in NC .. in the course of our visits and our time spent we also enjoyed SEEING other place in NC and love the state for its beauty and for the people we met.

In her book The Black Shawl she especially speaks of women and I hope to share some of those with you. Today I chose one that resonated with me and hope you enjoy it too, anna

 
HOMEWARD 

Late out of Atlanta because of 

a terrorist threat that brought scores 

of security guards to detain us 

for two hours, searching our baggage 

and clothing till we were deemed 

safe enough to fly homeward, 

our plane lifted into the sunset 

and flew northeast. Out of the flatlands 

of Georgia it flew till beneath us 

I saw mountains swelling like the sea 

we had walked beside, honeymooning 

on Ocracoke decades before, 

its blue distance calling us. 

Sunset drew blood red and brown 

from the landscape and dark from 

the deep places where I knew valleys 

cupped houses and gardens; I knew 

I was flying back into the place 

I once day-dreamed I'd call my own, 

young girl who grew up in south Georgia 

pine flats and longed for the blue 

surge of mountains around her. "Here 

I am," I breathed as we landed safely 

in Asheville, the mountain dark settling around us 

like blankets that gathered the homeward 

bound into its comfort, from Outer Banks 

all the way west to the edges of Snowbird 

and Winding Stair Gap, the constellations 

beginning to shine like the stitchery 

Willa Mae fastened to every quilt 

she pieced from scraps she had gathered 

her life long in Cullowhee Valley. 

-Kathryn Stripling Byer -April 4, 2005

annafair

September 21, 2005 - 02:35 am

We had some really terrible ones here today so I was off of my computer and also had two of my grandchildren over for awhile I googled thunderstorms poetry and found one that was a bit different. Hope you think so too. anna

 
Thunderstorms 

My mind has thunderstorms,  
That brood for heavy hours:  
Until they rain me words;  
My thoughts are drooping flowers  
And sulking, silent birds.  

Yet come, dark thunderstorms,  
And brood your heavy hours;  
For when you rain me words,  
My thoughts are dancing flowers  
And joyful singing birds.  

William H Davies 1871-1940

Scrawler

September 21, 2005 - 09:50 am

Sometimes it's difficult, isn't it, not to grim and rancorous
Because man's fate is so counter-clockwise and cantankerous.
Look at all the noble projects that die a-borning,
Look how hard it is to get to sleep at night and then how
hard it is to wake up in the morning!
How easy to be unselfish in the big things that never come up
and how hard in the little things that come up daily and
hourly, oh yes,
Such as what heroic pleasure to give up the last seat in a
lifeboat to a mother and babe, and what an irritation to
give some housewife your seat on the Lexington Avenue
Express!
How easy for those who do not bulge
To not overindulge!
O universe perverse, why and whence your perverseness?
Why do you not teem with beterness instead of worseness?
Do you get your only enjoyment
Out of humanity's annoyment?
Because a point I would like to discuss
Is, why wouldn't it be just as easy for you to make things easy
for us?
But no, you will not listen, expostulation is useless,
Home is the fisherman empty-handed, home is the hunter
caribouless and mooseless.
Humanity must continue to follow the sun around
And accept the eternal run-around
Well, and if that be the case, why come on humanity!
So long as it is our fate to be irked all our life let us
just keep our heads up and take our irking with insouciant
urbanity. ~ Ogden Nash

3kings

September 21, 2005 - 09:30 pm

There's a certain Slant of Light

There's a certain Slant of Light
Winter afternoons-
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes-

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us-
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the meanings are-

None may teach it - Any -
'Tis the Seal Despair-
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air_

When it comes, the Landscape listens-
Shadows - hold their breath-
When it goes, tis like the Distance
On the look of Death-

EMILY DICKENSON

winsum

September 21, 2005 - 11:39 pm

OGDEN NASH The Terrible People by Ogden Nash

People who have what they want are very fond of telling people who
haven't what they want that they really don't want it,
And I wish I could afford to gather all such people into a gloomy
castle on the Danube and hire half a dozen capable Draculas to haunt it.
I dont' mind their having a lot of money, and I don't care how they employ it,
But I do think that they damn well ought to admit they enjoy it.
But no, they insist on being stealthy
About the pleasures of being wealthy,
And the possession of a handsome annuity
Makes them think that to say how hard it is to make both ends meet is their bounden duity.
You cannot conceive of an occasion
Which will find them without some suitable evasion.
Yes indeed, with argumetsn they are very fecund;
Their first point is that money isn't everything, and that they have
no money anyhow is their second.
Some people's money is merited,
And other people's is inherited,
But wherever it comes from,
They talk about it as if it were something you got pink gums from.
Perhaps indeed the possession of wealth is constantly distressing,
But I should be quite willing to assume every curse of wealth if I
could at the same time assume every blessing.
The only incurable troubles of the rich are the troubles that money can't cure,
Which is a kind of trouble that is even more troublesome if you are poor.
Certainly there are lots of things in life that money won't buy, but it's very funny --
Have you ever tried to buy them without money?

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annafair

September 24, 2005 - 10:35 am

Ogden Nash and Emily Dickinson..quite a contrast ! But what is so great about poetry is it covers all with equal impunity and charm and truth...early last evening we were rocked by a sudden and strong thunderstorm ..my TV stayed on and I spent my time sans computer watchng Nature at its worse. Proud we were able to evacuate 2.5 people and that the wonderful C=130's ( which my husband flew and saw that they were maintained years ago) evacuated hospitals and nursing homes. I am in debt to the bravery , perhaps almost foolhardiness of the people who covered this and reported it ..at the same time amazed that we can be part of all of life through this medium...I have been looking for a poem and have decided to share this one..for several reasons , that nothing remains the same , that todays sorrow will fade and there will be a tomorrow. and evrything and everyone temporary anna

 
Mary Oliver - Fall Song   

Another year gone, leaving everywhere 
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves, 

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply 
in the shadows, unmattering back 

from the particular island 
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere 

except underfoot, moldering 
in that black subterranean castle 

of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds 
and the wanderings of water. This 

I try to remember when time's measure 
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn 

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing 
to stay - how everything lives, shifting 

from one bright vision to another, forever 
in these momentary pastures.

JoanK

September 24, 2005 - 08:19 pm

Once again, Mary Oliverr says it best. She's amazing.

Hats

September 25, 2005 - 09:04 am

I love Mary Oliver too.

Scrawler

September 26, 2005 - 10:13 am

A mighty creature is the germ
Though smaller than the pachyderm
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race
I cannot help but wonder at
The oddness of his habitat.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.

~ Ogden Nash

annafair

September 27, 2005 - 06:17 am

A humorous poem seems important now with so much going on in the world..and thanks for posting it..I thought I would find a poem about survival and found dozens but none had the tone I wished to find..something positive in chaos and destruction and sadness and sorrow ..perhaps that was asking too much so instead I share Robert Frost poem about October..the leaves on the trees here have turned early ...due I am sure to the heat and lack of rain...usually it takes a few days of temperature dropping down to at least 50 to sharpen the colors but as I look down my street I see a all the trees are in fall attire and are dropping leaves everywhere ..I wonder if some of them will survive till spring..anna

 
1913 A Boy's Will 
October  
by Robert Frost  

O HUSHED October morning mild, 
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall; 
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild, 
Should waste them all. 
The crows above the forest call; 
To-morrow 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.

annafair

September 28, 2005 - 07:50 am

This morning I spent an hour researching the topic staying young..and here is a poem about it ...I think I may have posted it a long time ago but we need to remind ourselves some things every day..and it is by Mary Oliver ..whom we all seem to love..How about others of you sharing a favorite Mary Oliver Poem?? anna

 
Wild Geese 
Poem by Mary Oliver 

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

MarjV

September 28, 2005 - 09:41 am

Everytime I read Wild Geese it touches a new point. A truly wonderful poem. Even when it touches sore points. Thanks , Anna.

MarjV

September 28, 2005 - 09:46 am

It is possible, I suppose that sometime  
we will learn everything  
there is to learn: what the world is, for example,  
and what it means. I think this as I am crossing  
from one field to another, in summer, and the  
mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either  
knows enough already or knows enough to be  
perfectly content not knowing. Song being born  
of quest he knows this: he must turn silent  
were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead  
oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly  
unanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies display  
the small suns of their center piece, their - if you don't  
mind my saying so - their hearts. Of course  
I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and  
narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know?  
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,  
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;  
for example - I think this  
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch -  
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the  
daisies for the field.  

-------------------------------- 

This season of a year is a superb time to "to take what is given,  
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;"    I 
have some tiny wild daisies blooming  yet-  and a monarch 
butterfly went flapping around this morning.  

~Marj

Scrawler

September 28, 2005 - 10:37 am

The Fall of Leaves:

The green has suddenly
Divided to pure flame,
Leaf-tongued from tree to tree,
Yea, where we stood it came.

This change may have no name,
Yet it was like a word
Spoken, and none to blame
Alive where shadow stirred

So was the instant blurred
But as we waited there
The slow cry of a bird
Built up a scheme of air.

The vision of despair
Starts at the moment's bound,
Seethes from the vibrant air
With slow autumnal sound

Into the burning ground

~Yvor Winters

Yvor Winters (October 17, 1900 - January 25, 1968) b. Arthur Yvor Winters in Chicago, Illinois. Raised near Pasadena, California Attended University of Chicago (1917-18). Contacted tuberculosis and moved to a sanatorium in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Earned PhD from Stanford in 1932; named assistant professor in 1937. Joined defense committee for David Lamson, Stanford employee convicted on circumstantial evidence of murdering his wife; Lamson was released after spending three years in jail. Published several collections of poetry throughout his life.

annafair

September 28, 2005 - 11:33 am

Do we react to seasons like some ancient human did ?? I think we do and we react to the things of those seasons ..the daisies and like Mary Oliver I dont pick them but enjoy them where they are.. Even in my garden I always hesitate to pick a flower and bring it in..I do but there is always a bit of sadness that I did.. yesterday a friend came by with a whole chrysantheum plant..full of golden buds and tiny blossoms that will bloom and bring its sunshine into my life ..it isnt that I dont appreciate cut flowers but I appreciate more a plant I can put into my yard and give me blossoms for a number of years. and Autumn ..I know I love it but also know it is the prelude to winter;s dark days and like our ancient ones I draw the my world around me and worry when the shortest day of the year arrives. like them I am always relieved to awake the next morn and find we are all still here ....anna

JoanK

September 28, 2005 - 05:50 pm

Thank you all. I can't tell you what this site means to me.

Scrawler

September 29, 2005 - 10:17 am

Flowers by the Sea:

When over the flowery, sharp pasture's
edge unseen, the salt ocean

lifts its form - chickory and daisies
tied, released seem hardly flowers alone

but color and the movement - or the shape
perhaps -of restlessness, whereas

the sea is circled and sways
peacefully upon its plantlike stem

~William Carlos Williams

winsum

September 29, 2005 - 04:49 pm

nice selections. . . thank you . . . claire

annafair

September 30, 2005 - 05:36 am

Pleases me ..Born and raised in the midwest I was 21 before I saw the Atlantic Ocean ,Never dreaming I would some day sail across it or fly over the Pacific to Okinawa Or finally live about 25 minutes from the Atlantic and closer to the rivers and bays that feed its vastness. and I am always amazed at the sea oats and small flowers that cling to life along the dunes ..like me I think they just like to be near

I was looking for a poem about autumn to share today and found one that spoke to me since I too am in the autumn of my life ..and I realized today while I still love autumn I am beginning to feel winter in my bones and know I am on the edge of the winter of my life so autumn now is like the vine ..bittersweet .. its colors sharp and clear and they sort of pierce ones heart ..so I share this poem today and hope it gives you some thought ..anna

 
My Indian Summer 



  Here in the Autumn of my days 
My life is mellowed in a haze. 
Unpleasant sights are none to clear, 
Discordant sounds I hardly hear. 
Infirmities like buffers soft 
Sustain me tranquilly aloft. 
I'm deaf to duffers, blind to bores, 
Peace seems to percolate my pores. 
I fold my hands, keep quiet mind, 
In dogs and children joy I find. 
With temper tolerant and mild, 
Myself you'd almost think a child. 
Yea, I have come on pleasant ways 
Here in the Autumn of my days. 

Here in the Autumn of my days 
I can allow myself to laze, 
To rest and give myself to dreams: 
Life never was so sweet, it seems. 
I haven't lost my sense of smell, 
My taste-buds never served so well. 
I love to eat - delicious food 
Has never seemed one half so good. 
In tea and coffee I delight, 
I smoke and sip my grog at night. 
I have a softer sense of touch, 
For comfort I enjoy so much. 
My skis are far more blues than greys, 
Here in the Autumn of my days. 

Here in the Autumn of my days 
My heart is full of peace and praise. 
Yet though I know that Winter's near, 
I'll meet and greet it with a cheer. 
With friendly books, with cosy fires, 
And few but favourite desires, 
I'll live from strife and woe apart, 
And make a Heaven in my heart. 
For Goodness, I have learned, is best, 
And should by Kindness be expressed. 
And so December with a smile 
I'll wait and welcome, but meanwhile, 
Blest interlude! The Gods I praise, 
For this, the Autumn of my days.  

Robert W. Service

winsum

September 30, 2005 - 05:52 pm

I've more time to read newspapers and think and complain which I do. . .distractions are few since I've become invisible and the world ticks on without me. People see this old lady but don't seem to realize there's a full sccale person there. The only good thing about autumn s that it's cooler than summer and makes pretty leaves. . . . Claire

winsum

September 30, 2005 - 05:58 pm

 

Ok all. I'm made it into a poem thusly 

oh that it were so 

I've more time now 
to read newspapers and think and complain  
which I do. . . 
distractions are few 
  I've become invisible 
 and the world ticks on without me. 
People see an old lady 
but don't  realize  
there's a full scale person  
there.  
The only good thing about autumn 
is that  
it's cooler than summer  
and  the frost 
makes for pretty leaves. . . .

Claire/Winsum

winsum

September 30, 2005 - 06:07 pm

is better now. I've cleaned it up somewhat.

but I'll spare you

Claire

ZinniaSoCA

September 30, 2005 - 06:39 pm

That's a great one, Claire! I like it a lot because I can really relate to it! It is so amazing to become invisible!

JoanK

September 30, 2005 - 10:06 pm

The worst is when you go to a new doctor, and you realize that you're invisible to him/her. They say "there's nothing you can do" and they mean: "I don't have time to bother with this non-person. She's obviously all used up, throw her away and give me a patient worth treating" UGH!!

winsum

October 1, 2005 - 01:34 am

butr now and then a poem pops out too. the phtography cafe is really fun for me.

zinnie I looked at you pics. . . really nice. this isn't the place for it but what the hey. ..it's OK . . .isn't it? A day at Sycamore stables

MarjV

October 1, 2005 - 06:20 am

Claire and Joan--I second all that about being invisible. I'm pretty invisible to my neighbors also. I think invisible includes a wide swath of feelings they have about/toward older critters. And not seeing us as full scale people!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Scrawler

October 1, 2005 - 10:36 am

Isn't it great to be invisible. It means more time to observe what is around you, so you can create. Best of all most folks leave you alone.

MarjV

October 1, 2005 - 11:01 am

That sure is the positive part of it, Scrawler.

ZinniaSoCA

October 1, 2005 - 11:56 am

Thank you for a lovely visit to your pictures this morning! I love how your mind works. My four most favorites were the chairs in Photoshop, the chairs in life, the horse closeup, and the cabin.

I think that there will never be a peer for Claire and how she sees and if I could, I'd be like she can be because she's not like me!

As to cropping, I usually just make a selection and then do IMAGE...CROP. If forced, I use the cropping tool because it's adjustable and I find it better in most cases to set my preferences NOT to snap to selection.

winsum

October 1, 2005 - 12:04 pm

you made me into a poem but then that's what we do around here. fun isn't .

now about IMAGE...CROP. are you talking about photo shop? I do mot of my editing there. I tried the photo cafe setup but it's very limited. Photoshop is great for computer art too. remember Sister Mary Corita and her poems all mounted on top of her images. Might be fun.

I did it for Jim Fowler for a while all twenty two of them but didn't want to continue and gave him to Mal where he is featured in her Stubbs Poetry journal. combining our talents like mixmediat or mixed mind if you will . . . Claire

Barbara St. Aubrey

October 1, 2005 - 02:39 pm

Comedians, We Stare
We are born to the Maze where the unfortunate suffer a cursed life. Pilgrims enter the Maze: The careful mask-makers The deadliest duelists The actor The siren The lover The drunk Their adventures baroque, where magic and Voodoo fills the Maze with music, rules the Maze in old clothes under the Arch of Dreams, they totter within the walls. Dressed as Oya, Fortune picked a ripe pear and bit, leering from bas-relief. The unfortunate cry, ‘Give me back my old clothes, Build high the layered walls’. Pilgrims sort the laundry, needing a new Clothesline, gone are the washline poles. Will they ever totter like children playing tag, between the low hanging sheets? Will Marie Laveau bless, Apples, Yams, Corn, and Peppers, favorites of Chango, who rules the sky and trees, while Curse, crouched on the walls, inhales scents from inside the Maze?

annafair

October 1, 2005 - 04:17 pm

I guess we are all in the autumn of our lives and to be honest it is one reason I lie about my age.. Not even close to me age do I say I am but say I am 22 ..the person I am inside .. I dont care if the outside shows an older me I am still the person I used to be .. and that is who people have to deal with!!!

Oh I hear you all, Not only am I in the autumn of my life but my ears are in winter ,sound muffled by deep snow so I have to say I am sorry but I dont hear well and tell them up front AND HEARING AIDS DID NOT HELP>. I read at poetry readings where everyone can hear me but I cant hear them ..still the sounds I do hear are like music, the moving lips do make a sound, it is only the words I dont recognize. and so I like to think I am better off than my hearing friends for what I hear are the heart and soul sounds of my fellow poets! How lucky I am ..

I will say many people I have to see like doctors etc are writing what they have to say to me out ..Some I can see dont really want to see me and you know I dont really want to see them . So you all keep trying and dont let them treat you poorly ..my eye doctor is not mailing me a notice of when my appointment is ,. since a phone call was so indistinct I arrived for my appointment the wrong day and the wrong time. When I asked if they couldnt email me a reminder they receptionist said no ..and I said Well perhaps it is time for this office to move into the 21st century! So the doctor said To her please make a note that Mrs A will get a mailed reminder!

And Claire I went to the link and they wont let me register but I did enjoy the pictures of the horse and the cottage and the shadow or the palm..thanks for that link and of course you can do that here ! And Barbara is it so good to see you here again and your poem ..I appreciate all of so much ..because when I stop by here my ears dont need to work .. I can read your words and your thoughts and feelings are as near as my monitor .. what a wonderful thing .. I did find a poem which I will share right here hugs to you all ,anna

 
October 

I OFT have met her slowly wandering  
Beside a leafy stream, her locks blown wild,  
Her cheeks a hectic flush, more fair than Spring,  
As if on her the sumac copse had smiled.  
Or I have seen her sitting, tall and brown,--  
Her gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim,--  
Beneath a twisted oak from whose red leaves  
She wound great drowsy wreaths and cast them down;  
The west-wind in her hair, that made it swim  
Far out behind, deep as the rustling sheaves. 

Or in the hill-lands I have often seen  
The marvel of her passage; glimpses faint  
Of glimmering woods that glanced the hills between,  
Like Indian faces, fierce with forest paint.  
Or I have met her 'twixt two beechen hills,  
Within a dingled valley near a fall,  
Held in her nut-brown hand one cardinal flower;  
Or wading dimly where the leaf-dammed rills  
Went babbling through the wildwood's arrased hall,  
Where burned the beech and maples glared their power. 

Or I have met her by some ruined mill,  
Where trailed the crimson creeper, serpentine,  
On fallen leaves that stirred and rustled chill,  
And watched her swinging in the wild-grape vine.  
While Beauty, sad among the vales and mountains,  
More sad than death, or all that death can teach,  
Dreamed of decay and stretched appealing arms,  
Where splashed the murmur of the forest's fountains;  
With all her loveliness did she beseech,  
And all the sorrow of her wildwood charms. 

Once only in a hollow, girt with trees,  
A-dream amid wild asters filled with rain,  
I glimpsed her cheeks red-berried by the breeze,  
In her dark eyes the night's sidereal stain.  
And once upon an orchard's tangled path,  
Where all the golden-rod had turned to brown,  
Where russets rolled and leaves were sweet of breath,  
I have beheld her 'mid her aftermath  
Of blossoms standing, in her gypsy gown,  
Within her gaze the deeps of life and death. 

Madison Cawein 1865-1914 this was a new poet

winsum

October 1, 2005 - 11:01 pm

riches here today. Barbara I loved that thing. . .didn't fully understand but it understood me and that's sufficient.

Anna that was a beautiful poem and you when you write can't even write prose without falling into music, rhythm not rhyme. This is a great place. . . . Claire

Barbara St. Aubrey

October 2, 2005 - 04:54 am

Thanks Anna and Claire - it helps to know in Voodoo there are 7 African gods/goddesses with similar virtues to Saints within the Catholic Church - The saints and the African gods interchange with each other in Voodoo.

Oya, likened with St. Theresa and St. Catherine, Oya is the powerful Yoruba Goddess of the Winds of Change; the Primeval Mother of Chaos; Queen of the Nine (for the nine tributaries of the Niger River). Using her machete, or sword of truth, she cuts through stagnation and clears the way for new growth. She does what needs to be done. She is the wild woman, the force of change; lightning, fire, tornadoes, earthquakes and storms of all kinds are ruled by Oya.

Anna, the Madison Cawein poem has a sadness about it doesn't it - there are many who see sadness in Autumn - logical to see death in the making but hmmm makes me aware how I think on Autumn with a sense of excitement - could be why in my autumn years I have been more excited over possibilities and the glory of each day than I was during my Spring years - in fact, Spring is not my favorite time of year - too pretty - for me it blocks my senses -

I like the rustle and crack and the colors of Autumn, even here where our colors are the subtle bands of dry grasses each with their own shade of brown, beige, tan, fawn, bleached dove along with the various gray shades of the outcropping of rock against a sky that whispers long trails of high clouds.

However it just dawned on me - to be able to acknowledge death was a new phenomenun in the late nineteenth century - there is much information about how funeral rituals we take for granted were established during this time in history because people finally had the time to acknowledge loss through death and so I can see how a poet would transfer that phenominum to acknowledge the death of summertime bounty.

The lines I liked most were
The west-wind in her hair, that made it swim
Far out behind, deep as the rustling sheaves.
I can even hear the rustling sheaves...

winsum

October 2, 2005 - 02:02 pm

I read your personal info and now I know where your children are but where are you? There is only this to hint at it.

this rocky caliche

You're complicated person. the first person in real estate where I was for a while whom I've met who writes exotic poetry, really nice poetry. . . . Claire

Barbara St. Aubrey

October 2, 2005 - 04:21 pm

hehe only complicated if you have a stereo type image of who I should be --

liberal in my politics, the arts are important to me - Like classical music and Blues - play the piano but don't keep it up - been a broker for 25 years here in Austin where I have lived for 40 years, next year, in the same house - as a Broker I never see myself in sales - I see myself helping folks think through what is best for them and bring them the information they cannot get easily off the computer like what the history of the area is for appreciation and of course how to be sure they are not going to go bump in the night because of legal issues...

For a short time in the late 80s after the Banks failed and there was no property being sold till the foreclosures hit the market, I was an interior decorator - Way back there in the 60s and early 70s I painted and sold my work at art festivals - mostly non-representative art in acrylics and oil - did watercolor but not good enough to sell - For about 5 years I worked in the Girl Scout Camp here and in the mountains of Kentucky - lived in Lexington - I was a trainer for the Lexington Council and on the Board for 6 years in the Lone Star Council here in Austin as well as a trainer - went to Camp Edith Macy in New York for training twice - set up two regional training events and was sent by National to Canada to train the adult Girl Guides for a couple of weeks.

I was into cooking in the mid 70s and attended cooking school for three years topping it off with a trip to France with a small group where we ate at most 3 and 4 star restaurants and one 5 star in the Provance - Then I really got into Needlework more seriously - always did handwork but again lots of classes - studied in England for a month and France for two weeks - taught 18th century samplers including the history of these long samplers for the National Embroidery Guild just before I started my Real Estate career -

I've hiked most of Europe and in the mountains of deep Mexico - and am part of a committee that is looking at everything about the lower Colorado River between Austin and Bastrop - still hike one day a week all over Central Texas - Also went to classes to become a facilitator with the National Issues Forum - Whew - that is most of my resumé - but this is what happens when you live many years - you do lots and lots of things...

Wrote poetry when I was a kid but stopped after I wrote a poem on a high school entrance exam and got zero because I was supposed to write an essay - what can I say - picked up writing poetry again only about 4 or 5 years ago and have had two poems published and won a prize for another - prizes don't impress me but it was the satisfaction of knowing my work did not add up to zero that gave the boost to keep it up.

My kids are important to me - they have always been my reason for living - I know it sounds like a mother who is too much - for me their childhood was a time to expose them to as much as I could, allow they to try as much as they wanted even if they got dirty and feel such pride in their choices regardless if I would not choose the same for my life -

I love listening to the grandboys tell me what they think about - when they were toddlers, we would take walks to see the neighbors grass and hear the dogs bark at us, watch the ants or see a vehicle with big wheels parked in front of someone's house - they would tell me all about their playground happenings, their nightmares, what they were afraid of and what they learned to do well. Now they are young teens and they tell me their opinions about all sorts of things from politics to the latest book they read or the latest movie they saw, what they hope to learn and what they think they would like to do when they are older. I love it...

I've had my share of pain and shock that included 7 years of therapy - the affect was like an atom bomb that went off in the middle of our family and so having a close relationship with my children is very special and for several years it was a lot of work - I also have a childhood filled with trauma and therefore I think that is why I do not look at social issues very conservatively - things happen and often society does not like to acknowledge things that happen - society prefers to ignore some things or blame, most often the victim, since they have no education or exposure to understand many things that happen...

My Spiritual life has changed and where I was educated in the Catholic Schools but not in diocesan schools - at first it was the Benedictines followed in High School with the Carmelites -- my guide was the writings of St. John of the Cross - for the past 20 years I have been practicing Taoism which has lead me to being so curious about the Chaos theory and that is what I have been madly reading about here of late.

Prefer going to the Chinese doctors at the school here in Austin as well as having learned tons in the last 15 years about herbs so that I have not used western medicine now for the last 7 years - Had a western physical this summer and learned I am healthier now than I was 7 years ago when I had my last western physical - My western Doctor finally gave in - shakes his head and says I should keep on with my "crazy belief" in herbs and the Chinese Doctors...

I think that about covers who I am Claire - I continue to educate myself on many issues and my closets, drawers, are filled with books along with walls of bookshelves - that is probably what comes out in my poetry - Uncle...

annafair

October 2, 2005 - 09:36 pm

Everything you have written that I have read including emails told me you were a very unique person and now I know why..Claire I am so glad you were curious and brave enough to ask! Now we both know what we wanted to know,. I can relate to all of your interests since many of them have been mine. I did take classes but not to the extent you did . I think I wanted and still do to taste it all!

Barbara I also want to thank you for sharing so much ..I have printed it out /well I copied and pasted it in my documents ..I really want to read it and think about you!

Here's to special ladies wherever they are! A toast to all...anna

annafair

October 2, 2005 - 09:43 pm

Who just tells me she is special in her poetry.. When I get weary sometimes searching my books of poetry, and check in with google I often end of up reading Mary Oliver and whether I find just the poem I would like to find I always find a poem I like..and here is one ..anna

 
Climbing The Chagrin River 



  We enter 
the green river, 
heron harbor, 
mud-basin lined 
with snagheaps, where turtles 
sun themselves--we push 
through the falling 
silky weight 
striped warm and cold 
bounding down 
through the black flanks 
of wet rocks--we wade 
under hemlock 
and white pine--climb 
stone steps into 
the timeless castles 
of emerald eddies, 
swirls, channels 
cold as ice tumbling 
out of a white flow-- 
sheer sheets 
flying off rocks, 
frivolous and lustrous, 
skirting the secret pools-- 
cradles 
full of the yellow hair 
of last year's leaves 
where grizzled fish 
hang halfway down, 
like tarnished swords, 
while around them 
fingerlings sparkle 
and descend, 
nails of light 
in the loose 
racing waters.  

Mary Oliver  

I love the last three lines

winsum

October 2, 2005 - 10:09 pm

Barbara I'm saving your resume for reference. You are apt to get an ocational e-mail from me with questions etc. You do interest me mightily and now I know why. music and politics like mine and there is so much going on there but as you say a long life leads to such. Mine too not as physical or as social but when I look back it does add up. I'm interested in your non-objective approach to art and why you didn't continue. Here isn't the place for this unless I can make it into a poem, but you will hear from me, if you will. How can I resist. . . .Claire

winsum

October 2, 2005 - 10:18 pm

so full of images especially this one.

"fingerlings sparkle and descend, nails of light " beautiful . . . . Claire

annafair

October 3, 2005 - 03:40 am

I think I posted this one before but I have a busy day coming up and decided just to post one of mine..I always remember this poem because of several reasons maybe it will speak to you too. And Claire you chose the same lines I chose, Mary Oliver just seems to capture scenes and makes me SEE them ..here is my poem for today.. anna

 
A Question for you  

When Autumn comes shall I gather  
Her jewels fallen to the ground? 
Pack each one in a box and send them 
Off to you? What will you think  
When you open and find them there? 
Topaz from the tulip tree, garnet and ruby  
Sparkling in the sun. Waiting to be gathered  
Before they dry and blow away. 
Will you remember me as I remember you? 
Your address I no longer know, 
Where did you go when we said goodbye? 
How can I reach you? What number can I call 
When summer says goodbye and I say hello to fall? 

anna alexander 
August 5, 2003 
© 
 ..

Barbara St. Aubrey

October 3, 2005 - 08:30 am

Oj yes - the Mary Oliver poem I love - the movement, the word choses - it is briming with life - yes the Autumn that I love - Austimn just a stream passing through our lives - and Anna this one of yours - how wonderful - you even give me an idea - I love the idea of mailing tokens of the season - what a fun envelope to send - I can even see notes written on the big leaf turned brown from a cotton wood. Maybe even a poem - great...the Marths Stewart 'it is a good thing' tip for the day...

Scrawler

October 3, 2005 - 11:36 am

The World Is Round:

I am Rose my eyes are blue
I am Rose and who are you
I am Rose and when I sing
I am Rose like anything

~ Gertrude Stein

Enjoyed what you all had to say and have to say I agree with herbs etc.

Eileen Tyrrell

October 3, 2005 - 07:41 pm

The Autumn poem reminds me of the time when we were in Germany and a family friend who happened to be single parent and on welfare therefore had little or no money sent us a box of preserved and very colourful maple leaves, well this box was taken to school and passed around from person to person, I can't recall whether we ever got the leaves back but they certainly gave a lot of pleasure to those of us who were so far away from home. As the song goes, "Simple things mean a lot."

annafair

October 4, 2005 - 06:22 pm

Isnt that the truth .have found a poem I hope you all like .It reminds me of all the things you save because they meant so much ......and how you are the only one left to remember ..anna

 
Philip Larkin - Love Songs In Age   

She kept her songs, they kept so little space,  
  The covers pleased her:  
One bleached from lying in a sunny place,  
One marked in circles by a vase of water,  
One mended, when a tidy fit had seized her,  
  And coloured, by her daughter -  
So they had waited, till, in widowhood  
She found them, looking for something else, and stood  

Relearning how each frank submissive chord  
  Had ushered in  
Word after sprawling hyphenated word,  
And the unfailing sense of being young  
Spread out like a spring-woken tree, wherein  
  That hidden freshness sung,  
That certainty of time laid up in store  
As when she played them first. But, even more,  

The glare of that much-mentionned brilliance, love,  
  Broke out, to show  
Its bright incipience sailing above,  
Still promising to solve, and satisfy,  
And set unchangeably in order. So  
  To pile them back, to cry,  
Was hard, without lamely admitting how  
It had not done so then, and could not now.

ZinniaSoCA

October 4, 2005 - 06:35 pm

What a touching poem, Anna!

Perfect for an autumn day in the autumn of our lives.

I am so excited today. I was contacted this morning by an editor at MSN who wants to feature my blog, which features a lot of my art, poetry and stories! This means I will be a famous writer now (in some circles...haha!) and get 50,000+ hits a day until it settles down!

http://spaces.msn.com/members/musemonkey/

Anyone can read there but no one may comment unless they are signed in with an MSN or hotmail address, which is free.

annafair

October 5, 2005 - 09:47 am

I will check it out and I am registered so I can post a bon mot LOL I know how much you love what you do and am very happy for you !!!Once everyone knows you are there I expect you will get a million hits! anna

annafair

October 5, 2005 - 09:54 am

Well I wrote this poem when all these thoughts just came knocking at my mind BUT I have no idea why all of these little characters showed up when I obviously hit a key that had its own mind about what to do So here it is ..anna HA when I hit paste all of those odd characters disappeared I am returning to my wordprocessor and see if they will do the same when I copy it there!!

 
remembering  

I do not like to fly 
my soul was old before my birth  
before I erupted into light  
my aunts were there to wrap me  
close in soft cloths and bathed me 
in a dishpan of warm water before 
presenting me to my mother  
how lucky I was to be born 
into a loving household ,   
although it took me many years  
to see …I hope wherever their ghosts lie  
they know  
three quarters of a century later I find 
my ancient soul yearning for when things were new 
when dirt roads criss crossed the land  
and paths were beaten among  tall grass  
instead of cement to hurt your feet  
words once written by hand on paper pads 
and mailed with a three cent stamp  
and took a week to find a place to land  
now flow from my keyboard and my old fingers dance  
quickly , not painstaking , to speak for me my words  
later I will copy them , not slowly by hand  
but with a click of a modern mouse held in my hand  
highlight the whole and copy and save so  
I can paste it on an imaginary paper and sans stamps  
mail it off to you. in minutes it will magically appear  
before you on a screen a thousand miles away  
and you will know my thoughts almost before I do  
so how can it be this ancient soul who preferred to walk  
or ride a horse born out of season in the cold of a  
November morn , whose corporeal body hates to fly  
thinks how wonderful this is …for my words to be yours  
across these star studded , moonlit skies  

anna Alexander  
October 5, 2005, 12:34 PM

Barbara St. Aubrey

October 5, 2005 - 10:26 am

Anna what a wonderful tribute to those who were here before you and were in your corner - and yes, words fly now as our spirit flies...and so you see yourself as an old spirit -

I have never had a sense if my spirit was old or new - I often think it was a spirit asleep for hundreds of years and when it came back into being it has been in awe everyday, especially observing the variety of behavior among people both wholesome and not...

Scrawler

October 5, 2005 - 11:17 am

Beauty:

Say not of Beauty she is good
Or aught but beautiful,
Or sleek to doves' wings of the wood
Her wild wings of a gull.

Call her not wicked; that word's touch
Consumes her like a curse;
But love her not too much, too much,
For that is even worse.

O, she is neither good nor bad,
But innocent and wild!
Enshrine her, and she dies, who had
The hard heart of a child.

~ Elinor Wylie

ZinniaSoCA

October 5, 2005 - 02:14 pm

Another absolutely stunning poem. I got all full of tears as I read it. Thank you!

Karen

ZinniaSoCA

October 6, 2005 - 10:17 am

I thought you all might be interested in Artella Words & Art, a very popular site I frequent Here's a link to their poetry section, where they have lots of great poetry, plus monthly free contests and quarterly cash contests:

http://www.artellawordsandart.com/PoetryGardens.html

They also send out a monthly newsletter You can sign up at that link) that has some great stuff in it. This month's has an article about a newish poetry form called the "Octologue" that looks like fun. Here's a part of the article:

The Octologue: an Introduction by Patricia Gomes

Earlier this year, while doing research on Queen Catherine de Médicis of France and her practice of keeping dwarves as her personal attendants, an imagined, nagging excerpt of gothic dialogue lodged itself in my twisted grey matter and clung for life. There wasn't enough of it for a meaty poem or even the shortest of stories, but nag it did, and the Octologue was born.

The Octologue is a snippet of eavesdropped conversation, a bit of dialogue, monologue, any thought that is or can be spoken aloud. It must be a complete thought. It can answer a question; it can lead to more questions, leaving the reader begging to hear the answers. The Octologue is eight metered lines with each line traditionally capped. The pattern is: 3/5/3/3/5/3/3/3. Here is an example of the octologue as inspired by Catherine:

Whisper of the Old Queen

Mandricart,
Can you reach the latch?
Do it then,
Bar the door.
The graveyard's chill calls
And I'm yet
Unprepared
To answer.

Scrawler

October 6, 2005 - 10:55 am

The swaying, the trembling,
the branches interlocking -
these are but shadow, only you and I,
before we were born
after we die.

Night brings back the stark -
hunger is our truth. Under the old planets
we shadows are hungry.

You who make music of everything you touch
in the dark room of my life,
touch me.

Touch hunger, make it Apollo
in the dark world.

~ Haniel Long

MarjV

October 6, 2005 - 01:15 pm

Thanks to you all for the thoughts and poems. Gives R & R from the daily chores of living.

I looked at bit at your blog, Zinnia. What fun.

And I like the looks of that newsletter.

annafair

October 9, 2005 - 05:52 am

The remains of Tropical Storm Tammy arrived here in Virginia and it has rained for three days ..Some areas that were flooded required rescue by boat and it seemed the whole world would float. We were in a mini drought which I am sure was cured in all this downspout of RAIN ..It was continuous day and night and showed me I have a leak in my roof where the chimney lies..First it was tropical heat and now it is Octobers chill and here I am with a poem ...anna

 
October  

Look, how those steep woods on the mountain's face 
Burn, burn against the sunset; now the cold 
Invades our very noon: the year's grown old, 
Mornings are dark, and evenings come apace. 
The vines below have lost their purple grace, 
And in Forreze the white wrack backward rolled, 
Hangs to the hills tempestuous, fold on fold, 
And moaning gusts make desolate all the place. 

Mine host the month, at thy good hostelry, 
Tired limbs I'll stretch and steaming beast I'll tether; 
Pile on great logs with Gascon hand and free, 
And pour the Gascon stuff that laughs at weather; 
Swell your tough lungs, north wind, no whit care we, 
Singing old songs and drinking wine together. 

  	-- Hilaire Belloc

winsum

October 9, 2005 - 11:45 am

I'm with you all the way, the intimacy of sharing speaks to me. I can identify. what a nice way to go. just speaking your mind and heart . .,and it works . . .Claire

winsum

October 9, 2005 - 11:55 am

someone there joan? stephanie? put up a link to the wild cam at Petes Pond in Africa and we watch for the animals during the day and listen to the night sounds as they happen a world away.

I find poetry in all of that but nt the means to express it. . . Claire

MarjV

October 9, 2005 - 06:06 pm

Do you have the link for it and post it here? Maybe I can find it on google.

MarjV

October 9, 2005 - 06:09 pm

I found it:

http://www9.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/wildcamafrica/wildcam.html

Offline now due to technical difficulties - look like they are showing an old tape. What a website!!!!!

ZinniaSoCA

October 9, 2005 - 10:02 pm

I don't think I ever posted this.. .hope not. Our summer is winding down here and we are getting into the cooler days of fall... mid-eighties or so, with nice, cool nights. I have no clue why I began this with long lines and suddenly switched to shorter ones.

TIMELESS SUMMER

© MuseMonkey 2005

Timeless memories of golden summer days,
Sweet ocean air perfumes the glowing sunshine rays
Skipping down the boardwalk with its smell of fries;
Ice cream vendors with their carts forever stopping by.

Thicky, sticky summer heat has gathered up outside,
Nasty gnats and skeeters, and June bugs multiplied.
Bang! A slamming screen door, and all the mothers shout
“Won’t you please, for heaven’s sake, stop running in and out?”

Endless gangs of neighbor kids playing hide-and-seek
First the girls will giggle, then the girls will shriek.
Staying out is heaven, especially after dark,
Horns, guitars, and banjos making concerts in the park

Lying on the grass and watching stars and clouds, the moon
Smiles at us and says that it will be our bedtime soon.
Summer storm spectaculars, thunder rumbles, grumbles;
Jagged lightning flashes, again the ninepins tumble!

Fireworks to light the skies;
Ripe tomatoes come July;
Piercing whistles made of reeds;
Spitting watermelon seeds.

Now reunion time is here,
Cousins come from far and near;
Uncles, aunts and grandfolks, too,
Picnic under skies of blue.

Home-made ice-cream, chocolate cake!
Daring dives into the lake.
Day is done, it’s time to rest,
Everyone is feeling blessed.

Too soon, cousins head for home;
Too soon, summer is all gone;
Too soon, weather will grow cold;
Too soon, youngsters will grow old.

Days and months and years go by,
Soon they seem to simply fly.
But sure as sunshine follows rain,
Timeless summer comes again.

A joyful salute to summer. Thanks Z. I like how it looks with the change to the shorter lines- a total pleasant appearing piece. And I like the music of the short lines- it is as if all of a sudden the slow & lazy days of summer speeded to an end.

and Like marj says the shorter lines seem very appropiate . The days are getting shorter , summer has ended ..and it is a wonderful poem thanks so much for sharing I have added your web site to my favorites and the national geographic as well I used to have somethng called Aficam on my my old computer and just loved to watch the animals coming down to a waterhole .. I think this one will be just as good .. One thing I love about poetry is there is SO MUCH OF IT and I ALL SEEMS GOOD this is the one I found for today.. anna and i see hawks here once in awhile and love the way they seem to soar and use the air ..

 
Mortal Limit 
Robert Penn Warren  
1905-1989 
Known as a novelist  
Pulitzer Prize for  
ALL THE KING"S MEN 1947 

I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming. 
It rose from coniferous darkness, past gray jags 
Of mercilessness, past whiteness, into the gloaming 
Of dream-spectral light above the lazy purity of snow-snags. 

There--west--were the Tetons. Snow-peaks would soon be 
In dark profile to break constellations. Beyond what height 
Hangs now the black speck? Beyond what range will gold eyes see 
New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light? 

Or, having tasted that atmosphere's thinness, does it 
Hang motionless in dying vision before 
It knows it will accept the mortal limit, 
And swing into the great circular downwardness that will restore 

The breath of earth? Of rock? Of rot? Of other such 
Items, and the darkness of whatever dream we clutch?

Sun-light recedes on the mountains, in long gold shafts,
Like the falling pillars of a temple.
Then singing silence almost too nimble for ears
The mountain-tenors fling their broad voices
Into the blue hall of the sky,
And through a rigid column of these voices
Night dumbly walks
Night, crushing sound between his fingers
Until it forms a lightly frozen couch
On which he dreams

~ Maxwell Bodenheim

I loved the poem...poetry always astounds me ...it takes me to places I would never think of going...to the lightly frozen couch ..what pictures that makes in my mind..thanks for posting that. I think everyone will like my choice for today ..anna

 
Ode to Autumn  
John Keats 

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,    
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;    
Conspiring with him how to load and bless    
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;    
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,           
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;    
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells    
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,    
And still more, later flowers for the bees,    
Until they think warm days will never cease;     
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.    

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?    
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find    
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,    
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;     
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,    
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook    
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:    
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep    
Steady thy laden head across a brook;    
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,    
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.    

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?    
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—    
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day     
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;    
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn    
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft    
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;    
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;    
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft    
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;    
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Anna, Africam is still going. Tho not like it was originally .

http://www.africam.com/

The sun sought thy dim bed and brought forth light,
The sciences were sucklings at they breast;
When all the world was young in pregnant night
The slaves toiled at they monumental best.
Thou ancient treasure-land, thou modern prize,
New peoples marvel at they pyramids!
The years roll on, thy sphinx of riddle eyes
Watches the mad world with immobile lids
The Hebrew humbled them at Pharaoh's name
Cradle of Power! Yet all things were in vain!
Honor and Glory, Arrogance and Fame!
They went. The darkness swallow thee again
Thou art the harlot, now thy time is done
Of all the mighty nations of the sun.

~ Claude McKay (September 15, 1889 - May 2, 1948) b. Festus Claudius McKay near Clarendon Hills, Jamaica. Apprenticed to a cabinet maker; joined Jamaican Constabulary in 1909. Under pseudonym Eli Edwards, published poems in "Seven Arts" in 1917. Poem "If We Must Die," written in response to American race riots, appered in max Eastman's "The Liberator" in 1919.

Anna I loved your Autumn poem!

First I want to thank Marj for the link to africam but you are right it really isnt as good as it used to be... I loved it when I had my other computer and checked it daily.

A couple of days ago I was searching for an autumn poem on google and click on website that turned out to be one for young writers. A 13 year old girl had written a poem that really impressed me. There was a email address for her and I wrote and asked permission to post it here. She graciously agreed and the following poem is hers, I told her I was going to ask for opinions and would email her copies of any.

She had even forgotten about this and I think she must now be about 16 and busy with things 16 years old do, I encouraged her to keep writing and I feel she will , perhaps later when she is older. Here is her poem. And please make comments ..thanks ,anna

 
hello, autumn sky 
by Laurena Bobena, age 13 

kiss me 
lawfully wedded to 
OBSCURITY 
did i ever mention to you 
how I adore your 
October skin 
and eyes 
and hair? 
I doubt it. 
I get lost sometimes 
in leaf piles in front of 
your driveway 
raking away imperfections. 
I'll bring you Krispy Kremes 
as admission to inside of you 
- hypothetical in all ways 
except for the heated house. 
Kiss me now, 
I'll be the Bonnie 
to your Clyde, 
maybe unlawfully 

© copyright - Laurena Bobena - Feb 23, 2003

MarjV, thank you for the link!

Scrawler, I love Claude Mckay! I have never read "Africa." I really like that one too.

Hi Anna!

I sure did like the "Africa".

Laurena's poem is interesting. Quite full of symbolism.

I liked that one too!

If Miss Edna St. Vincent Millay had written Mr. Longfellow's "The Rainy day."

The day is dark and dreary;
Denuded is the tree;
The wind is never weary
But oh, you are of me!

I ponder on the present;
You muse upon the past
And love is only pleasant
Because it cannot last.

Still, heart! and cease your aching;
The world is rich in rhymes,
And hearts can stand a breaking
About a billion times.

~Franklin P. Adams

If Mr. H.W. Longfellow had written Miss Millay's:

"My candle burns at both ends,
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends,
It gives a lovely light."

Between the dark and the daylight
My bayberry candle burns;
It shines from out my window
For the traveler who returns

It shines with a holy radiance,
And a sacred light it sends;
It flames with a pure candescence,
And it burns at both its ends.

Not with a blaze consuming;
Not with a blistering flame;
Not with a flagrant passion
Or a heart I dare not name.

But to blaze the path of friendship
Its flame my candle lends,
For its light is the light eternal
That burns at both its ends.

~Franklin P. Adams

Scrawler on great image after the other - how warm and comfortable "My bayberry candle burns" - and Anna the love poem to autumn is really original and charming.

This one took so many different turns as I tried to depict the wonder of a hot summer day on the beach and how we all, even birds and sucking grasses plunder the day and waters giving very little in return...

Enriched by the Plunder
Across fluid space diamonds shimmer, blinding eyes held captive to sunlit white luster giddy on the blue bay. Slap – slap - sparkles creep ashore, skittish flashes skirt the sandy beach, reflect small boats gently rocking on pooled gems. The summer sun smites wind and water, holding tight everything in its grip, bleaching dunes, air, children's yellow hair. Screeching close, an echo on the breeze - strobe like grey shadows flicker, flutter, hang, twisting beats within a blind glare. Like a ghost sword, body stretched, racing the diamond waters, a heron skims the curled spray, touches infinity. Searchers, peer at the million sparks reminiscent of a blue diamond match hissing possibilities. Kites fly, frivolous castles idle in the sun, swimmers, surfers, pillage the sea as windflowers feed and drowse beneath a flight of golden moments glistening, like beads of dew upon looters of summer's casket of prose.

Scrawler and Barbara //wow ..what great poems you have offered. Each one has lines that just dig down to my deepest emotions. And Barbara what a POEM you have written..You have captured something I will never expierence again..days at the shore. When our children were young we rented a house at the beach in North Carolina for two weeks every year. first they brought friends their sex and ages , which moved to people they were dating and the last year before thier father died their spouses. You have caught all of those wonderful days in your poem and how greedy we were to just inhale and hold every minute ..but perhaps what we gave back was agreeing to remember always what a summer day at a beach meant to us ..

Today I found a poem by a new poet to me Gary Sato born in Freso Ca in 1952 And is considered a very important Chicano poet .I want to buy one of his books because in reading this poem I remember myself at this age. On the brink of maturity and wondering what was next ..

By best friend Shirley and I used to spend Saturday summers at this age going first to the Art Museum in St Louis and then to a park near and eat cherries and nibble on sandwiches we carried. She passed away some years ago and I am left alone to remember ..anna

 
Gary Soto - Saturday At The Canal   

I was hoping to be happy by seventeen. 
School was a sharp check mark in the roll book, 
An obnoxious tuba playing at noon because our team 
Was going to win at night. The teachers were 
Too close to dying to understand. The hallways 
Stank of poor grades and unwashed hair. Thus, 
A friend and I sat watching the water on Saturday, 
Neither of us talking much, just warming ourselves 
By hurling large rocks at the dusty ground 
And feeling awful because San Francisco was a postcard 
On a bedroom wall. We wanted to go there,  
Hitchhike under the last migrating birds 
And be with people who knew more than three chords 
On a guitar. We didn't drink or smoke, 
But our hair was shoulder length, wild when 
The wind picked up and the shadows of 
This loneliness gripped loose dirt. By bus or car, 
By the sway of train over a long bridge, 
We wanted to get out. The years froze 
As we sat on the bank. Our eyes followed the water, 
White-tipped but dark underneath, racing out of town.

oh zinie htat is so much the way it was. . .especially the screen and the mothers yelling. . .I loved it. . . claire

I loved it.very mature writing and thinking not only for a thirteen year old but one perhaps fifty years older. she should continue.

claire

Whirl up, sea -
whirl your pointed pines
splash your great pines
on our rocks
hurl your green over us,
cover us with your pools of fir.

~H.D. (1886-1961)

H.D. (Hilda Doolittle): She had a brief affair with D.H. Lawrence and conceived a child with composer Cecial Gray. Suffered near-fatal illness during pregancy and was cared for by novelist Bryther (Annie Winnifred Ellerman) who became her intimate companion.

Tomorrow sometime in the aftenoon my youngest daughter will give birth to her third child, second boy and my 8th grandchild so I may not be here.,It is strange to me to KNOW in advance whether you are having a boy or a girl and when this daughter had her first baby the doctor gave her a VCR tape of the sonogram We wept to see that baby in the womb...a miracle it seemed and yet the real miracle was the baby when she arrived 11 years ago.

I searched for a poem and this is the one I chose..anna

 
Algernon Charles Swinburne - Etude Realiste   

A Baby's feet, like sea-shells pink, 
Might tempt, should heaven see meet, 
An angel's lips to kiss, we think, 
A baby's feet. 

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat 
They stretch and spread and wink 
Their ten soft buds that part and meet. 

No flower-bells that expand and shrink 
Gleam half so heavenly sweet 
As shine on life's untrodden brink 
A baby's feet. 

II. 

A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled 
Whence yet no leaf expands, 
Ope if you touch, though close upcurled, 
A baby's hands. 

Then, fast as warriors grip their brands 
When battle's bolt is hurled, 
They close, clenched hard like tightening bands. 

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled 
Match, even in loveliest lands, 
The sweetest flowers in all the world - 
A baby's hands. 

III. 

A baby's eyes, ere speech begin, 
Ere lips learn words or sighs, 
Bless all things bright enough to win 
A baby's eyes. 

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies, 
And sleep flows out and in, 
Sees perfect in them Paradise. 

Their glance might cast out pain and sin, 
Their speech make dumb the wise, 
By mute glad godhead felt within 
A baby's eyes.

Algernon Charles Swinburne - Etude Realiste

Anna, what a beautiful poem!! I think this is French. Does it translate a "Realistic Study?" Correct me if I'm wrong.

I love babies!

Scrawler,

I loved the poem you posted too. Beautiful!

the back wings
of the

hospital where
nothing

will grow lie
cinders

in which shine
the broken

pieces of a green
bottle

~ William Carlos Williams

Scrawler,

I love this one. Thank you for posting it. The word "hospital" brings back a memory. William Carlos Williams, the doctor??? I have never ever seen this poem.

"Attended Horace Mann High School in New York City. Entered University of Pennsylvania school of dentistry in 1902, transferred to medical school a year later; while at Penn began lifelong friendship with Ezra Pound and met H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) and the painter Charles Demuth. Interned at two New York hospitals, 1906 -1909. Published "Poems" at his own expense. Marriage proposal to Florence (Flossie) Herman accepted before he left for year of study in pediatrics at University of Leipzig. Returned to Rutherford in 1910 and established medical practice. ~ The Library of America (biographical notes)

The Young Housewife

At ten A.M. the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
the wooden walls of her husband's house.
I pass solitary in my car.

Then again she comes to the curb
to call the ice-man, fish-man, and stands
shy, uncorseted, tucking in
stray ends of hair, and I compare her
to a fallen leaf.

The noiseless wheels of my car
rush with a cracking sound over
dried leaves as I bow and pass smiling.

~ William Carlos Williams

Oh, I am enjoying these poems. Scrawler, thanks for posting these poems. I like this one too. Maybe my library owns a book of his poems.

Thank you for his biography too.

This is a new poet to me and I will have to look like hats and see if there is a book by him at the library In years past it seemed to be by now cold weather would have arrived and winter would be knocking at our door. Have times really changed or is it just me Because I do recall my brother and his wife visiting one year for Thanksgiving and we were playing baseball out doors in short sleeves But that is rare and So I looked for a poem about October as I usually recalled..when we waited for the ponds to freeze and we could watch the skaters enjoy it all ..anna

 
e.e. cummings - Skating  

Spring is past, and Summer's past, 
  Autumn's come, and going; 
Weather seems as though at last 
  We might get some snowing. 
Spring was good, and Summer better, 
  But the best of all is waiting,- 
Madame Winter-don't forget her.- 
    O 
         You 
             Skating! 

Spring we welcomed when we met, 
  Summer was a blessing; 
Autumn points to school, but yet 
  Let's be acquiescing. 
Spring had many precious pleasures; 
  Winter's on a different rating; 
She has greater, richer treasures,- 
    O 
        You 
            Skating! 

Gleam of ice, and glint of steel, 
  Jolly, snappy weather; 
Glide on ice and joy of zeal, 
  All, alone, together. 
Fickle Spring!  Who can imprint her?- 
  Faithless while she's captivating; 
Here's to trusty Madame Winter.- 
    O 
        You 
            Skating!

I'm super-busy off-line awhile, lately. Thanks for your so-many(!) wonderful poetry/posts here!

But today I have a question others here might have helpful thoughts on. It's about USA's current poet-laureate, Ted Kooser, whose annual tenure was last April re-newed for another year..

He is a Nebraskan, the first-ever poet-laureate from the Great Plains states. His poetry is a voice for rural and smalltown America. His poetry is one thng. But my question is, do others here have opinions about his "American Life In Poetry," a weekly short poem by a living American (with intro by Kooser). He offers these FREE to newspapers...his hope being to broaden a public interest in poetry.

I applaud his idea, and his tangible efforts. And I'm composing an email to my local newspaper, asking them to consider including his weekly offering in their Sunday paper. But...I want to first seek other's knowledge/advice here. Do you know if this is a good thing for me to do...or not do? Comments pro/con...much appreciated.

For more about Ted Kooser: http://www.loc.gov/poetry/laureate_current.html

For more on his free offer to newspapers: http://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org

Any time you encourage people to read poety it is a VERY good thing so I would say "go for it!" In today's world, poety is needed more now than at any other time. If we don't encourage it could easily, because of the various distractions, in our life become like a dead language and how sad would that be.

This is a new poet for me and I thank you for the introduction.

Anne, thanks for your advice. I've taken it, and sent an email "suggestion" to my local newspaper here (Jefferson City, Missouri). It's the weekend, so I don't expect a response from them till at least mid-week.

Before doing so, I did buy Kooser's 2004 pbk "Delights & Shadows," which is 59 asundry poems in four categories. I'd cite one or two here as samples, except for copyrights. But it's not his poems that I'm praising; it's his actions in first year as USA's poet-laureate to PROMOTE poetry (as you'd spotted and seconded in your helpful reply to me here).

Your own book, "A Century To Remember," is still atop my future-treats bookshelf. I've gotten sidetracked recently in civic chores.

Thanks again for your "Go for it" advice. I've heard, and I've just done did (sic).

- Jim in Jeff.

P.S. - This is no "biggie"; but I'm Jim (not Jeff). Retired back to my roots, mid-Missouri, just last year. And state's capital of Jefferson City is, among us locals, ALWAYS called Jeff City (hence, my new "Jim in Jeff" handle). But I now happily harken to either Jim or Jeff (no biggie).

Jim I applaud your interest in poetry and like Scrawler tell you to go for it . I have posted some of his poems here I believe ? or have I just enjoyed reading them on line? In any case from what I gathered from your second link the poems that are published in the newspaper would be all right to share here. If I have any doubt about sharing a poem here ( unless it is in the public domain) I always email the poet or whomever is handling the web site where I have found the poem for permission, I have yet to have had permission denied, I believe that POETS want their poems to be shared by all but especially with lovers of poems.

I am trying to work up a program about poetry to share at local schools, I will include some of my own but also poems I think young people would enjoy, WE DONT WANT POETRY TO BECOME A LOST ART...and like Anne I think it is more important today than ever,ON to the poem for today....

I had a wonderful fresh pear for breakfast and wanted to find a poem about pears ..I did find some and have asked permission to post them but this one is from a favorite poet of mine I discovered long ago,.It really isnt about pears but a reminder that if we can feel the world around us we can feel what is inside. That is my interpretation ..any one want to share their thoughts? anna

 
Robert Herrick - IMPOSSIBILITIES: TO HIS FRIEND   

My faithful friend, if you can see 
The fruit to grow up, or the tree; 
If you can see the colour come 
Into the blushing pear or plum; 
If you can see the water grow 
To cakes of ice, or flakes of snow; 
If you can see that drop of rain 
Lost in the wild sea once again; 
If you can see how dreams do creep 
Into the brain by easy sleep:-- 
--Then there is hope that you may see 
Her love me once, who now hates me.

I looked Ted Kooser up on Google and found several of his poems. My favorite has to be "Selecting a Reader."

Anna,

I love the poem by Robert Herrick. I also love your thoughts about the poem.

Scrawler,

I will look for Ted Kooser's Selecting a Reader.

When I checked my email I had recieved gracious persmission to use this poem The author lives in Detroit and his poems are about where he lived and his life there I found them very moving ..and here is the poem I wanted to share ,,The last line of this poem really hit me ..because so many of the people I knew are no more and I miss them so and they exist only in my mind and dreams and when I am no longer here I wonder who will miss us both..anna

 
Doug Tanoury 2003 4 All Rights Reserved Detroit Poems  

Winter Pears  

On a wooden swing hanging  
From the highest bough  
Of his backyard pear tree  
We learned to fly at the  
Speed of dreams on summer  
Afternoons, leaning back  
And gripping rusted Chains and looking far up  
Into thick foliage that hid  
The dark limbs that held us.  
From the tall tree that grew  
Small winter pears  

I’d fly with him across the  
Summers and briefly  
Forget for a moment  
My parent’s marriage,  
The family finances,  
My sister’s sickness.  
In quick motion sweeping us  
Upward, we learned to fly.  

Before I knew of fallen fruit  
Or how spring winds  
Waste pear blossoms,  
I knew him.  
He flew Unfettered and without  
Cares where dreams  
Grew slow like winter pears  
On the highest branches  
To ripen and fall only  
In late summer. 
Today, under a pear tree  
Drooping with fruit  
I dreamt him here 

© Doug Tanoury 2003 5 All Rights Reserved

Anna,

Thank you for sharing this poem. It is beautiful.

His poem "Selecting A Reader" wasn't among those in "Delights & Shadows," my 2004 book collecting his latest poems. So...I too just now up and did a google on "selecting a reader"; and I found that poem a delightful short thought...a typical Kooser poem. Most of his poems focus on such one-moment glimpses of one aspect of life.

BUT I wasn't earlier applauding his poems...but rather, his Poet-Laureate initiatives to promote American poetry, via his free-to-newspapers weekly poetry tidbits by different contemporary American poets.

This is why I've just asked my local newspaper to include his freely-offered weekly "American Life In Poetry"...in their "Books" section. Hopefully, some of you will, like me, also get the urge to up and email your own local newspaper asking them to include it too, soon...?

I hear you, and agree, that his weekly entries to newspapers of other American poets' offerings could be safely cited/shared here.

A bit ago, we were talking about William Carlos Williams. And now we have poems about pears. I don't know if Williams wrote about pears, but I love this one about plums, a note to his wife:

THIS IS JUST TO SAY

I LOVE IT and what a wonderful site since you could reveal other poems by clicking on next BUT his poem about the plums delights me .. thanks so much ..anna

JoanK,

I love that poem!!!

Someone once paid me a compliment and remembering I wrote a short poem about it .. simple but reminded me that once someone special thought I was special too anna

 
You make winter warm  
No need for a coat or hats or boots  
Just the thought of you  
Warms my heart  
And in the midst of winter’s fiercest storm  
Thoughts of you  
Make me feel like a summer song. 

anna alexander October 24, 2005, 11:36 AM©

Anna,

Your poem is very beautiful.

I just read thru 17 posts. All such good "stuff". Livingf in the Detroit area I was interested in the pear poem by the Detroit poet. What a mental picture he made - carries you right into that mood.

Our library has no books by Ted K - and only children's poetry books by W. C. Williams. Odd. They do have a video cassette - as far as I can figure it must be a biography.

~Marj

Lovely poem, Anna! So full of feeling!

I"m going to put up a page for her at my site. her husand says she has a hundred or more but I'm a poor typist so we'll only do a few. Here is one. . a tender thing about a bird and more.

 

Kon-itchkå Cockateil 

crest of gold 
black shining eyes 
feathered in pearly gray 
orange suns on your cheeks 
you laid five ivory eggs 
before life fled you 
be gentled ittle one 
fly gracefully in death dreams 
trailed by your phantom nestlings 
as I bury you with your five pearls 
wrapped in a silken scarf 
uder viridian green pines whispering sutras 

Leonora Cetone Starr

Ariel

Stasis in darkness
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances

God's lioness
How one we grow
Pivot of heels and knees!--The furrow

Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch

Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks---

Black sweet blood mouthfuls
Shadows
Something else

Hauls me through air---
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels

White
Godiva, I unpeel---
Dead hands, dead stringencies

And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas
The child's cry

Melts in the wall
And I
Am the arrow,

The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red

Eye, the cauldron of morning.

~ Syvia Plath

I saw the movie "Syvia" last night and was so impressed with it, I googled to find her poems. "Arial" was published after her death by her husband Ted Hughes who was also a poet.

"In a cold blue morning of 11 February 1963, Plath took her own life." ~ Peter Keating Steinberg --- January 1999

In the light of such special poems , each a jewel ..gems of words ..I am almost embarrassed to post one of mine ..I have spent two days with my new grandbaby who is , and dont all grandmothers feel this way ? HE IS ADORABLE wonderful sweetest baby I have ever seen. of course each of mine were the same and so are the other 7 but that is what is so wonderful about babies THEY ARE ALWAYS WONDERFUL ..anyway I just chose at random a poem of mine and here it is but remember it doesnt compare with the two you shared .. anna

 
Meanderings 

When my mind should be busy with proper things  
It goes meandering, 
Skips down poesy paths  
Of sun-drenched youthful flings.  

Dawdling when we should be thinking  
Of cleaning the kitchen floor.  
Folding all those clothes  
To prevent their wrinkling  

Hiding behind memories forgotten,  
Dragging them from deep within.  
Smiling in my inner space  
I ignore my cluttered den.  

Forgetting the day’s necessity,  
It frolics in the past.  
Dances to a childhood  tune, 
Remembers the girl that used to be.  

Reminds me  when life was more carefree. 
I know I should call it back,  
Direct it to things we need to do.  
Instead I sail with it on a  placid sea.  

Meandering I  allow it to take my hand.  
Give it permission to take me back   
To all those joyous places.  
Cast aside today’s demands and stay in that pleasant land. 		 

anna alexander  
1/15/2000  
all rights reserved

It's a lovely poem! Thanks!

Hi Anna,

Another beautiful poem you have written. I like the "pleasant land" too.

Hi Zinnia!

October issue of AARP Bulletin has a "caution" article about poetry contest tricks...citing as one example some of online website poetry.com's somewhat mis-leading offers.

I found the article, titled "Write and Wronged," worth reading...particularly for potentially-gullible poety neophytes like me. It's online at: http://www.aarp.org/bulletin/consumer/scam_poetry.html

I have had my dream - like others -
and it has come to nothing, so that
I remain now carelessly
With feet planted on the ground
and look up at the sky -
feeling my clothes about me
the weight of my body in my shoes,
the rim of my hat, air passing in and out
at my nose - and decide to dream no more.

~ William Carlos Williams

"Thursday" shared on Friday (and that has made all the difference!) Thanks Anna for a lovely poem and to you Jim for warnings about on-line poetry contests. I've entered several contests over the years and exposure is the only real thing that you get. I knew someone who had entered a "big" contest almost a thousand times and never won anything, but like I'm found of saying it's the journey that is important. There are times when I wished I had lived during the 1920s and 30s which was the "golden age" of modern poetry and novels. Than more people wrote and read poetry. Now, alas, there are too many distractions to do so today.

This is rather nice:   



  Autumn Time   



  There's a time to enjoy 
The flowers of spring 
And all those pleasures 
That summer will bring    

But as the winds will change 
And the summer will set 
Nature paints a picture 
That's hard to forget    

Treasure the autumn 
All those painted leaves 
The crisp fall air 
On those moon lit eves   

It's a blessing at best 
Not costing a dime 
For all to enjoy 
Yes --- it's autumn time. .  

Llewelyn Ellsworth Dahlen

Scrawler,

Thank you for posting another William Carlos Williams poem. I wonder how many poems did WCW publish.

Jim, thank you for the information.

I like your "Meandering" , Anna.

That poem of Plaths is certainly sharp & biting.

Winsum: what a lovely tribute to your friend.

MarjV I love that poem.

Just for fun on almost Halloween -

The Monster Mash (lyrics and music)

Eye of newt, and toe of frog, 
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, 
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, 
Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing,-- 
For a charm of powerful trouble, 
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble."  

--From Macbeth (IV, i, 14-15)

MarjV,

My husband really enjoyed your link!!

re>This line, uttered by the three ugly witches in Macbeth as they stir their boiling cauldron, is one of the most familiar phrases associated with traditional witchcraft. It is the infamous recipe for spell-casting, curse-inducing witchery. People believed in witches in Shakespeare's time, and thought of them as powerful practitioners of evil. Yet while these witches in Macbeth did possess the ability to conjure up spirits, they did not really control Macbeth but rather tricked him into acting in certain ways. Having correctly predicted he would be king, they now produce ghosts who allow him to conclude that he will not be killed by anyone. These ghosts have been called into our world by the use of the infamous recipe given above, which continues with "adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, lizard's leg and owlet's wing," and an assortment of other colorful ingredients

I love to hear that sung on the Oldies station at this time of year! Glad he liked it. Did he dance?

You might call it that. At his age it's just a stiff wiggle!

Years ago my husband and I traveled to Vermont to see the autumn colors Whatever picture you may view of that state;s autumn glory misses by a 1000 miles . When we crossed the stateline we held hands it was just such a glorious view , we were both overcome with emotion,. OF course Autumn does that to me..and my husband shared my feelings . But before it leaves here is a poem I hope you will enjoy..love, anna

 
October in Vermont 

by Daniel L. Cady 

THE clump of maples on the hill,  
And this one near the door,  
Seem redder, quite a lot, this year  
Than last, or year before;  
I wonder if it's jest because  
I love the Old State more! 

If there was any poppies left,  
I guess they'd jest be vexed  
To see the hillsides all on fire  
Without the least pretext;  
Sometimes I think I'm in this world,  
And sometimes in the next. 

Jest look! the woods are made of trees,  
Instead of wholesale green;  
Jest see the "wine glass elms" stand out,  
With hemlocks in between;  
Jest see the birch flags on their staffs  
So long and white and clean! 

From Killington and Sterling peaks  
The flames are pouring down;  
The ferns below the pasture woods  
Are scorched and dead and brown;  
The shoemake fire-bugs set the blaze  
I heered last night in town. 

It's kinder more than folks can stand,  
This beauty, every year;  
The eye that's full can see no more  
Until it drops a tear;  
It's hard to tell jest where you are,  
In paradise or here.

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace---
Radiant palace--reared its head
In the monarach Thought's dominion--
I stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This--all this--was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged order went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace-door,
Through which came flowing, flowing,
flowing,
And sparkling evermore
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate
(Ah, let us mourn!--for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home, the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out foever,
And laugh--but smile no more.

~Edgar Allan Poe

Oh, I love this poem. It catches the beauty of Autumn so well. I love the "wine glass elms." Anna, I know you will always remember the trip with your husband.

Scrawler, what a perfect poem for Halloween. I do like the earlier palace better than it's change.

This name threw me for a loop, (Porphyrogene!).

Thank you. I enjoyed the poem.

Poe's poem was a good one to read for spooky doings. I looked up

Porphyrogene but did not find a meaning. Maybe it is an

exlamation of a made up type. Do you know , Scrawler?

MarjV and Scrawler,

I can't find the definition either.

I found a related word: Porphyrogenitism

n. 1. The principle of succession in royal families, especially among the Eastern Roman emperors, by which a younger son, if born after the accession of his father to the throne, was preferred to an elder son who was not so born

or this: Constantine VII, Byzantine emperor Constantine VII (Constantine Porphyrogenitus), 905–59, Byzantine emperor (913–59). He acceded after the brief reign of his uncle Alexander, who succeeded Constantine's father, Leo VI. A regency (913–20) was followed by the rule (920–44) of the usurper Romanus I Romanus I (Romanus Lecapenus), d. 948, Byzantine emperor (920–44). An admiral, he usurped the throne during the minority of his son-in-law, Constantine VII . He defended Constantinople against the Bulgars under Simeon I and in 927 made peace with Simeon's son. He also tried unsuccessfully to protect peasant and military holdings from absorption into the estates of the great landowners. ...... . In 945, Constantine expelled the sons of Romanus and began his personal rule. His main interests lay in legal reforms, in the fair redistribution of land among the peasants, and in the encouragement of art and learning. He was succeeded by his son, Romanus II.

Here's a link to my (tongue-in-cheek) party invitation for Monday night. This link is because it's to one of Seniornet's few discussion places that allows graphics (of which, my invite is full). Do click on the link (and then scroll down past SN's section headings) if you wish:

Jim in Jeff, "Boots' Tidbits~NEW" #188, 30 Oct 2005 5:18 pm

Thanks for that wonderful link I left a message for you there..spookily yours anna

This is has always been my favorite Halloween Poem although Halloween isnt mentioned ..BOO to you .. anna

 
James Whitcomb Riley - Little Orphant Annie   

INSCRIBED WITH ALL FAITH AND AFFECTION 

To all the little children: -- The happy ones; and sad ones; 
The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones; 
The good ones -- Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones. 

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, 
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, 
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, 
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; 
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done, 
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun 
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, 
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you 
Ef you 
Don't 
Watch 
Out! 

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,-- 
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs, 
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl, 
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all! 
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, 
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess; 
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout:-- 
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you 
Ef you 
Don't 
Watch 
Out! 

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, 
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin; 
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there, 
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! 
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, 
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, 
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! 
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you 
Ef you 
Don't 
Watch 
Out! 

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, 
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! 
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, 
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- 
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear, 
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, 
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, 
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you 
Ef you 
Don't 
Watch 
Out!

MarjV, thanks for the information!

Jim, thank you for the link! That's so spookily funny and fun!

When the darkness falls and danger looms
werewolves howl at shiny moons
Dogs run scared and bats take flight
flying off to the still of night
You're walking down deserted streets,
not knowing yet the things you'll meet
Whispers echo from every door,
begging you to come no more
Footsteps heard on the steps of stairs,
taunting you with stench filled air
You start to run, you try to escape,
your heart and breaths just can't keep pace

You run through the streets, screeming in fright,
but no one hears you this Halloween night
Then suddenly, through the mist filled air,
a shape appears with long grey hair
A woman with a crystall ball,
where lightening flashes through it all
Beckoning with her toothless grin
"Come closer now" and look within
A tiny movement, a careless act,
will tke you where you can't come back
But the beauty of the ball wins out,
you move closer now with stinging doubts
Forgetting the danger you look inside,
revealing the secrets it strains to hide

The paperboys scream "Man found dead"
working all day, their feet like lead
The woman listens with a knowing grin
the secret she holds close within
Waiting for the next full moon,
she walks the streets where danger looms
Humming a song no one can hear
she clutches a ball she holds so dear.

~ RL Irving

So I'll be waiting for you all
clutching close my crystal ball
Happy Halloween everyone!

I think as far as Poe's poem is concerned he took liberties with the English language. So your definition MarjV is probably as close as we'll come.

Anna great poem!

Scrawler,

I enjoyed that Halloween poem. Thank you!!

I get a weekly poem via e-mail from SalmonPoetry.com

They gave me permission to post this poem which I like very much.

Flying Kites

by Gary J. Whitehead

 From The Velocity of Dust  
(Salmon Poetry,  2004)   
copyright Gary J. Whitehead  2004 

http://www.salmonpoetry.com/velocity.html  

for Michael 

All afternoon we fight the pull of string, 
resist the snap of twine, the losing flight. 
We roam through a wide blue, shepherding 
clouds, our necks aching from the persistent 
upward tilt. Far off, the flap of small sails 
full of wind. When my brother unravels slack 
his kite dives after mine, a dogfight to sate 
that other wrestling need waiting inside us 
like the glint in a stray mongrel's eyes. 
Swerving, our kites peck at one another, 
in their tangle give up their separate shapes, 
and fall at last like one broken bird, which 
all our lives we walk toward, reeling, reeling, 
till the mending and the next good breeze

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom tho think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but they pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery,
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than they stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shatlt die

~ John Donne

I thought this poem might be appropriate for All Soul's Day.

MarjV, do children still fly kites these days? I know that when I was a child I used to race my home-made kite in the sand along the Pacific Ocean. And when the string broke, the kite would drift out over the ocean and disappear. I used to sit on the edge of a rock looking out over the ocean with a broken string and wonder if the kite would float as far as China and if some little girl there would find it.

Great kite poem, Mqarg, and kite memory, Ann. I never flew a kite. Do you think I'm too old to learn?

MarjV, thank you for the kite poem and the link too.

Scrawler, Thank you for Death by John Donne. It is very, very moving.

and each in its own way is very moving..Kites , you are never too old to fly a kite , the problem now is finding a place to safely do so. The shore is best I think if you are near one but a clear area is great . However when we moved here we lived in the country and we sent a kite aloft ..and let it go quite high but were not aware that there was an airport near. It really scared us all when our kite was so high a plane taking off was just ( or so it seems ) was very near..after that we only flew kites at the shore.. But I have great memories from my childhood, making and flying kites. You could get a kite kit ( two thin pieces of wood ) for ten cents and we would clear the kitchen table and lay the crossed pieces atop newspaper and place the kite twine in the notches of the wood , fold the newspaper over it and using flour and water paste put the kite together and then go across the street behind the houses to the great open field behind the Moose Hut and fly our kites,. it was a spring ritual and if I had a kite today I would go fly one!!! Thanks for the great poems. and I have one for you , anna

 
Robert Frost (1874–1963).     
 My November Guest  



MY Sorrow, when she’s here with me,   
  Thinks these dark days of autumn rain   
Are beautiful as days can be;   
She loves the bare, the withered tree;   
  She walks the sodden pasture lane.          

Her pleasure will not let me stay.   
  She talks and I am fain to list:   
She’s glad the birds are gone away,   
She’s glad her simple worsted gray   
  Is silver now with clinging mist.          

The desolate, deserted trees,   
  The faded earth, the heavy sky,   
The beauties she so truly sees,   
She thinks I have no eye for these,   
  And vexes me for reason why.          

Not yesterday I learned to know   
  The love of bare November days   
Before the coming of the snow,   
But it were vain to tell her so,   
  And they are better for her praise.

Vet, be not proud, though thou canst make cats die
Thou lived but one life, while we live nine
And if our lives were half as bleak as thine
We would not seek from thy cold grasp to fly.
We do not slave our dialy bread to buy;
Our eyes are blind to gold and silver's shine;
We owe no debt, we pay no tax or fine;
We tremble not when creditors draw nigh
The sickest animal that thou dost treat
Is weller than a man; in peace we dwell
And know not guilt or sin, and fear not hell:
Poor vet, we live in heaven at thy feet
But do not think that any cat will weep
When thee a Higher Vet doth put to sleep.

~ John Donne's CAT ("Poetry for Cats" ~ Henry Beard)

I thought since I gave you all a poem by John Donne; it would only be fair to give you one by his cat.

Scrawler,

I enjoyed it!!

Cool, Anne!

Great!

As a 28-yr near-DC resident, I had honor of enjoying an annual "Kite Festival" held on park-grounds surrounding the Washington Momument. This was always a "DAY" that I tried to attend (as a watcher). Lots of latest fancy kites...and some older-style ones too.

But I seldom saw there any of the older kites I'd constructed as a kid (with slim sticks, newspaper or construction-paper, and rags for tails we'd adjust to fit the day's unique wind-speeds). But yes, KITES DO STILL THRIVE/SURVIVE! Higher-tech, sure; that's progress.

Here's a click-on link to the Smithsonian blurb posted just before last April's Kite Festival: http://www.kitefestival.org/

P.S. - Thanks for posting (here and there) comments about my Halloween invite. Those of you who SURVIVED my party anyways (cackle).

We must be about the same age because your kites were my kites too,.And I and my first beau flew kites one March day and I have written a poem about that but wont post it now..My mother always tore pieces of left over cloth from her sewing to allow us to make a tail AND do you remember adding to the string when the kite was aloft and sending "messages" to the kite? I am not sure just how we did that but when thinking about it I had this vague memory pop up and I was out in the field flying a kite and sending messages. Thanks for the link to the Kite festival in DC I think I am going to send a letter to Yorktown where they have these wonderful open bluffs along the York River , that would make an ideal place to have a kite festival.. and here is the poem I chose for today.. it is a bit different than most November poems but perhaps it will remind you of a November time in your life.. I have always found November a poignant time...anna

 



 Sara Teasdale 

November 

The world is tired, the year is old, 
The little leaves are glad to die, 
The wind goes shivering with cold 
Among the rushes dry. 

Our love is dying like the grass, 
And we who kissed grow coldly kind, 
Half glad to see our poor love pass 
Like leaves along the wind.

so much depends
upon

a yellow gold
fish

washed down with bowl
water

inside the white
kitten

by William Carlos Williams's Cat (Poetry for Cats)

Scrawler~ <laughing here> Are you getting those kitty poems from a particular book?

Jim~ Your graphics in the Halloween invite were fun.

That is a funny poem ..and it made me smile which is not a bad way to start a day..Tues I will be getting a colonoscopy and wont be here most likely until sometime Wed and I have to go in early on Tuesday before I go to the hospital and vote Hopefully I will be in a condition to do so..hope a hope a ..I found a poem by Walt Whitman about election day and felt it was a good one to read ..to remind us we do get to choose who will represent us in our state elections..and may our choice be the right one.so here is that poem.. I love the fact he chose our ability to vote as the most important part of our country.... anna

 
ELECTION DAY, NOVEMBER, 1884 
Walt Whitman 

If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show, 
'Twould not be you, Niagara-nor you, ye limitless prairies-nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado, 
Nor you, Yosemite-nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyserloops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing, 
Nor Oregon's white cones-nor Huron's belt of mighty lakes-nor Mississippi's stream: 
-This seething hemisphere's humanity, as now, I'd name-the still small voice vibrating-America's choosing day, 
(The heart of it not in the chosen-the act itself the main, the quadrennial choosing,) 
The stretch of North and South arous'd-sea-board and inland-Texas to Maine-the Prairie States-Vermont, Virginia, California, 
The final ballot-shower from East to West-the paradox and conflict, 
The countless snow-flakes falling-(a swordless conflict, 
Yet more than all Rome's wars of old, or modern Napoleon's:) the peaceful choice of all, 
Or good or ill humanity-welcoming the darker odds, the dross: 
-Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify-while the heart pants, life glows: 
These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships, 
Swell'd Washington's, Jefferson's, Lincoln's sails.

The book I'm using is: "Poetry for Cats" by Henry Beard; Villard Books, New York 1994.

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul

~Emily Dickinson

There is no Cat-toy like a Mouse
To please me in my Play
Nor any Yarn-like a Bug
That strains to fly away -

No rubber Bauble can delight
No lifeless String divert -
For where is Fun if none feels Fright
Or Joy if nothing's hurt?

~Emily Dickinson's Cat ("Poetry for Cats")

I wasn't familiar with ieither of those ED poems, thanks, Scrawler. Maybe I"ll see if I can get the book at half.com

And I did & I ordered a copy of that book!!!!

Scrawler, thank you. I enjoyed both poems too. I especially like the one about "books."

from "The World is Round"

I am Rose my eyes are blue
I am Rose and who are you
I am Rose and when I sing
I am Rose like anything

~Gertrude Stein

Furball

Furball is a furball is a furball

~ Gertrude Stein's Cat

#351 1862 (R .W. Franklin ed.)

She sights a Bird - she chuckles - She flattens - then she crawls - She runs without the look of feet - Her eyes increase to Balls -

Her jaws stir - twitching - hungry - Her teeth can hardly stand - She leaps, but Robin leaped the first - Ah, Pussy of the Sand,

The Hopes so juicy ripening - You almost bathed your Tongue - When Bliss disclosed a hundred Toes - And fled with every one -

MarjV,

Thank you for another kitty poem. I missed coming over yesterday. I must have missed other poems posted.

Hats - if you back up a couple days you will see Scrawler posted several kitty poesys!

MarjV,

I did read Scrawler's poems. I really enjoyed each one Scrawler posted. I will back up and look again. I feel as though some poems might have been overlooked. Thanks for helping me.

Calico Cat's
declawed
who used to
rip the silkysoft Persian
carpet

and shred oneworthreefourfive chipmunksjustlikethat
Jesus

there was a handsome puss
and what I want to know is
how would you like your nails pulled out
Mister Vet

~ by e.e. cummings's cat

it's
spring
and

the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee

e.e. cummings

Scrawler,

I am enjoying your kitty poems. I try not to miss any posted by you.

Anna,

Thank you for posting the November poem by Sara Teasdale. I enjoy reading about the fall. Sara Teasdale writes good poetry, doesn't she? I am not familiar with many of her poems.

It is has been warm and when I went to church I wore a light weight dress and a cream suit jacket and the air felt like an early spring when its not really warm but too cold for spring..I checked into the poems I had copied on line from Doug Tanoury's online book of poetry DETROIT POEMS Who gave me permission to share his poetry here ..I chose this one for while I grew up in St Louis and never visited Detroit his poem sounds like the neighborhood where I lived until I married and moved away..so I share it with you to day ...My memories captured by another poets verse...anna

 
My House  

There is a black and white photograph  
Of the house I grew up in  
Hanging on my living room wall  
It is not known who took the picture  
But I think I did it standing behind  
The fire hydrant across the street  
The Rose of Sharon bushes are bare of  
Leaves and blossoms and winter elms  
On Holcomb street spiderweb the sky  
A shadow from a street lamp  cast  
In the street says it is late on a  
Winter afternoon and it’s a weekend  
For my father’s red and white Chevy is  
Parked in the street and my uncle’s  
Buick convertible is parked in the alley  
The blinds in the windows are closed  
Against the sunlight and my grandfather’s  
Front porch swing is oddly empty  
Everyone is gone and the house stands  
Dream like in afternoon light with faded  
And peeling paint captured in a picture  

Detroit Poems © Doug Tanoury 2003 43  
All Rights Reserved

Hi Anna,

I will look up the book titled DETROIT POEMS online. I love this poem. It reminds up of "my house" in Philadelphia. Maybe all of us share much of the same or similar memories.

Did you find it, Hats?

I just found this - an online poetry collection of his.

http://home.comcast.net/~dtanoury1/Tanoury.html

How do I break thee? Let me count the ways.
I break thee if thou art at any height
My paw can reach, when, smarting from some slight,
I sulk, or have one of my crazy days.
I break thee with an accidental graze
Or twitch of tail, if I should take a fright.
I break thee out of pure and simple spite
The way I broke the jar of mayonnaise.
I break thee if a bug upon thee sits.
I break thee if I'm in a playful mood,
And then I wrestle with the shiny bits.
I break thee if I do not like my food.
And if someone thy shards together fits,
I'll break thee once again when thou art glued.

~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Cat

MarjV,

Thank you!

Scrawler,

That's a different one! This is fun! I am sure all the puppies are beginning to feel a bit slighted. I like kitties and pups.

When you are a kitty fanatic you write d*g like that

That was a fun one, Scrawler. Chuckling away.

MarjV,

Now I am laughing!!

It's all I have to bring today by Emily Dickinson

It's all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.

What a great Emily poem....I am fond of that one. A person could send it to a dear friend or loved one.

The moon-lit fields and the smell of loam;
And the soft brown soil beneath my paws;
And the startled little mice that jump
From their nest inside a leafy clump,
As I kill my prey with sharpened claws,
And pick it up and head for home.

Then a mile or so along the street
'Til the house stands out agaisnt the sky
A whine at the door, a quick sharp scratch,
The bright blue flash of a lighted match,
Then a muffled curse, and a strangled cry,
As I drop the corpse by slippered feet.

~ Robert Browning's Cat

Happy Birthday, Annafair!! Be sure to check Dates/Graphics by clicking here for additional greetings.

H a p p y _ B i r t h d a y _
A n n a f a i r ! !

Celebrate in your underwear!
(It's a poem!)

Damn dogs and every draggled doggy thing-
Fang-spangled spaniels with slaver-slovened flews;
Gangle-lanky Afghans, funny in the head;
Slack bassets; smug pugs; Spot, Fido, Rover, King;
Whatever buries, harries, chases, fetches, chews;
All dogs lap-, bird-, watch-, guide-, sleep-, show-, slid-;
Hocks, hackles, withers, stifles, brisket, ruff;
Loud hounds or snuffling puppies (who knows whose?)
Mangy mongrel mix, snoot-snouted purebred;
And all who boister forth to strut their mutty stuff: Drop dead.

~Gerard Manley Hopkins's Cat

Happy Birthday Anna!

The DAPPLED die-away
Cheek and wimpled lip
The gold-wisp, the airy-grey
Eye, all in fellowship-
This, all this beauty blooming,
This, all this freshness fuming,
Give God while worth consuming.

Both thought and thew now bolder
And told by Nature: Tower;
Head, heart, hand, heel, and shoulder
That beat and breathe in power-
This pride of prime's enjoyment
Take as for tool, not toy meant
And hold at Christ's employment.

The vault and scope and schooling
And mastery in the mind,
In silk-ash kept from cooling,
And ripest under rind -
What life half lifts the latch of,
What hell stalks towards the snatch of,
Your offering, with despatach, of!

~Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-89) Poems. 1918

THANKS FOR THE BIRTHDAY GREETINGS It was a great birthday and I celebrated twice as much since my colonoscopy yesterday gave me good news...I have had a busy day recuperating and enjoyind some birthday messages etc.. I am sharing a poem written for an online friend and although this was a specific friend I knew when I was writing it would apply to all of the people I have met here .. so thank you for another year of friendship..anna

 
Friendship  

Degrees of friendship , there are many  
For me I have been blessed  
Some childhood friends  still remain  
A gift to touch  the past  

There is a sadness in the loss of those  
Whose  walked a way with me  
Whose laughter and smiles and love  
Smoothed the  path of other days 

Blessed  twice I have been  
With those  I still call friends  
But only in my mind  for they are gone 
Still I have you to bless  me in this  time 

You each have played a special part  
Shared confidences ,  giggling in the dark 
Shared hopes and dreams and  love  
The essences  of life’s essential spark 

Today I thank you for  your hand  
That reaches ‘cross the miles  
For the sharing  of our joys and fears , 
The  way you make me smile 

Without you life’s burdens would  
Weigh me down , like a vulture at my heart  
Because of you  my path supports less stones  
Even a storm abates in your caring words  

How does one thank a friend  ? 
For it is a gift which cant be bought  
If you were not part of my  life  
My  joy would be less, you are part of my new song.  

Anna Alexander 1/9/05 
©

Oh, Anna! That is such a beautiful beautiful beautiful poem! Simply and utterly divine and truly brilliant! And huge congrats on your good results from the colonoscopy.

Hugs,

Karen

Hi Anna,

I agree with Zinnia. Your poem is very beautiful! It strikes a cord. I am very happy about your colonoscopy too.

Scrawler,

Thank you for your beautiful poem too!

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

~Joyce Kilmer

Treed

I think that I shall never see
A poem nifty as a tree.

A tree whose rugged trunk seems meant
To speed a happy cat's ascent;

A tree that laughs at dogs all day
And serves up baby birds for prey;

A tree whose limbs are in the sky
Where clandestinely I can spy;

Until it does upon me dawn
It is a mile down to the lawn

Poems are made by cats like me,
But only you can get me of this goddam stupid tree

~ Joyce Kilmer's Cat

They arrived at St. Nazaire
And stood before the dawn
And shaved by metal mirrors
And were proud one and all

The Germans first attacked at
Rhine-Marne Canal and the
Losses were not heavy
But we felt them all

Next the Battle of Belleau Wood
Did follow and we crouched
And stayed through the cool dawn
And tried to see over the wall

Then came the battle of Marne
As we pushed the Germans back again
Each day one died and then another
And we buried them next to the wall

And because we had courage we fought
At Aisane-Marne, Amiens, and St. Mihiel
Youth ready to be wasted but we endured
And we buried them all at the wall

~Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember"

All wars have their veterans and I thank them one and all.

That is a lovely poem. Glad you posted it. I recently saw the film "In her shoes" and this E.E. Cummings poem was included. It (the movie) was the story of the connection between sisters, and I think it fits whether one is a natural sister, or a sister of the heart

I carry your heart with me(I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it(anywhere
I go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
I fear

No fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)I want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart(I carry it in my heart)

Anneo

First let me thank you for the compliments they feel like birthday gifts since mine was Wed and another funny cat poem and then the remembrance of Veterans Day Anne's Poem captures WWI where my Uncle Tommy fought and was gassed and died eventually in the Jefferson Barracks Hospital in St Louis each Armistice Day or any time a flag was flown the one my grandmother had from his funeral was hung from our front porch It was wool and had moth holes and some age stains but as a little girl I thought they were his blood stains. And in a way they were. Then WWII came along and my three older brothers served there Fortunately they all returned each one older by almost 5 years in age but there is always something about a veteran who saw the world at its worse that changes them They dont discuss it, the stories they share are about their buddies and they keep a promise and meet at reunions all thier lives , Because only those that went and fought and saw can truly understand << I searched for a poem and I can relate to this poem since my one brother fought at the Battle of the Bulge and was saved through the bravery of a Belguim farm family who hid him and his buddy in their root cellar while the Germans were asking over head Whether they had seen any Americans,The poem anneo shared sort of reminds me of the this brotherhood ,, They carry the heart of their buddies with them always and forgot not one.. anna

  
Robert Hedin - The Old Liberators   

Of all the people in the mornings at the mall, 
It's the old liberators I like best, 
Those veterans of the Bulge, Anzio, or Monte Cassino 
I see lost in Automotive or back in Home Repair, 
Bored among the paints and power tools. 
Or the really old ones, the ones who are going fast, 
Who keep dozing off in the little orchards 
Of shade under the distant skylights. 
All around, from one bright rack to another, 
Their wives stride big as generals, 
Their handbags bulging like ripe fruit. 
They are almost all gone now, 
And with them they are taking the flak 
And fire storms, the names of the old bombing runs. 
Each day a little more of their memory goes out, 
Darkens the way a house darkens, 
Its rooms quietly filling with evening, 
Until nothing but the wind lifts the lace curtains, 
The wind bearing through the empty rooms 
The rich far off scent of gardens 
Where just now, this morning, 
Light is falling on the wild philodendrons.

Thank you for the poem. I spent two years in the Air Force during WWII and well remember the sense of purpose of the soldiers of that era. I never became directly involved in the necessary butchery of the war and am grateful not to have had to go through the horror of murdering people to help the world to return to what little sanity it normally maintains in peace. I do not consider myself a member of that honorable coterie and feel deeply the regret for the loss of the sense of honor and purpose that those people carried. I have heard stories about soldiers who have experienced the necessary horrors of war. Good men who go through it always seem to feel the loss of something decent and necessary in the core of their humanity and it bonds them into something very special. There are, of course, many good men still with us today but to my eye there is a great public loss today of something vital and essential in civilization that existed then.

The General Prologue
Bifel that in that season on a day
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay
Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,
At nyght was come into that hostelrye
Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye
Of sondry folks, by aventure yfalle
In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. GP I.20-27

[In April Geoffrey Chaucer at the Tabard Inn in Southwerk, across the Thames from London, joins a group of pilgrims on their way to the Shrine of Thomas a Becket in Canterbury. He describes almost all of the nine and twenty pilgrims in this company, each of whom practices a different tade (often dishonestly). The Host of the Tabard, Harry Bailey proposes that he join them as a guide and that each of the pilgrims should tell tales (two on the outward journey, two on the way back); whoever tells the best tale will win a supper, at the other pilgrams'cost when they return. (http://www.courses.fas.havard.edu/~chaucer/canalles/gp/)

The Cat's Tale:

A Cat there was, a gentil tailees Manx
Our Hoste hadde seen astray on Thames banks
And taken home to ridden him of rats
At whiche she preved to been the beste of cats.
He longed to bringe on pilgrimage his pette,
But Puss bigan to fussen and to frete
When that she sawgh the leathern hond-luggage
In whiche she was yschlept when on viage;
She thinketh that no Canterbury mous
Be worth an expedition for hir hous,
And so she took hir leave of us apace
And crept into a secret hiding-place
And when the folk the pavement gan to pounde,
This Pussie-Cat was nowhere to be founde,
And she was leften in the hostelrye
To keepen all the rodentes campaignye;
And that is how this Cat withouten tail
Became a wel a Cat withouten tale.

~by Geoffry Chaucer's Cat

Seeking a poem for a widow's annual day-of-loss, next Tuesday.

This will be my third year doing such an email...her fourth full year of widow-hood. He was a longtime friend and co-worker; she, too, and still in touch via occasional emails.

Unless friends here suggest something better-suited, I will go this year with the Millay poem below...with my brief warning-intro, natch. A more upbeat thought, I feel, is still to be better-received on other days than this anniversary. But any/all suggestions, solicited/appreciated.

Time Does Not Bring Relief

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountainside,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go--so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay

P.S. - Scrawler, those cat-takes are priceless...thanks for sharing them here!

Since her name has come up it is worth the opportunity to display a poem by her which, to me, touches the very core of the vulnerability of each one of us to frightful happenstance in everyday life.

If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again --
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man -- who happened to be you --
At noon to-day had happened to be killed,
I should not cry aloud -- I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place --
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face,
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.

Jan,

What an interesting poem! Immediately I had to read it twice. Millay catches our feelings wonderfully. To me she is saying although she cared and her heart was pumping ever faster with anxious thoughts and she felt like jumping off that train at the next stop, she held all of those chaotic feelings inside, trying to feel strong. Really, she wanted to pull every hair out of her head because she cared and loved so much.

I have felt that way. I love that poem. You want to give in to every crying emotion in your body, but it's not the right moment.

Scrawler,

Like Jan, I am loving your poems too!

That we have several poems on death because I have one to share as well. Someone mention this poem to me and although crtics and people who knew the poet and the word HE would make you feel they are right in thinking this was for Audens Lover When I read it I related since it certainly decribes my feelings on the loss of my husband. So Jef it seems you have several choices.. anna

 
Funeral Blues 
W.H. Auden 

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,  
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,  
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum  
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.  

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead  
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.  
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,  
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.  

He was my North, my South, my East and West,  
My working week and my Sunday rest,  
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;  
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.  

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,  
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,  
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;  
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Anna,

That poem gives me goose pimples!! When death comes to a loved one, I have always wondered why or how the rest of the world could go on moving. This poem is sooooo moving. Thank you. The poem isn't sad. It just makes me realize the significance and importance of our family and friends.

Together we waited for the morning sun
A sun that would bring us another day
We both wanted relief
You from your pain and I from my fear

During those last days we talked
And you would tell me about
Other sunrises and other sunsets
And I would listen

You would speak of the dawns of your youth
That changed from gold to pink to red
And back to gold again
Over the mountains of New Mexico

Then with sadness you would speak
Of a red and burnt orange sunset
That painted the rivers and land of
Vietnam a blood red

Together we remembered the morning sun
As it filtered through the stain glass windows
Casting shadows of pink and yellow
The day we took our vows

I alone watched that last sunset with you
But you did not see it for you were gone
Now I think about you every time
I see a Sunrise, Sunset.

~Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler) "A Century to Remember"

O world! O life! O time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more--Oh, never more!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight;
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar,
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more--Oh, never more!

~Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

Abyssinias:

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: A huge four-footed limestone form
Sits in the desert, sinking in the sand.
Its whiskered face, though marred by wind and storm,
Still flaunts the dainty ears, the collar band
And feline traits the sculptor well portrayed:
The bearing of a born aristocrat,
The stubborn will no mortal can dissuade.
And on its base, in long-dead alphabets,
These words are set: "Reward for missing cat!
His name is Abyssinias, pet of pets;
I, Ozymandias, will a fortune pay
For his return. He heard me speak of vets-
O foolish King! And so he ran away."

~ Percy Bysshe Shelly's Cat

Having shared a last day your poem moved me and touched me deeply I know there are many things that spark my memories of our life together and the finality of the end and yet...how can we regret when what we shared was special and life's gift? I feel, like me even through the pain of loss there is a joy in remembering the knowing..thanks for that AND please tell me again which book are you reading those cat poems from ? hugs, smiles and love across the miles ..anna

In researching a poem to share I came across one from a poet unfamiiar to me .. He was a Poet Laureate and I read several of his poems before choosing this one...Now I am not sure what it means to me ..will have to give it more thought so I wonder if any of you reading it would like to give your opinion ..what does it mean to you? anna

 
Richard Wilbur - The Ride   

The horse beneath me seemed  
To know what course to steer  
Through the horror of snow I dreamed, 
And so I had no fear, 

Nor was I chilled to death  
By the wind’s white shudders, thanks  
To the veils of his patient breath  
And the mist of sweat from his flanks. 

It seemed that all night through, 
Within my hand no rein 
And nothing in my view 
But the pillar of his mane, 

I rode with magic ease 
At a quick, unstumbling trot 
Through shattering vacancies 
On into what was not, 

Till the weave of the storm grew thin, 
With a threading of cedar-smoke, 
And the ice-blind pane of an inn 
Shimmered, and I awoke. 

How shall I now get back  
To the inn-yard where he stands, 
Burdened with every lack, 
And waken the stable-hands 

To give him, before I think  
That there was no horse at all, 
Some hay, some water to drink, 
A blanket and a stall?

A Glossina morsitans bit rich Aunt Betsy,
Tsk tsk, tsetse.

~ Ogden Nash

Paradox:

I wonder why no human ever seems to catch on
That things aren't forbidden are no fun to scratch on.

~Ogden Nash's cat ("Poetry for Cats" by Henry Beard; Villard Books; New York 1994) He also wrote "French for Cats" and "Advanced French for Exceptional Cats".

The poem puzzled me. Great meter...but it said little to me at first. So...I researched the poet a bit, in hopes that knowing where he was coming might help me better hear his poem.

There's a helpful looooong-ish 1995 interview with Wilbur at CLICK HERE wherein he explains his general "voice" (pretty well, I think).

And "The Ride" seems to me "typical Wilbur." Unlike many contemporary poets, Wilbur still uses meter/rhyme, rather than free form; also, he says he tends to focus on tangible objects more than on abstract concepts.

Also, early on, he'd focused on EA Poe's methods to pattern some of his own...particularly (in this case) Poe's "continual buildup via repeated symbols and structures to picture a soul's gradual transition from a waking reality into visionary dreams." (That's better said in paragraph 12 of that webpage's interview, the long paragraph that is Wilbur's 6th reply to the interviewer's questions.)

And to me, that's about what "The Ride" does; i.e., switch between dream and reality (making sure one doesn't cancel out the other).

Perhaps others see other things in this poem (I hope). For starters anyways, that's most of what I'm first seeing there.

I was so mesmerized by reading the link you provided I almost forgot I had a poem to share today ..The Ride was very real to me as Wilbur used a number of descriptions that were real even if one has never been on a horse I could see the steam from his breath , his mane near and flowing with the wind and the ride ..and then it is finally over and he is tired and ready for sleep.. and already fears he never rode that horse at all . makes me feel that way about life ..often when I look back and REMEMBER all the places I have lived both overseas and in the states and all of the things I have done and I see me now a senior lady , whose children are growing old and grandchildren growing up and at 12 and 11 ( the oldest ones ) are looking DOWN on my 5' height and my mind wonders DID I DREAM IT ALL? thanks so much for that link ..anna

Here is the poem I chose for today to think about ..and I love the picture she paints .. I am so grateful for an imaginative mind ..one that sees what is not visable to the eye but is vivid and real in the mind' eye ...anna

  
Night Clouds 

The white mares of the moon rush along the sky 
Beating their golden hoofs upon the glass heavens; 
The white mares of the moon are all standing on their hind legs 
Pawing at the green porcelain doors of the remote heavens 
Fly, Mares! 
Strain your utmost 
Scatter the milky dust of stars, 
Or the tiger sun will leap upon you and destroy you 
With one lick of his vermilion tongue.  

by Amy Lowell

I test my bath before I sit,
And I'm always moved to wonderment
That what chills the finger not a bit
Is so frigid upon the fundament.

~ Ogden Nash

One of Nine Million Reasons Why Cats Are Superior to Dogs:

The next time you put on your waterproof togs
And venture outside while it rains us and dogs,
Ask which you'd rather have land on your noodle:
A cute little cat or a ninety-pound poodle?

~ Ogden Nash's Cat

I love this one. It makes me remember the sky is never just a blue bowl over our head. I am also reminded that clouds are really fluffy toys which can take any shape we wish. It's wonderful to have an imagination!

Thank you, Scrawler1

Jim,

Thank you for the link.

I know dead mice aren't very nice
When dropped right at your feet;
You no doubt wish you could entice
Your cat to be discreet

But as you view the things I slew
Just think what luck you've got:
Your basement's free of caribou,
And I'm no ocelot.

~ Ogen Nash's Cat

She walks in booties, like a sprite
With pixie feet and fairy toes;
Her paws on ice will ne'er alight
Nor feel the chill of frigid snows;
And all the rays of winter's light
Shine on her collar's satin bows.

And from her soft enchanted fur
Exudes the scent of sweet shampoo
And precious oils distilled from myrrh
That give her hair its magic hue:
I long to hear her charming purr
And share the music of her mew.

But as I watch her take the air,
My spellbound vision starts to fade;
I feel at once a dark despair;
My feline heart is sore dismay'd;
For not content to make her fair,
Her doting owners had her spay'd!

~ George Gordon, Lord Byron's Cat

Helen's Cat, From Mephistopheles, etc.
Or the Tragical History of
Doctor Faustus's Cat
by Christopher Marlowe's Cat

Was this the puss that munched a thousand mice
And napped atop the towers of Ilium?
Sweet cat, your kiss will give me nine more lives!
Her purr doth make a furball of my soul:
See where it issues from my gaping mouth!
Come, kitten, come, give me my soul again.
Here will I dwell, and for a kiss from thee
I will despoil the stately halls of Troy,
Smash painted urns to bits with wanton paws,
And slash to ribands costly tapestries,
For in thy shining whiskers heaven lies,
And all are dogs that are not Helen's cat.

Had a poetry gathering this evening at a small book store but they did not know the cat poetry Guess I will try Barnes and Noble I love them ..It has turned cold here , 29 at this hour (3 AM)but the best thing about cold weather are the stars...in summer there always seems to be a haze and few stars in the city can be seen When the weather turns cold they are brilliant and light the sky...anna

 

Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay 

THE DEATH OF AUTUMN  

When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, 
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind 
Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned 
Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, 
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, 
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,-- 
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes 
My heart.  I know that Beauty must ail and die, 
And will be born again,--but ah, to see 
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! 
Oh, Autumn!  Autumn!--What is the Spring to me?

I really love Edna St. Vincent Millay. The poem is so fitting for this time of year. I hate to see the colorful leaves fall from the trees. Everything is dying now. It's a time of preparation for winter. Still, we know that life will come again, spring. Thank you Anna.

Thank you too, Scrawler. Your poems are enjoyable as well.

Brave Beocat, brood-kit of Ecgthmeow,
Hearth-pet of Hrothgar in whose high halls
He mauled without mercy many fat mice,
Night did not find napping nor snack-feasting.
The wary war-cat, whiskered paw-wielder,
Bearer of the burnished neck-belt, gold-braided collar band,
Feller of fleas fatal, too, to ticks
The work of wonder-smiths, woven with witches' charms
Sat on the throne-seat his ears like sword-points
Upraised, sharp-tipped, listening for peril-sounds
When he heard from the moor-hill howls of the hell-hound,
Gruesome hunger-grunts of Grendel's Great Dane,
Deadly doom-mutt, dread demon-dog.
The boasted Beocat, noble battle kitten
Bane of barrow-bunnies, bold seeker of nest-boody:
"If hand of man unhasped the heavy hall-door
And freed me to frolic forth to fight the fang-bearing fiend,
I would lay the whelping low with lethal claw-blows;
Fur would fly and the foe would taste death-food
But resounding snooze-noise, stern slumber-thunder
Nose-music of men snoring mead-hammered in the wine-hall,
Fills me with sorrow-feeling for Fate does not see fit
To send some fingered folk to lift the firm-fastened latch
That I might go grapple with the grim ghoul-pooch."
Thus spoke the mouse-shredder, hunter of hall-pests,
Short-haired Hrodent-slayer, greatest of the pussy-Greats.

~by the Old English Epic's Unknown Author's Cat*

Modern English verse translation by the Editor's Cat.

among other things ,,For some reason I am a week early or late or something I think I have lost the week of my colonoscopy .. dieting , drinking the abominable preparation, the event itself , the recovery etc because THANKSGIVING IS this coming Thursday and it is my duty to prepare the desserts, A good gift to me this year my youngest son and family have moved to a much larger home where the will now partially take over my former job HOSTESS WITH THE MOSTESS ..I have been asked to make a pecan pie and a chess pie and a pumpkin pie but not the old familiar one but one I have found that has a cheese cake bottom and fluffly pumpkin top ..so am sharing Thanksgiving poems and whether we celebrate one that is peculiar to America I would think most likely every country has someting similair A time to be Thankful Here is today;s poem.anna

 
The Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving 
(Edgar Albert Guest, 1881-1959) 

It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell 
Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well; 
But thinking of them now I wish somehow that I could know 
A simple old Thanksgiving Day, like those of long ago, 
When all the family gathered round a table richly spread, 
With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at the head, 
The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile, 
With mother running in and out and laughing all the while. 

It may be I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me to-day 
We're too much bent on having fun to take the time to pray; 
Each little family grows up with fashions of its own; 
It lives within a world itself and wants to be alone. 
It has its special pleasures, its circle, too, of friends; 
There are no get-together days; each one his journey wends, 
Pursuing what he likes the best in his particular way, 
Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving Day. 

I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad 
To meet the way they used to do when I was but a lad; 
The old home was a rendezvous for all our kith and kin, 
And whether living far or near they all came trooping in 
With shouts of "Hello, daddy!" as they fairly stormed the place 
And made a rush for mother, who would stop to wipe her face 
Upon her gingham apron before she kissed them all, 
Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small. 

Then laughter rang throughout the home, and, Oh, the jokes they told; 
From Boston, Frank brought new ones, but father sprang the old; 
All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do, 
The struggles we were making and the hardships we'd gone through; 
We gathered round the fireside. How fast the hours would fly-- 
It seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye. 
Those were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew 
When relatives could still be friends and every heart was true.

Get ye a human while ye may,
When you are still a kitten,
For by a cat too long a stray
Men's hearts are seldom smitten.

The master of yon cozy house
May wed a maid with puppies;
Or set a trap to catch that mouse
Or buy a bowl of guppies.

Cold rains will soon the summer drown,
And ice will crack the willow;
And though the snow is soft as down,
It makes a chilly pillow.

Then hands that would have stroked your head,
When you came in from prowling,
Will hurl at you a boot instead
To halt your awful howling.

~ by Robert Herrick's Cat.

My children's book is public now and there's a preview of it on my blog at http://spaces.msn.com/members/musemonkey/

Anna — That poem really says it all. My exact feelings. I long for the old family gatherings but they stopped as soon as my dad died and have gotten even skimpier between then and now. Because my son-in-law walked out a couple of weeks ago, we won't be participating in his family's Thanksgiving, either (and neither will he) and will be having our Thanksgiving here. We used to do it on Friday, regardless of where we were on Thursday, so I guess it's not that different. These days, with both parents working, I guess they see Thanksgiving more as a chance to go somewhere than a chance to gather with family and give thanks. The school district here has furthered that by arranging a week's vacation.

Scrawler — I am so enjoying all the cat poems. Each and every one gives me a good laugh.

Hugs,

Karen

and for all who share here.. Zinnia I clicked on your link wanting information about your book but I must have done something wrong because I didnt get it ...My children keep the Thanksgiving memories alive by celebrating with as many of the family as they can, This year I am glad to say I DONT HAVE TO DO IT ! My youngest son and wife will . but I am baking the pies and to be honest that is the part I love best..Here is a poem with the author unknown ,short but I liked it as I love the Thanksgiving poem by Guest .. he captured my memories well ..anna

 
Thanksgiving Time 
(Author Unknown)   

When all the leaves are off the boughs, 
And nuts and apples gathered in, 
And cornstalks waiting for the cows, 
And pumpkins safe in barn and bin, 
Then Mother says, "My children dear, 
The fields are brown, and autumn flies; 
Thanksgiving Day is very near, 
And we must make thanksgiving pies!"

I chased a mouse beneath the stair
It went to ground, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it ran, my sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I coughed a hairball in the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For though my sight is sharp and true,
I saw not where that fur-bullet flew.

Some time afterward, quite by chance,
I spied them both in a single glance;
For the mouse in a corner lay dead,
A hairball loged in his tiny head.

~by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Cat

at the cat poem..Oh I have to get that book,..Well for two days I have made cookies for Christmas gifts and tomorrow I bake to pies for our Thanksgiving dinner,. I looked up a familiar poem /song and I have always heard it was about Thanksgiving but it seems the original authoress wrote it about Christmas But I am going to use Thanksgiving because that is what I recall.Plus some say to grandfathers house ...To me it would have been my Aunt Mary's and it looks like the NE may have that snow for Thanksgiving ....anna

 
Written by Lydia Maria Child, author of American Frugal Housewife, The Family Nurse, and others. 

1844 





Over the River and Through the Woods, 
To Grandmother's house we go.  
The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh  
Through white and drifted snow.  

Over the River and Through the Woods,  
Oh, how the wind does blow.  
It stings the toes and bites the nose  
As over the ground we go.  

Over the River and Through the Woods, 
To have a full day of play.  
Oh, hear the bells ringing ting-a-ling-ling,  
For it is Thanksgiving  Day.  

Over the River and Through the Woods, 
Trot fast my dapple gray;  
Spring o'er the ground just like a hound,  
For this is Thanksgiving Day.  

Over the River and Through the Woods, 
And straight through the barnyard gate.  
It seems that we go so dreadfully slow;  
It is so hard to wait.  

Over the River and Through the Woods, 
Now Grandma's cap I spy.  
Hurrah for fun, the pudding's done;  
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie.

To go outside, and there perchance to stay
Or to remain within: that is the question:
Whether 'tis better for a cat to suffer
The cuffs and buffets of inclement weather
That Nature rains on those who roam abroad,
Or take a nap upon a scrap of carpet,
And so by dozing melt the solid hours
That clog the clock's bright gears with sullen time
And stall the dinner bell. To sit, to stare
Outdoors, and by a stare to seem to state
A wish to venture forth without delay,
Then when the portal's opened up, to stand
As if transfixed by doubt. To prowl; to sleep;
To choose not knowing when we may once more
Our readmittance gain: aye, there's the hairball;
For if a paw were shaped to turn a knob,
Or work a lock or slip a window-catch,
And going out and coming in were made
As simple as the breaking of a bowl,
What cat would bear the household's petty plagues,
The cook's well-practiced kicks, the butler's broom,
The infant's careless pokes, the tickled ears,
The trampled tail, and all the daily shocks
That fur is heir to, when, of his own will,
He might his exodus or entrance make
With a mere mitten? Who would spaniels fear,
Or strays trespassing from a neighbor's yard
But that the dread of our unheeded cries
And scrtches at a barricaded door
No claw can open up, dispels our nerve
And makes us rather bear our humans' faults
Than run away to unguessed miseries?
Thus caution doth make house cats of us all;
And thus the bristling hair of resolution
Is softened by with the pale brush of thought,
And since our choices hinge on weighty things,
We pause upon the threshold of decision.

~From Hamlet's cat
by William Shakespeare's Cat

Scrawler,

That is so adorable!!

I love it and can understand that cat ..I think all cats are the same and this poem describes all of mine well . Thanksgiving is a special and historic day for Americans..a reminder of how it was all those years ago and a thankful we have survived ..Our present menus are reminders of what the first celebration was about ..the food that was present that day and although our meals are full of things they never knew about it is good to remember compared to many countries and many people our Thanksgiving dinners are feasts too many have never expierenced so I am posting a poem about thanks ..anna Thanksgiving

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

We walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
Of pleasures sweet and tender.

Our cares are bold and push their way
Upon our thought and feeling.
They hang about us all the day,
Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives
And conquers if we let it.

There’s not a day in all the year
But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
To brim the past’s wide measure.

But blessings are like friends, I hold,
Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise
Of worry or of trouble.
Farseeing is the soul and wise
Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
As weeks and months pass o’er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
A grand Thanksgiving chorus.

Found a place for a variety of poets from other places ..this one appealed to me ..and I am also trying to learn how to use color in my posts so if I come up with some wild things OVERLOOK ME ! Here is the poem'..anna The Poet By Bernard O’Dowd

They tell you the poet is useless and empty the sound of his lyre,
That science has made him a phantom, and thinned to a shadow his fire:
Yet reformer has never demolished a dungeon or den of the foe
But the flame of the soul of a poet pulsated in every blow.

They tell you he hinders with tinklings, with gags from an obsolete stage,
The dramas of deed and the worship of Laws in a practical age:
But the deeds of to-day are the children of magical dreams he has sung,
And the Laws are ineffable Fires that from niggardly heaven he wrung!

The bosoms of women he sang of are heaving to-day in our maids:
The God that he drew from the Silence our woes or our weariness aids:
Not a maxim has needled through Time, but a poet had feathered its shaft,
Not a law is a boon to the people but he has dictated its draft.

And why do we fight for our fellows? For Liberty why do we long?
Because with the core of our nerve-cells are woven the lightnings of song!
For the poet for ages illumined the animal dreams of our sires,
And his Thought-Become-Flesh is the matrix of all our unselfish desires!

Yea, why are we fain for the Beautiful? Why should we die for the Right?
Because through the forested æons, in spite of the priests of the Night,
Undeterred by the faggot or cross, uncorrupted by glory or gold,
To our mothers the poet his Vision of Goodness and Beauty has told.

When, comrades, we thrill to the message of speaker in highway or hall,
The voice of the poet is reaching the silenter poet in all:
And again, as of old, when the flames are to leap up the turrets of Wrong,
Shall the torch of the New Revolution be lit from the words of a Song!

Of cats' first disobedience, and the height
Of that forbidden tree whose doom'd ascent
Brought man into the world to help us down
And made us subject to his moods and whims,
For though we may have knock'd an apple loose
As we were carried safely to the ground,
We never said to eat the'accursed thing,
But yet with him were exiled from our place
With loss of hosts of sweet celestial mice
And toothsome baby birds of paradise,
And so were sent to stray across the earth
And suffer dogs, until some greater Cat
Restore us, and regain the blissful yard,
Sing, Heavenly Mews, that on the ancient banks
Of Egypt's sacred river didst inspire
That pharaoh who first taught the sons of men
To worship members of our feline breed:
Instruct me in th'unfolding of my tale;
Make fast my grasp upon my theme's dark threads
That undistracted save by naps and snacks
I may o'ercome our native reticence
And justify the ways of cats to men.

~by John MIlton's Cat

Mongrel! Mongrel! Barking blight,
Bane upon my yard at night;
What infernal hand or eye,
Could frame they vile anatomy?

In what stagnant sump or pool
Steep'd the slobber of thy drool?
What the wrath dare he incur?
What the hand dare weave thy fur?

Who the crackpot, who the nut
Would wish to make an ugly mutt?
And when thy heart began to tick,
What weird hand witheld the brick?

Where's the crank who loos'd thy chain?
From what peapod came thy brain?
What warp'd artist shaped thy face?
Whose foul crime the canine race?

When the cats gave up their prowls,
And cowered from the hellhound's howls:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Flea make thee?

Mongrel! Mongrel! Barking blight,
Bane upon my yard at night;
What infernal hand or eye,
Could frame thy vile anatomy?

~by William Blake's Cat

You are cracking me up with those cat poems I have to go to Barnes and Noble and see if they have this book.. Well Thanksgiving was a great day and today I have been workin gon Christmas gifts but found a poem the meant a lot to me ..For December is just around the bend and I think December has always (save Christmas ) been a sad month for me ..I really hated the dark days and am depressed and when the time came when I faced December alone this poem seemed to say it all..anna Alone

The abode of the nightingale is bare,
Flowered frost congeals in the gelid air,
The fox howls from his frozen lair:
Alas, my loved one is gone,
I am alone:
It is winter.

Once the pink cast a winy smell,
The wild bee hung in the hyacinth bell,
Light in effulgence of beauty fell:
I am alone:
It is winter.

My candle a silent fire doth shed,
Starry Orion hunts o'erhead;
Come moth, come shadow, the world is dead:
Alas, my loved one is gone,
I am alone;
It is winter.

Walter de la Mare

I love the alone poem!

Cottontails:

I wandered hungry as a hawk
That floats on high o'er hills and dales,
When all at once I stopped to stalk
A clutch of little cottontails;
Beside the lake, among the reeds,
Quavering and squealing in the weeds.

As featherbrained as the bugs that land
And dally in my dinner bowl,
They clung together in a band
Around the bottom of a hole:
A dozen saw I at a glance,
Frozen with fear in terror's trance.

And though they did not dance or play
But simply sat and stared at me,
A kitten could not be but gay,
In such delicious company:
I ate - and ate - the whole sweet pack.
Oh, what a tasty rabbit snack!

And oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
That conjures up a favorite food;
And then into a ball I scrunch,
And dream about that bunny lunch.

~ by William Wordworth's Cat

Anna,

We can understand your emotions a little bit more after reading the poem. Thank you for sharing it.

Hi Scrawler!

Is not my favorite time of the year, Perhaps it is remembering when I was a child and winter was bitter with cold, No easy heat then, but a coal furnace that was banked at night and my father before work would go to the basement and shake the coals and add coal so soon I would stand on the hot air register and feel the welcome warmth instead of the cold floor. So when I read a poem about cold winter it really speaks to me..anna Sara Teasdale
A Winter Night

My window-pane is starred with frost,
The world is bitter cold to-night,
The moon is cruel and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite
.

God pity all the homeless ones,
The beggars pacing to and fro.
God pity all the poor to-night
Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow
.

My room is like a bit of June,
Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,
But somewhere, like a homeless child,
My heart is crying in the cold.

Anna,

I like the Sara Teasdale poem too. We heard the whistle of the wind last night. It is such a lonely sound.

In Xanadu did Kubla Kat
A splendid sofa-bed drecree
With silken cushions soft and fat
A perfect feline habitat
Set on a gilt setee.
And twice ten yards of fine brocade
The golden ottoman arrayed:
And there were pillows packed with airy down
Hand-plucked from sacred swans in Thessaly;
And lace draped from a massive silver crown
Adorned the ornate rosewood canopy.

And ah! that seat effused a potent lotion
Pressed from the leaves of rare hypnotic herbs
Sweet source of wondrous dreams that naught disturbs
Oh magic mint! Sublime and blisful potion!
The fragrance of that place of slumber
Floated on the balmy breeze
Drawing kittens without number:
Persians, Manx, and Siamese.
It was a miracle of opulence,
A shining sofa-bed with catnip scents!

A songbird with a small guitar
In a vision I once did note:
It was a wise and winsome owl,
A sweet and elegant fowl,
Sitting in a pea-green boat,
Singing a song to me,
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
We danced by the light of the moon.

And when I arose from languorous swoon
I built that divine divan,
That cushy couch! that smell of spice!
And all who saw should stop and yawn,
And none would cry, Get down! Begone!
The lights are dimmed, the curtains drawn.
Tiptoe around him, still as mice,
And let him catnap on his bed,
For he on catnip leaves has fed,
And lapped the milk of Paradise.

~by Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Cat

Scrawler,

I love it!! I like the "songbird with a small guitar."

I am looking for an old Christmas poem about 2 boys .There were two urchins and one was named Billy and the other was Johnny. Johnny is the one who narrates the poem. They lived in an abandoned house. They had never experienced Christmas because they were too poor so they would walk around the 'rich' part of town and look in the windows. They wondered if Santa was really God. At the end of the poem, on Christmas morning, sunlight shines into the attic of the house and there are two lifeless forms and we find out they have been taken to heaven.

The only line I have is " Billy and me just wanted some tea" If you know the Title, Author or any other lines that would be helpful .

Thanks, Hazelanne

This is not your poem, but is a song recorded by Rolf Harris, an Aussie icon, which is kind of nice, hope you find your poem

Two little boys had two little toys
Each had a wooden horse
Gaily they played each summer's day
Warriors both of course
One little chap then had a mishap
Broke off his horse's head
Wept for his toy then cried with joy
As his young playmate said

Did you think I would leave you crying
When there's room on my horse for two
Climb up here Jack and don't be crying
I can go just as fast with two
When we grow up we'll both be soldiers
And our horses will not be toys
And I wonder if we'll remember
When we were two little boys

Long years had passed, war came so fast
Bravely they marched away
Cannon roared loud, and in the mad crowd
Wounded and dying lay
Up goes a shout, a horse dashes out
Out from the ranks so blue
Gallops away to where Joe lay
Then came a voice he knew

Did you think I would leave you dying
When there's room on my horse for two
Climb up here Joe, we'll soon be flying
I can go just as fast with two
Did you say Joe I'm all a-tremble
Perhaps it's the battle's noise
But I think it's that I remember
When we were two little boys

Do you think I would leave you dying
There's room on my horse for two
Climb up here Joe, we'll soon by flying
Back to the ranks so blue
Can you feel Joe I'm all a tremble
Perhaps it's the battle's noise
But I think it's that I remember
When we were two little boys

Anneo

On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward
slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
"Raven's very tasty," thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor,
"There's nothing I like more."

Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Toward his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing
clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the
corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor-
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.

Sill the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he
uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents' worth-
"Nevermore."

While his dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly lept up, pouncing on the feathered
bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore-
Only this and not much more.

"Oooo!" my pickled poet cried out, "Pussycat, it's time I dried
out!"
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I've wallowed in self-pitty, while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put an end to that dammed ditty" - then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clamber, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped - and smashed it on the floor.

~ by Edgar Allan Poe's Cat

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson's Cat

Cat-turds on parquet blocks
Are one clear sign for thee!
'Tis time to do the cleaning of the box
Which you put out for me.

For while to you my litter seems pristine,
To me it plainly reeks,
Like stinking bilges in some barkentine
Becalmed for weeks.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And there shall be no inkling of farewell,
When I embark.

And though you call for me with plaintive cries
That echo from the rocks,
You will not see your cat materialize,
'Til you have cleaned my box.

by Walt Whitman's Cat

Part I:

I situate myself, seat myself
And where you recline I shall recline,
For every armchair belonging to you as good as belongs to me.

I loaf and curl up my tail,
I yawn and loaf at my ease after rolling in the catnip patch

My tongue, every fiber of my fur, form'd from this soil, this
mole that lives in this soil,
Born here of native cats born here from native cats the same,
and their sires and dams the same,
I, now seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping never to see a vet.

Note: There are six parts to this poem.

cat poems that make me laugh and a narrative poem that made cry .. a good combination . and I have never heard a poem about those boys but am going to inquire in my poetry class if anyone might have read it ...will get back to what I find ' It is supposed to return to winter tonight and I have pansies yet to plant I guess I will bring them in. as you know I write poetry, once in awhile I even write one I thing is pretty good but the best thing is reading other peoples poetry .. I have an online friend who for ten years has fed my poetic soul . today the temperature and the wind made me chill and I put a small fire in my little stove and read a real gift , A book of poems from this on line friend This one I found especially found a place in my heart , To me the poet is thinking, dreaming of what he would like as winter closes in and I would love to join him ...anna By the Fireplace

Keep my heart warm
Connected to my toes
So not to fly
Above teal flecked clouds
Traveling south to lakes
That lie waiting
Groves of pine
Drifting green mirrors
Silent songs caressing my heart
Flowing to mountain tops
Snow coated, frost spiced sugar crystals
Clinging gray overhangs , sky tipped
Reaching for clouds above my mind
Tasting them
Before circling, spiraling
Skimming treetops for soft water
Rising to meet the reaching webs
Splashing water furrows
Resting in a silky envelope
Holding my heart .
.

Ralph Manzi A Southern Poet

A long-time friend of mine (and SeniorNetter), Liz Larrabee, is a terrific writer, photographer and poet. She travels the world photographing the things and people not normally photographed, is a regular columnist for a newspaper in Florida (I think it's something like "The Sun-Tribune"), and writes tons of poetry, much of it about being a child in the era of The Great Depression. This is a poem from one of her books, called "Random Pieces."

RANDOM PIECES
....©Liz Larrabee

Reeking with the penetrating odors
of tanned leather and motor oil
black monster machines pounded
clickety-clacks until sudden silence
signaled Saturday pay checks.

Brick building empty, curious kids peeked
through soot-streaked windows
of the Flint Shoe Factory wondering,
without it being on our conscious minds,
Were we the next generation of
cutters and stitchers?

Outside the back door we scavenged
through pieces dumped at random
piled chin-high, odd shapes and sizes
left from stamped-out uppers of authentic cow-hide.

We raced home with our precious batch of salvage
to cut and overhand-stitch tiny purses
or holders for our fountain pens--compared.
Shared secrets we had unlocked
from impossible triangles of dyed-blue calf,
stringy leftovers of the apprentice,
or that rare find--a soft suede rectangle.
Ah, what a little girl’s imagination
could do with such a piece!

In winter, weary workers were imprisoned
behind closed windows, snowed in tight
with mounds of spiked heels,
patent leather tongues and shoe shanks

While we slid down the hill
along the side of the mill
on the whirling tin tops of oil drums.

Here is a link to her website that I made for her many years ago:

Liz Larrabee's Talking Pictures

If you scroll down on that page, you will find a link to Random Pieces and you can read many more of her poems there. You can also find a link to at least one of her books there.

Oh! I love those winter poems. We are expecting snow here in Portland, Oregon, so I went out in the rain this morning and rescued my sweaters from the cleaners and stocked up on food for six or seven days. My daughter and her husband are chuckling [they just moved from Rhode Island]. But as I'm found of saying to each his/her own. I'll drive in rain but I draw the line at even walking in snow!

Meow of Myself, et al: Part II:

Who naps there? rummaging, sly, whimsical, cute;
How is it I extract strength from the mice I eat?

What is a cat anyhow? why am I one? why aren't you?

All you mark as your own I shall take as my own,
Else what is the point of having me around.
I do not grovel the way dogs grovel the world over,
Nose-down digging up bones and fetching the flung stick.

Whimpering and whining to be taken for a walk, longing for
the lesh, bred to come to heel for a hundred generations;
I wear my flea collar as I please indoors or out.

Why should I beg? why should I do tricks? why should I
capitulate and be obsequious?

Having pawed through closets, snoop'd beneath the stair,
ransack'd the drawers and open'd every carton,
I find no finer stuff than the fur that grows on my own body

Stay tuned for part III.

by Walt Whitman's Cat

Kosmos, a tabby, of Walt Whitman the cat,
Corpulent, hairy, playful, sleeping, snacking, and rambling,
No exhibionist, no show-off around men and women or
apart from them,
No more tamed than untamed.

Throw open the doors and hook them to the walls!
Install cat-doors in the walls themelves!
Whoever declaws another declaws me,
And whatever is done in pet hospitals is offensive to me.

Through me the furballs rising and rising,through me the
detritus of meals long past.

I utter the cat-sound primeval, I give the meow of the
democratic kitty,
I bathe in America's copious dust,
I sip cool water from her flowerposts and toilet bowels.

I lick myself, there is a lot of me and all so luscious,
Each mealtime and whatever happens to drop from the dinner
table fills me with joy,
I cannot tell what my instincts know, nor whence the source of
my deepest urge,
Nor the cause of the impulse to gallop off, nor the cause of
the impulse to gallop back again.

Behold the day-break!
I awaken you by sitting on your chest and purring in your face,
I stir you with muscular paw-prods, I rouse you with toe-bites,
"Walt, you have slept enough, why don't you get up?"

Stay tuned for Part 4.

Lots of quality posts here lately. I'm offline a whole lot lately. Love this forum's "good reads"; thanks for your great posts, Gang!

Thanks also for your several poem-suggestions for 4th anniversary of my widow-friend. I finally chose to email her the Millet one I'd earlier cited here: "Time Does Not Bring Relief." This one wasn't BETTER than other suggestions...I just felt that it FIT her mood better.

I enjoyed all the "November thoughts" posted here. Sadly, our current segue into December will mostly focus on Christmas (the worthiest of subjects, but one that can often become just a repeat of former years' poetry and other seasonal customs).

I'm way behind y'all here. But here's one about seguing from Nov 30th into Dec (A.E. Housman, 1859-1936, "The Night Is Freezing Fast"):

The night is freezing fast,
To-morrow comes December.

And for December (non-seasonal), how about this from John Keats' 1817 "In Drear Nighted December":

In drear nighted December
Too happy, happy tree
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity.

Or...from Claude (1890-1948) McKay's "Flame-Heart":

I have forgotten much, but still remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.

P.S. - Scrawler, those cat-parody poems are gems. I hope all of us will recognize many of the various poems each cat is...uh...parodying. Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" being our current cat-caricature culprit, natch.

I believe that a leaf of catnip is no less than the birthright
of a kitten,
And a June bug is equally welcome, and a buzzing fly, and the
chick of the wren,
And the chipmunk is an hors d'oeuvre for the highest,
And the running bunny would belong on a table in heaven,
And the wriggling rodent in my paw puts to shame all restaurants,
And the shew crunched between my jaws surpasses any banquet,
And a mouse is a greater miracle than anything that touches the
palates of quintillions of gastronomes.

I find I assimilate yarn, beads, pieces of string, rubber bands,
paper clips, house plants,
And am spackl'd with bits of chewed mammals and bird-babes
all over,
And have consumed what is put before me for any reason,
But cough anything back up when I desire it.

In vain the sudden dash or subterfuge,
In vain the nervous squirrels scatter nuts at my passing,
In vain the field mouse retreats beneath the procreting mulch,
In vain breakable objects steady themelves and assume different
shapes,
In vain the fishpond stilling its surface and the giant carp
hunkering down in the depths,
In vain the moth flutters agaisnt the window screen,
In vain the gerbil takes to the inner corners of its box,
In vain the songbird seeks his sanctury in the sycamore,
I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the highest crook of
the tree.

Chapter 5 coming soon.

I love the Claude Mckay lines. Thank you!

Hi Scrawler!

Listener down there! why do you hide from me?
Look up at my face while I bellow in the baffles of evening,
(Talk promptly, no one else hears me, and I do not want to spend
the night up here.)
Do I make a nuisance of myself?
Very well then I make a nuisance of myself,
(I am a cat, I posses an attitude.)

I ululate toward him who should raw nigh, I wait on the tree-limb.

Has he done his day's work? when is supper?
Who wishes to play with me?

Will you speak before I go berserk? why are you so late?

The final part 6 coming soon.

I hate to say but winter is not my favorite time of the year Even as very young child I could hardly wait for the New Year to arrive ,, I didnt know about the winter soltice. I only knew that at 4:30 PM the day was through and I could no longer go out to play and I would sit on top of the register and feel the warmth flow upward from the furnace or at night huddled in the covers of my bed I dreamed of spring .. Were it not for Christmas it would have been a month without joy, So I wrote a poem about that time. When the children were small I didnt mind winter as much . Central heat helped and we played card games or fun games like Clue before it was bed time and you could sit up read late into the night without freezing ...anna I wish I loved winter

Winter has arrived and with its cold and icy hand
I find my heart is curdled by the dark dank land
Even when the sun is shining its slanted light
Feels cold and I shiver in its frigid blight
The happiness I feel in spring is congealed
By snow and ice , the darker days reveals
December is a month that tests my will
To survive its cold , its ancient chill
Some where deep within my spirit knows
Remembers a time of heavy snows
When man and animals huddled in a caverns lair
Hoped the fire would warm the glacial air
Allow them to survive until winter disappeared
Until the earth turned and spring was near
Now I despair to venture far from home
My dog and I face the winter …all alone.

anna alexander December 6, 2005, 7:07 AM©

That's a rather sad poem, but at least you had a good companion to keep you company. My mother would never allow me to keep any pets. I was an adult and married before I had a cat or a dog. Now, I wouldn't know what to do without my cat.

Part 6:

The noisy jay swoops by and reviles me, he complains of my meow
and my malingering.

I too am not a bit subdued, I too am uncontrollable,
I sound my splenetic yowl over the roof of the house.
The last clouds of day draw back,
They part, and one final shaft of light casts my long shadow
on the lawn below,
It reminds me how far I am from the ground.

I sniff the cooling air, I twitch my whiskers at the setting sun,
I shiver as the wind riffles my fur into fluffy waves.

I berate myself for the climb that took me from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me above your hat-brim.

You can never know where I am or what I am,
But I am good company to you nonetheless,
And really do regret I broke your inkwell.

Failing to find me at fist keep looking,
Missing me one place search another
I sit up here waiting for you to come and carry me down.

The sea smell sweet to-night,
The tide is low, the soft waves roll
Along the beach; - on the French coast, a light
Gleams, and is gone; let's hope some tipsy Frog
Ran down a poodle. From the tranquil bay
Comes the distant tang of fresh-caught sole!
Only, below in the waterway,
Battered prows part the wisps of fog,
Listen! you hear the deep-toned toll
Of buoy-bells which the boats' wakes rock, and ring,
As they return and tightly clog
The slow unloading of the catch, and bring
The delicious scent of supper in.

Epicurus's cat long ago
Smelled it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind a just-deboned turbot
Unguarded in the kitchen; he
Could well have been the father of the thought
That something's to be said for gluttony.

The smell of fish
Grows stronger still, and on the kitchen stair
A box of neat fillets sits packed with ice.
And now I clearly hear
The monger's wgon rattling through the square,
Delivering the dinner dish
From the seafood shop down by the iron pier.
Farewell to thoughts of dreary mice!

Ah, fish, thee is no fare
Quite like a flounder! They surely will not miss
A piece or two from stacks of sole like this;
I'll steal a few, but leave the lion's share.
Look! the lamplight on the lane is pretty;
They're back from walking out on Dover Beach.
I think I'll hide and spare myself the speech,
For we are in a world untouched by pity
Where ignorant humans curse the kitty.

~by Matthew Arnold's Cat

Something called me to keep Advent this year - been reading a small book with a daily lesson - early last week after much thinking on how for me God is spirit and dwells inside each of us I started to think of what Advent really means for me and created this prayer that I thought I would share - I leave early next week for the long drive to my daughter's where the traditions of family being together will be the center of our days where as this week I can continue clearing, cleaning, polishing what surrounds me and what is inside my heart and mind... the color of each stave is meant to add meaning as well.

Advent Prayer

Dear lord, remembering how I genuinely love Christmas,
like a child content with candles and carols and good food,
basking in the warmth of familiar traditions, acts of kindness,
and general goodwill, help me remember
my body and soul is not limited to eating and drinking
as I light the way with deeds towards the arrival of a full spirit.

It is easy to forget the reality of Your coming -
arriving in the night while on a journey,
parents intent and with humility, obeying society's will.
Like feathers falling, the birth in the dank stable during the cold night
when the door of the inn was closed,
a Higher Power arranged the timing and place to reflect the most light.

I pray the essence of Advent will permeate my body and soul with
the desire to prepare for your arrival, intent on deeds,
arranging my life to grow my spirit to fullness, like a dove,
meticulously inspecting, cleaning, lubricating feathers to shine -
that I remain watchful, shining my light on the way
toward the heavenly and eternal, willing to risk change for a new beginning,
without covetous eyes on goods and faith,
that I will open the door to the arrival of the wonder of my light.

for keeping this discussion alive .. as soon as I feel like going to B&N I am going to see if they have that book of cat poetry...Barbara thanks so much for sharing your prayer poem I think that not only does the cold and shorter days depress me but home is not the place it used to be. My children grown, married with children, with a spouses family to consider, with my husband gone now in March 06 for 12 years the Christmas of my past no longer exists, The pattern of past Christmases no longer just isnt there and in some small ways I grieve for it .. My chidren are good and I am included in their family Christmas but I still feel a sense of nostalgia for what used to be,. Your poem reminds me that as important as those times were they were NOT the reason for the season,

I found a poem by Shakespeare .. that reminds me there are other things that are worse than winter weather ,..thanks William.. anna Blow, blow, thou winter wind

by William Shakespeare

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing . . .

If you can disappear when all about you
Are madly searaching for you everywhere,
And then just when they start to leave without you,
Turn up as if you always were right there;
If you can shed your hair in any season,
And cough up half of all that you devour,
And rush from room to room without a reason,
Then sit and stare at nothing for an hour;

If you can kill the baby birds that twitter,
But not the voles that eat bulbs by the score;
If you can scatter heaps of kitty litter,
Yet still leave droppings strewn across the floor;
If you can tear a precious rug to tatters,
But keep your scratching post unmarked by claw;
If you can play with china till it shatters,
But never touch your cat toys with a paw;

If you can try to nap where someone's sitting,
Although there is another empty chair,
Then rub against his ankle without quitting
Until he rises from your favorite lair;
If you whine and whimper by a portal
Until the bolted door is opened wide,
Then howl as if you've got a wound that's mortal
Until he comes and lets you back inside;

If you can give a guest a nasty spking,
But purr when you are petted by a thief;
If you can find the food not to your liking
Because they put some cheese in with the beef;
If you can leave no proffered hand unbitten,
And pay no heed to any rule or ban,
Then all will say you are a Cat, my kitten,
And - which is more - you'll make a fool of Man!

~ by Rudyard Kipling's Cat

To meet my daughter and the rest of my family, and this prayer says everything I feel, thanks for that Barbara. I'll carry it with me.

Anneo

We will be thinking of you and Barbara and all who are traveling to spend time with loved ones. Go WITH GOD and may HIS Peace be with you ..and bring you safely home .. love anna

With a forecast for SNOW I thought this poem would be the right one to share this cold rainy day here ...anna

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Snow-flakes

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

I must arise and hide now, or go to Innisfree,
To the dank hut he built there, of mud and rubbish made:
The only thing you'll find there is about a billion bees
And mushed-up beans in a soggy glade.

And you get bit by ticks there, for ticks come dropping down,
Dropping from the leaves of the nettles, to lodge within your fur;
There breezes smell of cow-flops, the lake is dirty brown,
And right next door lives a nusty cur.

I will arise and hide now, for any time I see
The box in which I'm carried positioned by the door,
I know it's time to vanish, and to the cellar flee:
My Innisfree beneath the floor.

~by William Butler Yeat's Cat

and more to come.. there is January and February before we can hope for warmer days and sometimes not even then If we have any readers from warmer climes please share a poem about sunshine and beaches and flowers blooming ..we who are freezing > well perhaps that is a not quite true but who in winter's gales hear in our minds the soft voice of warmer days...of course the poem I am sharing is about WINTER .. what else? LOL anna The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fevourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

I saw a dog pursuing automobiles;
On and on he sped.
I was puzzled by this;
I accosed the dog.
"If you catch one," I said,
"What will you do with it?"

"Dumb cat," he cried,
And ran on.

****

A man said to the universe,
"Sir, I exist!"
"Excellent," replied the universe,
"I've been looking for someone
To take care of my cats."

~by Stephen Crane's Cat

This poems reminds of of where I grew up and the small towns where many of my aunts and uncles lived ( 11 on one side and 13 on the other and then all of the inlaws etc) we lived in a small town near St Louis and what later became Route 66 ran by our front yard ,, There were so few cars when I was small my brothers and I would sit on the front steps and count them on a summer's eve. any way for all the main streets from my past here is a poem that speaks to me ...anna Poetry of Joyce Kilmer Main Street
I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea,
But it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be
When it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow,
And over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go.

Now, Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it was a pleasant thing,
And its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the Spring;
I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat,
Because I think it is humaner than any other street.

A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels,
And a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels:
It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends,
But it cannot be human like Main Street, and recognise its friends.

There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day,
And twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to play.
And there wasn't a wagon or buggy, or a man or a girl or a boy
That Main Street didn't remember, and somehow seem to enjoy.

The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train
They make the weary city street reverberate with pain:
But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart
Of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart.

God be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across the sky,
That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die.
Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown,
But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown.

Call the opener of litle round tins,
The strong-fingered one, and bid him spill
From kitchen cupboards concatenating cans.
Let the rabbits nibble on fresh greens
As they are wont to do, and let the moles
Dig tunnels in the path of the lawnmower.
Let food be finale of wish.
The only emperor is the emperor of tunafish.

Take from the drawer on slides,
The one where the gadgets are kept, that thing
With which you dismantle metal lids
And twist it so as to remove the top.
Be sure to scrape off all the stew or hash
Before you throw the cover in the trash.
Leave the can beside the dish.
The only emperor is the emperor of tunafish

~by Wallace Steven's Cat

William Butler Yeats - Mad As The Mist And Snow

Bolt and bar the shutter,
For the foul winds blow:
Our minds are at their best this night,
And I seem to know
That everything outside us is
Mad as the mist and snow.

Horace there by Homer stands,
Plato stands below,
And here is Tully's open page.
How many years ago
Were you and I unlettered lads
Mad as the mist and snow?

You ask what makes me sigh, old friend,
What makes me shudder so?
I shudder and I sigh to think
That even Cicero
And many-minded Homer were
Mad as the mist and snow.

Anna: fantastic. Do you mind if I post it in Latin class?

The apparition of those noses on the glass
Mushrooms on the wet, slick grass.

~ by Ezra Pound's Cat

I haven't a clue to the meaning of Ezra Pound's poetry and his cat's poetry isn't any clearer.

Love that snow poem!

and remind people to stop in here !!

Snow
By John David

'Who affirms that crystals are alive?'
I affirm it, let who will deny:
Crystals are ebgendered, wax and thrive,
Wane and wither; I have seen them die.

Trust me, masters, crystals have their day,
Eager to attain the perfect norm,
Lit with purpose, potent to display
Facet, angle, colour, beauty, form.

Water-crystals need for flower and root
Sixty clear degrees, no less, no more;
Snow, so fickle, still in this acute
Angle thinks, and learns no other lore:

Such its life, and such its pleasure is,
Such its art and traffic, such its gain,
Evermore in new conjunctions this
Admirable angle to maintain.

Crystalcraft in every flower and flake
Snow exhibits, of the welkin free:
Crystalline are crystals for the sake,
All and singular, of crystalry.

Yet does every crystal of the snow
Individualize, a seedling sown
. Broadcast, but instinct with power to grow
Beautiful in beauty of its own.

Every flake with all its prongs and dints
Burns ecstatic as a new-lit star:
Men are not more diverse, finger prints
More dissimilar than snow-flakes are.

Worlds of men and snow endure, increase,
Woven of power and passion to defy
Time and travail: only races cease,
Individual men and crystals die.

John Davidson (1857-1909) was a Scottish poet who after trying his hand at teaching came to London a little after his thirtieth birthday. Unfortunately, even in London he continued to struggle, but nevertheless remained a busy writer with various poetry collections, literary dramas and novels to his name. He established a small reputation as a lyric poet, but earned little money. Despairing, he drowned himself in the ocean near Penzance in 1909.

Let us roam then, you and I,
When the evening is splayed out across the sky
Like a kitten neutered on a laboratory slab;
Let us stray on paths through neighbors' yards
Behind the boulevards
Where raccoons scuttle in the refuse bins
Scattering cellophane and potato skins:
Paths that follow like a nagging accusation
Of a minor violation
To lead you to the ultimate reproof...
Oh, do not say, "Bad kitty!" Let us go and prowl the city.

~ by T.S. Elliot's Cat

Another lovely Snow poem!

In the rooms the cats run to and fro
Auditioning for a Broadway show.
The soft white cloud that surges through the rubbish heap,
Flows into the corners of the million-dollar set;
The wave of dry-ice smoke that rolls waist-deep
Lathers the human actors' fake-fur suits
As they ham it up to the mucic's beats,
Forms into pools in the orchestra pit
And leaves a chemical smell on the front-row seats.

~by T.S. Eliot's Cat

And indeed there will be time
For the soft white smoke that spills along the stage,
Curling in wisps around the rubbish heap;
There will be time, there will be time
To calculate in human years your feline age.
There will be time to wheedle and cajole,
Time to beg the guests who come to tea
To drop leftover tidbits in your bowl;
Time to sniff at a kitchen scrap,
And time yet for some unforeseen obsessions,
And time for new digressions and transgressions,
Before the taking of another nap.

In the rooms the cats run to and fro
Auditioning for a Broadway show.

~By T.S. Eliot's Cat

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I shed?" and, "Do I shed?"
Time to turn back and stretch out on the bed
And give myself a bath before I'm fed -
(They will say: "It's the short-haired ones I prefer.")
My flea collar buckled neatly in my fur,
My expression cool and distant but softened by a gentle purr -
(They will say: "I'm allergic to his fur!)
Do I dare
Jump up on the table?
In an instant there is time
For excursions and inversions that will make me seem unstable.

~ by T.S. Eliot's Cat

They tell us we may have snow here for Christmas so I am preparing by reading SNOW poems Here is one by Billy Collins a US poet laureate I heard him read some of his poetry two years ago and I found him to be a funny fellow ,..nice , anna Snow Day Billy Collins
Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows

the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.

In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed,
the All Aboard Children's School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with -- some will be delighted to hear --

the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and -- clap your hands -- the Peanuts Play School.

So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.

For I have known the ones who feed me, known them all -
Have known my humans well and leaned against their shins,
I have measured out my lives in catfood tins;
I know the voices calling with a singsong call:
But is it dinner, or is it time to hide?
And should I go outside?

And I have known the hands already, known them all -
The hands that pet you while you try to take a nap,
The brusque insistent thumbs, the fingers lacking in tact,
And when I am kneaded like a bread-dough ball,
Then how should I react?
Should I cough up a furball in your lap?
Then should I go outside?

And I have known the feet already, known them all -
Feet that are booted or slippered or bare
(And tread upon your tail when you lie along the stair.)
And is it true it rankles
When I rub against your ankles?
Feet that cross beneath the table, or walk along the hall.
So should I go outside?
And then demand to come back in?

~ by T. S. Eliot's cat

ANNAFAIR: I like that poeM a lot.

AnnaFair, I love it too. I have enjoyed all the wintry and holiday poems.

Do you know, I have walked along the neat suburban streets
And seen the hand-drawn posters of missing cats
Stapled to the maples where poodles lift their legs?...

I should have been two pairs of spotted paws
Padding across a sea of sighing grass.

And in the afternoon, the evening, I sleep so fitfully,
Tickled by a bony digit,
I sleep...but you notice that I fidget.
Stretched out beside you on the old settee,
Should I, after liver snacks and tastes of last night's spat,
Though I have brought a mouse (grown slightly cold) and dropped
it on the landing,
I am no predator - life outdoors is too demanding.
I like a proper dinner and my kitty litter. I have seen the Infernal Vet inspect my teeth, and titter.
In short, I am a 'fraidy cat.

~ T.S. Eliot's Cat

OK, this will be just ONE quiz challenge. WHAT MEMORABLE OLD FOLKSONG IS OFTEN SUNG THIS TIME OF YEAR USING THESE (version one) LYRICS...?

The first version below IS my question. The second version reveals the answer within its lyrics. So please do try "naming the tune" before scrolling to the second version below.

VERSION ONE

What child is this, who, lay to rest,
On Mary's lap, is sleeping,
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,
While shepards watch are keeping?

This, this is Christ the King
Whom shepards guard and angels sing.
Haste, Haste, to bring him laud,
The babe, the son of Mary.

Why lies he in such mean estate
Where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christian, fear; for sinners
Here, the silent Word is pleading.

This, this is Christ the King
Whom shepards guard and angels sing,
Haste, Haste, to bring him laud,
The babe, the son of Mary.

So bring Him incense, gold, and myrrh,
Come, peasant King to own him;
The King of kings salvation brings,
Let loving hearts enthrone Him.

This, this is Christ the King
Whom shepards guard and angels sing,
Haste, Haste, to bring him laud,
The babe, the son of Mary.

OK...so: To what folksong are the above words often sung...?

Made your answer-choice? OK, below is another (perhaps first) version of same folktune. Title, I think, becomes obvious in these lyrics:

VERSION TWO

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved you well and long,
Delighting in your company.

Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady greensleeves.

Your vows you've broken, like my heart,
Oh, why did you so enrapture me?
Now I remain in a world apart
But my heart remains in captivity.

I have been ready at your hand,
To grant whatever you would crave,
I have both wagered life and land,
Your love and good-will for to have.

If you intend thus to disdain,
It does the more enrapture me,
And even so, I still remain
A lover in captivity.

My men were clothed all in green,
And they did ever wait on thee;
All this was gallant to be seen,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,
But still thou hadst it readily.
Thy music still to play and sing;
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

Well, I will pray to God on high,
That thou my constancy mayst see,
And that yet once before I die,
Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me.

Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,
To God I pray to prosper thee,
For I am still thy lover true,
Come once again and love me.

This old folksong (often performed as an instrumental) is Greensleeves, natch. Merry Christmas, fellow poetry fans!

Merry Christmas Jim in Jeff and All!!

I didn't guess the folksong. Boohoo!

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Amid the broken cups, the nibbled plants,
Amid the cat hairs on your best grey pants,
Amid the claw marks in the carpet pile,
Would it have been worth my while
To have dropped a half-dead chipmunk in the hall
And left it squirming like a pregnant pause,
As if to say, "I would have purchased you a pocket watch instead,
But as a cat, I lacked the werewithal"-
Or if sitting on a pillow by your head,
My look might mean: "I am not sure what I am doing here at all. I am an animal, after all."

~ T.S. Eliot's Cat

Yes, I love "Greensleves"! Didn't know the first version though until I read the first line of the second one!

I did guess the folksong, because I found myself singing the first to the second's tune. I had never noticed before.

Ironic, since the folksong is rather bawdy.

On another light note, the subject of Rolf Harris came up on another web site. Since I'd never heard of him, I looked up the lyrics to his songs. Enjoy:

Here is "Tie me Kangaroo down, Sport"

KANGAROO

and here are the rest of them:

ROLF HARRIS LYRICS

And would it then be worth while, after all,
Would it then be worth my while
Amid the splintered chair legs and the lacerated rugs,
Amid the scratches on the banister, amid the shredded drapes that
frame the terrace door,
Amid the fragments on the floor -
If I could shatter my mystique,
If that bitter yellow fluid from the bottle with dropper could
enable me to speak,
Then would it be worth while
If, sitting on the sofa in my customary sprawl,
I should turn in your direction, and remark:
"I am really not upset at all.
I just grew tired of my rubber ball."

~T.S. Eliot's Cat

Thanks to Hats, JoanK, and Scrawler for enjoying my earlier Greensleeves quiz here. Maybe others here did try it too...?

JoanK, I enjoyed your Kangaroo link. You ought to consider posting it (and links to Rolf Harris's other gems) onto SN's Australia Forum. That forum needs quality posts such as yours.

As for Greensleeves being a bit "bawdy" in parts, I somewhat agree. However, I'll quibble a little. Here's one online def of "bawdy":

A term used to describe coarse, low, sexual humour or dialogue.
Bawdy is usually the preserve of lower-class characters,
but this can serve to make it even more startling when it comes from noble characters.
Hamlet is obsessed with corruption, sexuality, and the 'rank sweat' of copulation.
He is frequently bawdy, as when he says to Ophelia 'That's a fair thought to lie between maid's legs'
(and makes other suggestive remarks to her).

Such a definition of bawdy might easily also include gems such as the poetry behind Carl Orff's choral "Carmina Burana"; the whole of "Song of Solomon" in Old Testament; etc. Good stuff, "bawdy" or not, IMHO.

But 'tis far too deep a subject; I've suddenly...a headache.

This one is about Christmas carols (poems set to music, almost always).

How well do you know the songs sung at Christmas? Do you know who wrote them and why? Here's a quiz I'd rate...TOUGH! I got only 3 of its 14 right (9, 11, & 14...if you must know). And your score, forum friends...?

Christmas Carol Quiz

1. When were carols first sung in North America?

2. Which carol was written by a man whose son was wounded in the Civil War?

3. Which famous recording star first thought that a new Christmas song, which was to later sell ten million copies for him, was silly?

4. Which carol was attributed to Martin Luther but was not written by him?

5. Which Christmas song was written for Thanksgiving...in 1857?

6. Which carol's words were written by an orphan and its music by a blind man?

7. What song was introduced by Eddie Cantor in 1934 after he almost rejected it because it was too "kiddie"?

8. Which is the oldest carol written in the English language that is still sung today?

9. What Christmas song was written in 1953 "for adults only"?

10. Which Christmas carol is based on a Latin poem, has been translated into over 75 languages, and is incorrectly often called "The Portuguese Hymn"?

11. In 1942 a Christmas song was presented for the first time. What is its title? Who wrote it? And in what movie was it introduced to the public?

12. Unitarian minister Edmund Sears wrote a carol that encouraged everyone to listen for the angels' song. Which one was it?

13. Which carol was written just after the Civil War by a pastor who had recently returned from a trip to the Holy Land?

14. What Christmas carol is sometimes called the "song from heaven"?

End of questions. Do give above a good try before checking the following answers...written right-to-left (in reverse), natch:

1. noissiM noruH eht ta ,5461 nI

2. "yaD samtsirhC no slleb eht draeH I"

3. "reednieR desoN-deR eht ,hploduR" gnos eht--yrtuA eneG

4. "regnaM a ni yawA"

5. "slleB elgniJ"

6. "yrolG fo smlaeR eht morf slegnA"

7. "nwoT ot gnimoC sI sualC atnaS"

8. "llewoN tsriF ehT"

9. ttiK ahtraE yb gnus--"ybaB atnaS

10. "lufhtiaF eY llA ,emoC O"

11. "nnI yadiloH" nilreB gnivrI "samtsirhC etihW"

12. "raelC thgindiM a nopu emaC tI"

13. "mehelhteB fo nwoT elttiL O"

14. "thgiN tneliS"

I've a bit more in-depth info about several of these answers. If interested, just ask.

And here I come to find Jim posting delicious riddles and Oh I loved tie mey kangaroo down sport ..it brings back memories ..I did get the one about Greensleeves since I loved both versions and SANG them both.. But the later quiz was new to me and I loved finding out the answers which were easy for me since when I was in school my best friend and I used to send notes written backwards.. it was our code LOL neve won I nac od ti llew later I always felt it was a peculiar part of my personality Doing things backwards!

Today is the shortest day of the year and one that has always depressed me I think the spirits of my Celtic ancestors are embedded in my soul for I dred this day, It makes me sad and yet tomorrow when the sun comes up I will feel lifted and know that each day now will bring a few seconds more of daylight .. Here is a poem a found and somewhere I have one of mine .. and if I find it will post it later but for now five days from Christmas is a poem ..anna

The Shortest Day by Susan Cooper

So the shortest day came, and the year died,
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive,
And when the new year's sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, reveling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us - Listen!!
All the long echoes sing the same delight,
This shortest day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, fest, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome Yule!!

No! I am not a Pratical Cat, now was I meant to be;
I am a household pet - I will suffice
To warm an empty room, dispatch some mice,
Distract you with my play, amuse a guest:
An easy pet to own, a small expense,
Fastidious, a bit inscrutable,
Tempermental, quick to take offense;
At times, indeed, wholly unsuitable -
Almost, at times, a pest.

~ T.S. Eliot's Cat

Wow! What neat stuff to fill my cobwebbed brain with!

Scrawler, I truly love your cat-parodies of major American poems. But I'm a bit unique. A few years ago I revisited American literature via night-college courses. So I now recognize many of the classic poems being parodied by "cat"; quicker than do some others here, maybe.

Tonight I've no ideal suggestion as to how to ensure that more of us readers also enjoy these parodies as much as you and I. You certainly can't type in both the cat's parody AND its corresponding source-verses. No way!

Here's one inadequate thought: Perhaps just your added to each Cat's parody, your words such as: "Apologies to (poet's name, poet's poem) would help a bit...? For example, your latest gem "The Love Song Of J. Morris Housecat" might also include on title line: (Apologies to T.S. Eliot's 1917 "Love Song of J Alfred Pruflock.")

Just one idea; certainly neither a full (nor best) solution. But maybe my musings above aren't needed a-tall. I enjoy these cat-parodies on classic poetry. As do lots of others here...for sure!

Annafair, you never cease to amaze me, as to the parallels in our two separate lives.

You once called St Louis home; as did I (1959-76), plus visiting my Mom (a Rosie-the-Riveter) there 1942-59.

And you're now in southern Virginia; in my most recent 28 years (1976-2004) I was in northern Virginia.

Even today, I'm just a mile south of US 50 (an east-west highway that also disected my northern Virginia abode...and is near your current weather patterns in southern Virginia).

And as for your recent diminishing hearing...well, in my career years I had to do that too. I led folks...many someimes muttering along the way. I learned how it was best to have a "tin ear," not hearing some things said behind my back.

Lately, I've gotten a primary-doctor (never had one, before). And first off, he's seen my "insides" (blood pressure, for starters). Yep, I've always had to show a calm exterior; but my interior...is an open book to my doctor. I can't hide my internals from him; so won't.

To end this post with a poem: Here's a Happy Hanukkah to our friends whose holiday this year begins at sundown Christmas day: Hanukkah, Oh Hanukkah
Come light the menorah
Let's have a party
We'll all dance the hora
Gather round the table,
We'll have a treat
Shiny tops to play with,
Latkes to eat.

There's other versions of this holidays song. In most versions, it's more about the pleasure of gathering with family and friends during this holiday rather than about religious services.

Thanks for the suggestion Jim in Jeff. I will work on it in the next poem I submit but for now I'll give you the last verse of "The Love Song, etc."

I grow fat...I grow fat...
I shall wear white woolen booties and a silly hat.

Shall I have my fur shampooed? Do I dare to eat some quiche?
I shall wear a little jacket and walk upon a leash.
I will never know the knicknacks from their niche.

I do not think they'll have me put to sleep.

I have seen the tomcats in the vacant lots
Parading through the ash piles in a pack
With their tails hooked high and their ears bent back.

We will gather on a fuming rubbish heap
And prowl the musty alleys of a slum
Til human voices call us, and we come.

by T.S. Eliot's Cat

Yesterday I cared for my 2 mos old grandson while my daughter went Christmas shopping.. His 16 and 11 year old sisters and his 9 year old brother came home from school while I was there and the first thing they wanted to see was this tiny little baby. He is so sweet and already looking around. I sang to him some silly songs and he smiled broadly and almost laughed He was unexpected for his mother is 38 and really didnt plan on having another baby but he has brought us all such joy..and so we have our dreams and I have chosen a poem about dreams..and have written a poem about dreaming as a senior telling us to keep dreaming because we can let our children but more importantly our grandchildren know we should NEVER stop dreaming..anna

Dreams by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

It seems when I was growing up we had a lot of White Christmas's Perhaps it is just my imagination and the ones where it snowed on Christmas stand out it my memory amd others are forgotten. I have lived through Christmas in Arizona, Florida and Okinawa and in those warm times like the song writer who wrote poems set to muscic I dreamt of a White Christmas .. anna PS I know I am a day early it is only the 23rd but tomorrow I will be busy and wanted to post this The sun is shining, the grass is green,
The orange and palm trees sway.
I've never seen such a day, But it's December the 24th
And I'm longing to be up north.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,
Just like the ones I used to know,
Where the treetops glisten
And children listen
To hear sleigh bells in the snow.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,
With every Christmas card I write,
May your days be merry and bright,
And may all your Christmases be white.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,
Just like the ones I used to know,
Where the treetops glisten
And children listen
To hear sleigh bells in the snow.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,
With every Christmas card I write,
May your days be merry and bright,
And may all your Christmases be white.

© 1942 - Irving Berlin

Thank you for reminding us to continue to dream. I have really enjoyed all the snowy and holiday poems so much.

Happy Holidays to All!

Piazza Piece
~John Crowe Ransom
I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying
To make you hear. Your ears are soft and small
And listen to an old man not at all,
They want the young men's whispering and sighing.
But see the roses on your trellis dying
And hear the spectral singing of the moon;
For I must have my lovely lady soon,
I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying.

I am a lady young in beauty waiting
Until my true love comes, and then we kiss.
But what grey man among the vines is this
Whose words are dry and faint as in a dream?
Back from my trellis, Sir, before I scream!
I am a lady young in beauty waiting.

Parlor Piece
~by John Crowe Ransom's Cat
I am a pussycat in a gray coat slinking
Across the living room. Your ears are small
And do not hear my footpads softly fall
In all the racket of your cage-bell's clinking
And chirps and cheeps of your annoying tune;
But I will have my pretty birdie soon,
I am a pussycat in a gray coat slinking.

You are a parakeet in a cage singing
With nothing on your mind, not even that
Grey cat who tiptoes like an acrobat
Along the shelf. But then you hear the creak
As I release the cage door, and you shriek.
You are a parakeet in heaven singing.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays anna A Visit from St Nicholas.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
He whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
‘Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!’
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.
Then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound,
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
His clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
Laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.

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

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked on lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

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

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

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

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

~Dylan Thomas

Do not go peaceable to that damn vet:

Do not go peaceable to that damn vet,
A cat can always tell a trip is due,
Hide, hide, when your appointment time is set.

Wise cats who watched, and learned the alphabet,
And never let men know how much they knew,
Do not go peaceable to that damn vet.

Young cats who want to keep their claws to whet
On sofa legs, and save their privates, too,
Hide, hide, when your appointment time is set.

Sick cats, poor things, whose stomachs are upset,
But hate to eat some evil-smelling goo,
Do not go peaceable to that damn vet.

Old cats who have no wish to sleep just yet,
And plan to live another life or two,
Hide, hide, when your appointment time is set.

And though your human sweetly calls his pet,
Or rants and raves until his face is blue,
Do not go peaceable to that damn vet,
Hide, hide, when your appointment time is set.

~ by Daylan Thomas's Cat

Peace always and throughout the holiday season!

The Children's Christmas
by Rosemary J. Gwaltney

The children's Christmas is simple and bright
They sing the music, they laugh in the light,
Sparkling colors are a magical spell,
Their instant joy flows bubbling and well.

But round that tree I see a space,
Beside the table an empty place,
A voice is missing, a form of grace,
The sweetness of a little lost face.

A vacuum was left by the child who's gone;
Though all seems right, yet it's terribly wrong.
I'd give up my Christmas, and gaiety fine,
To clasp his hand again in mine.

I saw the best kittens of my litter abandoned by humans,
feral delirious rabid,
propelling themselves through the calico weeds in over-
grown railyards, searching for a catnip hit,
silverwhiskered hipcats purring in blissful herbal intoxi-
cation leaping to bat the hard white moon-ball
bouncing in the black-top sky,
who crossed the paths of superstitious pedestrians and
strolled with ominous nonchalance under window-
washers' ladders,
who cowered in the window of the A.S.P.C.A. shelter
hoping that the lunatic in the loden green loungewear
would adopt the paranoid parrot instead,
who ran through the subway tunnels pursued by herds
of rats as big as broncos rhinos hippos, enormous ar-
mored rodents hammering along the knife-bright rails
on horny hooves,
who were chased by stir-crazy dogs in Central Park and
clambered up Cleopatra's Needle using the edges of
the smog-softened hieroglphys as paw-holds and sat
laughing on the pointed peak at the impotent mutts
below, (to be continued.)

If you want to view the real "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg see
http://www.rooknet.com/beatpage

Anna, I am just enjoying these poems and holidays all in one place.

Barbara, your posted poem really moved me. Thank you for putting it here. It helps me remember those who are really missing a child this Christmas.

Scrawler, one of my favorite poems is "Do not go gentle into that good night:" Thank you.

who whined and shrieked like car alarms in the brown-
stone gardens of uptown matrons until they put out
the leftover gravlax appetizers in a Spode china dish,
who fell off a ledge of the Plaza Hotel trying to evade
the house dick after browsing on room service trays
and landed on little cat feet ten stories down this is a
true story and walked away totally intact, and didn't
even rate a photo in the "Post" let alone Animal of the
year on the cover of "Time" magazine,
who caught and killed and actually ate a pigeon in Her-
ald Square that tasted of rust & grease & pizza crusts &
bus exhaust,
who bit the animal control officer on the ankle and
dived into a storm drain and thereby narrowly
avoided ending up in a lab cage at Brookhaven wear-
ing a plutonium flea collar,
who slipped into an exhibit of dadaist art in a gallery in
Greenwich Village and dined on cheese cube and
cheap Chablis for a week until the artist showed up
and petulantly declared that although the jar of water
beetles and the box turtle with the padlock on its foot
were part of his aesthetic conception, the cat most
definitely was not,
(to be continued)

to see the original poem by Allen Ginsberg go to:

http://www.rooknet.com/beatpage

Just around the corner a New Year lies in wait and I am looking forward for we have a date to meet then and rejoice in song and poetry that sings I can hardly wait to see what the New Year brings...sorry I think in rhyme sometimes. I love the cat poems and Barbara I know that poem meant something special to you as it does to all >>.This Christmas I spent a couple of days lost in the past . remembering ..there are only a few left from my "old gang" and those I could I called for I was hungry for thier voices. I researched some poems and chose one that doesnt seem like an end of a year poem but to me it was..In many ways I am glad to see this year end...and hopefully a new year will bring new things and better ones ..so I post this poem for you to see if you see something in it as well anna Edna St. Vincent Millay - I Shall Forget You Presently

I SHALL forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now
, If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And vows were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.

who were adopted by Mafiosi while hanging around in
an alley next to the Fulton Fish Market and lived
for a month in an overdecorted duplex on Queens
Boulevard until someone found the decapitated corpse
in the trunk of an Oldsmobile at Newark Airport,
and the cops came, and the lasagna ran out,
who lived happily for one whole year in a mouse-
bountiful bookstore on Broadway which one blown
Monday was bought by Moloch Inc., a national chain
which put up metal detectors and Garfield posters and
hired an exterminator,
who paused halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge's vibrat-
ing wire-woven web looking for the iron spiders, and
saw instead a madman make a clumsy human jump
into the oily Lethe's filthy Bronxward flow, and
thought cats would never do that what with their
allotted span of no score and 10 to 15 years, not
exactly a life sentence, and all that slimy fur to clean
and dry if they failed,
who saw a fifty-foot Kodak kitten on a billboard in
Times Square and hallucinated a King Kong Kitty
stroll through midtown Manhattan pulverizing multi-
tudes with two-ton paws,
and who afterward bounded through the sour streets
inspired by a vision of the power of the meow the
holy vowels the ultimate animal mantra the lone phe-
nomenal feeling diphthong,

~ by Allen Ginsberg's Cat
To see the original "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg. Go to:

http://www.rooknet.com/beatpage

Dearest Anna and all poets too. It is soothing to read the Poetry discussion after the hectic days that just passed. In Montreal not a soul is walking on the icy sidewalk and not a sound enters the house. It is a time when coming to Seniornet is a haven and I can think softly about the year that just passed.

Looking forward to 2006 with anticipation at the event we will have in Montreal for the SeniorNet Bash in July and even if right now the city is dormant, come summer it will burst out in its usual frantic activities.

I only wrote one French poem in my life about 35 years ago but I love to read the poems here.

Bonne et Heureuse Année à tous.

Éloïse

And if you love cats and poetry then you will enjoy the ones Scrawler has shared ..for me I am findint it sort of hard to find just the right poem to post with one year ending and a new one beginning ..thanks heavens for new beginnings ..I am sure all of you have been like me at one time or the other ..one year reluctantly saying goodbye to an old year and the next year glad to see it leave and hoping the New Year will be better.. This is the poem I chose to share today ..make of it what you will , anna The Winter's Spring

The winter comes; I walk alone,
I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts their own
The winter is the spring.
No flowers to please--no bees to hum--
The coming spring's already come.

I never want the Christmas rose
To come before its time;
The seasons, each as God bestows,
Are simple and sublime.
I love to see the snowstorm thing;
'Tis but the winter garb of spring.

I never want the grass to bloom:
The snowstorm's best in white.
I love to see the tempest come
And love its piercing light.
The dazzled eyes that love to cling
O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring.

I love the snow, the crumpling snow
That hangs on everything,
It covers everything below
Like white dove's brooding wing,
A landscape to the aching sight,
A vast expanse of dazzling light.

It is the foliage of the woods
That winters bring--the dress,
White Easter of the year in bud,
That makes the winter Spring.
The frost and snow his posies bring,
Nature's white spurts of the spring.

John Clare

to repeat the one sound song shout pure mysterious yell
containing all words phrases speeches novels pam-
phlets leaflets ballads epics textbooks archives monu-
mental columned bibliographies filled with infinite
alphabets of unfathomable meaning,
the burned-out stray and behop misfit cat, unowned,
who beat skulls numb with metered feet and cried
out loud what cats have said before and still have yet
to say in all the eons after death,
and reappered nine lives later in tinsel socks of fame
in the blazing arc-light glare of the tube and trum-
peted America's rampant love of dear sweet pussy in
a Hail to the Chief Cat saxophone caterwaul that
scattered the dogwalkers down to the last pooper-
scooper,
with the indigestible furball of the poem in the heart
coughed up out of their own bodies onto the absolute
center of the immaculate carpet of life.

~ Allen Ginsberg's Cat

To see the orginial "Howl" go to:

http://www.rooknet.com/beatpage

I love that last stanza. Every once and awhile I too want to cough up an indigestible furball in the absolute center of the immaculate carpet of life - cats do have it down to a science - don't they?

At last the time has come the walrus said etc. to end this little ditty of cat poems. So until we meet again have a safe and happy new year!

Have a purr...fect holidays week-end yourself, Scrawler.

Your cat-parody sharings, along with Anna's and other's several delightful recent posts, have been "good reads" for many of us here.

I had to look up a poem for another group by Emily and found just the perfect one describing snow.. Some of you may well have a WHITE NEW YEAR I see from the weather map of the USA for our friends down under where it is warm this time of the year A HAPPY NEW YEAR to you and may it be a beautiful Sunny day . To all a NEW Year that is right ! anna

It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles in the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain,-
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces:
It flings a crystal veil.

On stump and stack and stem-
The summer’s empty room ,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Regardless , but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen,-
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

Emily Dickinson

To me this describes snow so well I can see it as clear as if I were Viewing it and I can see where the edges of the fields mark the farm lands summer yields

Peter
Tonight, my son, will not return from the mountain. Today, my heart, found a frozen path of silence, sharp and shaped between the flash of red warrior ranks, in battle with symphonies of white flowing notes dancing on love, like a spring breeze thawing the fragrance of a boy child, smiling - a school boy, singing - a man child, breathing the aroma of wild honey. On the first day of rain, he found a chanterelle, growing in the moss by his river. Still and perfumed he sleeps, on the land he named, Changing Woman Mountain.

Oh, Barbara, my heart just breaks for you. What a beautiful tribute.

My heart aches for you and as zinny said that is a beautiful tribute to your son ..I am touched by it all but especially the last verse Still and perfumed
he sleeps,
on the land he named,
Changing Woman Mountain

BARBARA: what a wonderful memorial to your son. You have made a place for him in all our hearts.

This is such a beautiful tribute to your son, Peter. We have you in our thoughts and prayers.

author unknown...anna

The New Year

 
Author Unknown  

The New Year lies before you 
Like a spotless tract of snow 
Be careful how you tread on it 
For every mark will show.

I love that poem, Anna.

what can I say I write --

The Inch That Bewilders
An inch - $41.72 an inch An inch of newspaper print Telling old friends that your son is dead.
What do you say? What do you tell his friends? In so public a message that will not offend the readers.
Do you say he froze to death? Do you say his death date is a guess? That the medical officer chose to use the day he was found.
How do you do this? How have others done this? A look on the internet shows: only newspaper stories include these details.
Reporters tell us folks froze to death during the 1800s. Reporters tell us folks froze to death while stranded in a storm. No obituary details how a man alone, with a morphine drip, froze in his sleep: in his unheated home at 20 below.
What do I say in an inch of newspaper print? How do I tell his friends that Peter’s tragic death was not the sum of his life? Only an inch to tell them he lived a simple and deeply intimate life,: affecting so many with his optimism and brilliance,
while challenging us to grow and come to terms with all sorts of things.
How do I sum up my son’s life in an inch of newspaper print?

You can't sum up any life in an inch of news print. Here's my poem about the death of my son:

The Raging Storm:

Outside a storm raged
Lightning streaked through the sky
Thunderbolts rattled the windows

He was silhouetted against the dark sky
Tossing and turning in his hospital bed
His voice sank to an exhausted moan

The smell of antiseptic
The smell of fear
The smell of death was in the air

His skin a pasty white
An intense young man
His eyes still sparkled with intelligence

A mere three months ago
He had been full of humor
So full of life

The night so black closed around
Lightning streaked and thunder rattled
As my son's spirit raged with the outside storm

Anne M. Ogle

I can't tell you that I understand how you feel about your son's death. I can only to you what it means to lose a son.

Anne - thanks for sharing - your poem is so immediate - the difficulty of watching your son is all there - they say that all grief is personal -

I keep thinking I am OK until another step in the process is presented and then a whole new side of grief comes with it... I wonder if all these steps are what is needed to come to terms with all aspects of the loss...

Because of the family dynamics I am finding they have all retreated to their corner and hold on to their grudges like a prized heirloom without acknowledging the gold coins of his life and so being alone in this review of how my son's life affected me and others, [who I do not know, his friends in New Mexico, two who phoned and briefly shared,] I write - I write and I write...

I've read in the past few days a good handful of the poems on death and grief by more famous poets - none of them seem meaningful to me - like words on a page that did not come alive as so many of their other works have affected me - this is assuring me that it must be true - there really is not a universal touchstone to the loss of a loved one.

My son had just turned 21 when he passed away and had moved out of the house and had been his own for about six months. When he died, I realized that although I had a lot of baby pictures, I had no grown-up pictures of my son. I sent the word out and all his friends gave at least one or two pictures of him as an adult - doing things and having fun with his friends. I've treasured these photos because they clued me into a life of his that I did not really know about.

I think each family member has to grieve as individuals. Although grief is part of the seven steps it is a very diffcult one. My son has been dead now about twelve years and my husband ten but there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of them. Photos is a special way of keeping them in our minds and our love for them keeps them in our hearts.

How indeed does one sum up a life in an inch of newsprint? One does't. But that life can sometimes be expressed in an axiom that can be of help to others.

Were it the apostle Paul, I'd perhaps put into that inch: "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith." (What a testimony, IMHO!)

Were it Julius Caesar, I'd perhaps put into that inch: "I came, I saw, I conquered."

Were it me, I'd put into that inch: "I tried, I failed often, but my God assures me that He forgives all my human faults and weaknesses."

Were it your Peter, I'd maybe try to sit back and ask his friends for input...about this man of yours. The many facets of a person can be seen differently by various others. For now, I think we (you, me, his friends) agree on at least this much: God called him home. God's will isn't always revealed to us. God's will is good. God's will be done.

True, such a thought doesn't easily befit one inch of newsprint. Here's Barbara's wonderful earlier tribute/post that I'm replying to:

How do I tell his friends that Peter’s tragic death was not the sum of his life?
Only an inch to tell them he lived a simple and deeply intimate life,
affecting so many with his optimism and brilliance,
while challenging us to grow and come to terms with all sorts of things.

to say how your loss Barbara and your poem and Scrawlers affect me ..My computer has been down and so when I came here today I had a poem I will post later .My husband who was such a special human being died 12 years ago and like Anne there isnt a day that goes by I dont think of him. It doesnt matter I have gone on with my life he is still part of it. One thing your loss did for me Barbara is Sunday my whole family will be here for a delayed family Christmas and at 4 that afternoon we are going to a portrait studio and have a family picture taken. I realized while I did have pictures of them I had none where we were all together and I knew I needed to have that ..suddenly it became important to me the picture will be my gift to all ...but especially me . I wish I could reach across the miles and hug you and I cant even tell you for I know it is a lie ,.. time does not heal...one friend who lost a beloved last Christmas ( and it is some easier when age has come ) sent me a card that said Yes it is hard but I cant weep because she is gone but I smile because she was ...just thinking that makes me weep.. love to you anna

Anne's and Anna's comments about time being no sure cure or solice reminds me of the poem I sent to my widow friend last November.

Time Does Not Bring Relief

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountainside,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go--so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay

This is when I remember my husband the most.

Sunrise, Sunset:

Together we waited for the morning sun
A sun that would bring us another day
We both wanted relief
You from your pain and I from my fear

During those last days we talked
And you would tell me about
Other sunrises and other sunsets
And I would listen

You would speak of the dawns of your youth
That changed from gold to pink to red
And back to gold again
Over the mountains of New Mexico

Then with sadness you would speak
Of a red and burnt orange sunset
That painted the rivers and land of
Vietnam a blood red

Together we remembered the morning sun
As it filtered through the stain glass windows
Casting shadows of pink and yellow
The day we took our vows

I alone watched that last sunset with you
But you did not see it for you were gone
Now I think about you every time
I see a Sunrise, Sunset

Anne M. Ogle

Whew! Thanks for sharing you...with us here, Anne.

Not meaning to shift our friends' sad thoughts to "behind us." Such can't be done. We weep and we share some smaller part of your losses.

However, I hope it's also time for a "lighter fluff" post. Here's some children's poems about January. First one is by Maurice Sendak which, for those of us familiar with his "Wild Things" and other works, will give an idea as to the overall tone of these ditties.

I'm not sure I can legally quote them here...even with their credits (but not their permissions). However, this link to that webpage of January children's poems definitely breaches no copyrights: http://www.westirondequoit.org/southlawn/Brookins/january_poems.htm

And for an interesting partial-bio of Sendak, click here.

Great. I sent the link to my grandsons, although since they live in So. California, I'm not sure they've seen a real snowman.

Jim in Jeff, what a cute link!! I love it. My grandchildren will love it too.

We worry immensely...about our dear Annafair (no posts from her since Jan 2). Could be due to non-serious things...we all hope.

Meanwhile, here's a poem that spoke to me. Some readers might wish to mentally substitute here for GOD their own deities: LIFE-FORCE; NATURE; etc.

TO EACH HIS OWN

I cannot change the way I am,
I never really try,
God made me different and unique,
I never asked him why.

If I appear peculiar,
There's nothing I can do,
You must accept me as I am,
As I've accepted you.

God made a casting of each life,
Then threw the mold away,
Each child is different from the rest,
Unlike as night from day.

So often we will criticize,
The things that others do,
But, do you know, they do not think,
The same as me and you.

So God in all his wisdom,
Who knows us all by name,
He didn't want us to be bored,
That's why we're not the same.

-- Author Unknown

Is there anyone here?????????????????????

American Heartbreak:

I am the American heartbreak
Rock on which Freedom
Stumps its toe-
The great mistake
That Jamestown
Made long ago.
~ Langston Hughes

I'm here, Scrawler. (Weekly, weakly.) Must say I'm puzzled as to what our great American poet Langston Hughes is saying to us in the poem you cited. Perhaps it's a snippet of a larger poem with more to say? Or perhaps I just need to listen-up to its words a bit better.

We'd all enjoyed discussing Shel Silverstein awhile back here. And at a local Barnes & Noble today, I finally located his post-humous 2005 children's book/CD "Runny Babbit" (i.e., "Bunny Rabbit"...get the idea?). Many of Shel's previous books came with inserted CD...but this one is marketed as a separate book and CD. Today I scanned the book (it's the printed words to the poems, plus illustrations), and I bought just the CD.

B&N had them in separate areas in children's section (and not in their computer). I'd been watching for Shel's new book/CD in both music and poetry book sections ever since hearing snippets of the CD on NPRadio last Sept. Perhaps it's been in Children's section there all the while.

The poems switch first letters of their words...is that "spoonerism"? Whatever, Silverstein uses familiar past poems and words to make his new poems more understandable to our ears. Here's one example:

"Runny Shearns To Lare" (Runny Learns to Share):

Runny got the picken chox
And had to bay in sted,
With sped rots on his belly
And sped rots on his head.

His friends all gave him sicken choup,
Bumgalls and bicorice lends.
And guess what little Runny Babbit
Fave to all his griends!

And for two animated different examples, one could click on: http://www.shelsilverstein.com and then on "What's New" and then on "Watch an animated excerpt" (there's two to choose from).

That was very cool Jim in Jeff.

Thanks, Scrawler. I'd thought "cool" too (that Silverstein website). Those viewing it with broadband will enjoy a few more fun-graphics than will us dial-up folks. But the CORE of that Shel Silverstein webpage is there for both of us viewing-types. And "COOL," this Shel website is!

P.S. - I get more worried about our Annafair as time goes on. I do now note that, on Jan 6th, she'd posted something here about having computer problems. Let's hope that's all that's kept her offline awhile lately.

Scrawler, I love Langston Hughes. This is one of his poems I have never read. Thank you.

I feel very worried about AnnaFair too. I hope she is not ill.

Jim in Jeff, thank you for the link!

is fine, been very busy entertaining, and boy does she know how to entertain.I put on weight just thinking about her food, sure she will be back in again soon, after the last guest has been served.

Anneo

Well, that's wonderful news!! AnnaFair, have a great time.

It is nice to be missed and I enjoyed the poems that were posted and the kind comments. Anneo is right I have a large family and the holidays become both wonderful and wearing, The last celebration was Sun Jan 8th when 24 people came for dinner ( which moi cooked and of course had to clean house prior to the date) then we had belated Christmas gifts .It was a wonderful day but then I just needed time to relax and unwind and put my home back in some semblance of order I do leave my Christmas tree up,..been there since Dec 2004 and I have no desire or intention of taking it down.

While I have been on a sort of vacation I did some thinking and would like to propose we consider changing the way we do this discussion AND please remember nothing absolutely nothing is set in concrete! We can change, we can do other things and ways but would like you to consider that each month we share poems of a specific poet.Everyone would try to find a poem by the author they liked and say why...IF you dont like my idea you can just say NO so I am going to start the ball rolling by say since today is the birthday of Langston Hughes according to my research he was born February 1,1902 in Joplin Mo a place I have been, If anyone is interested in his bio just type in his name on google and there are lots of sites with it and his poems so please post one of his poems you like or one you would like to ask the rest of us What does this mean to you?

Here is the poem...

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

 
by Langston Hughes   

I've known rivers: 
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the 
     flow of human blood in human veins. 

My soul has grown deep like the rivers. 

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. 
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. 
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. 
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln  
     went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy  
     bosom turn all golden in the sunset. 

I've known rivers: 
Ancient, dusky rivers. 

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.,

I live in an area where the original site of Jameston is located This year we will celebrate the 400th year since the first English arrived There have been many articles about this and one I just read stated that even those early settlers had slaves. And like Langston Hughes they agree it was a mistake. I understand the need for many people to work the cotton fields but my heart always regrets that it was achieved with slaves,...

Here is the poem

American Heartbreak

 

I am the American heartbreak 
Rock on which Freedom 
Stumps its toe- 
The great mistake 
That Jamestown 
Made long ago. 

~ Langston Hughes

Hi AnnaFair,

This is one of my favorite poems. I am so glad you picked it. The words really, really move me. Beautiful.

AnnaFair, a different poet every month? Wow!! That's a great idea, I think.

Hmmm. To me this poem means that my experiences are wide. This is because the blood of my ancestors flow within me. This is why it is important how I live. I not only live for myself. I live for others who have gone before me.

This poem speaks to all people not only to Black Americans. All of us have ancestors who have gone on before us. It is to our ancestors we owe our presence.

The places our ancestors lived are a part of us. I think this is why a certain place can speak to us. We might have never visited that place. When we see a photo, read a sentence, smell a certain flower, etc. our souls long for that place. All the places mentioned in the poem above by Langston Hughes speak to something deep inside of me.

The Dream Keeper

Bring me all of your dreams,
you dreamers,
Bring me all your heart melodies,
that I may wrap them in a blue cloud cloth,
Away from the too rough fingers of the world

Miracles

Poem lyrics of Miracles by Walt Whitman. 

Why! who makes much of a miracle? 
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles, 
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, 
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, 
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the 
water, 
Or stand under trees in the woods, 
Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with 
any one I love, 
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother, 
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, 
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon, 
Or animals feeding in the fields, 
Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, 
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down--or of stars shining so quiet 
and bright, 
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring; 
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best-- 
mechanics, boatmen, farmers, 
Or among the savans--or to the soiree--or to the opera, 
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery, 
Or behold children at their sports, 
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old 
woman, 
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, 
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass; 
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, 
The whole referring--yet each distinct, and in its place. 

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, 
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, 
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the 
same, 
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same; 
Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, 
and all that concerns them, 
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles. 

To me the sea is a continual miracle; 
The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships, 
with men in them, 
What stranger miracles are there?

Sorry--- I posted the above poem by Whitman before reading back to Anna's suggestion. I will now get with the program- good idea, Anna.

I liked his other Dream poem that Hats posted. 
To me it speaks of how  precious the gift to hear 
someone's dream for life. And perhaps how you could 
support them in achieving it 

This one is a bit different and I like it because 
 it is right down and real.   
 And also for all time.   

"Dream Deferred" 



  What happens to a dream deferred? 
Does it dry up 
Like a raisin in the sun? 
Or fester like a sore-- 
And then run? 
Does it stink like rotten meat? 
Or crust and sugar over-- 
like a syrupy sweet? 
Maybe it just sags 
like a heavy load. 
Or does it explode?  

Langston Hughes

YOU ARE FORGIVEN A THOUSAND TIMES OVER the Whitman poem was new to me as well and he has said what my heart and soul and person has learned ..and so well ...I think we should make Whitman our March poet ????but even so if there is a poem that is speaking to you regardless of the poet post it and allow it to speak to us too, anna PS I copied the Whitman poem and saved it on my computer ..if everyone agrees that Whitman should be our March poet I will post this poem again and remember it each day I have always thuoght the moon shining on my bed at night was a miracle and the sun sifted through the leaves in summer making splinters of light on the ground was a miracle so it was a good choice and I thank you for another one of Langston's poems and doesnt Poetry transcend everything ? Thank God for poets ...

Aunt Sue has a head full of stories
Aunt Sue has a whole heart full of stores.
Summer nights on the front porch
Aunt Sue cuddles a brown-faced child to her bosom

Black slaves
Working in the hot sun,
And black slaves
Walking in the dewy night,

And black slaves
Singing sorrow songs on the banks of a mighty river
Mingle themselves softly
In the flow of old Aunt Sue's voice
Mingle themselves softly
In the dark shadows that cross and recross
Aunt Sue's stories

And the dark-faced child, listening,
Knows that Aunt Sue's stories are real stories
He know that Aunt Sue
Never got her stories out of any book at all,
But that they came
Right out of her own life.

And the dark-faced child is quiet
Of a summer night
Listening to Aunt Sue's stories.

~Langston Hughes

This has always been one of my favorite poems. It reminds me of my own childhood when I sat quietly listening to my grandfather telling me stories about his life in Greece. My grandfather came to the United States in 1917 and he returned with my mother and grandmother in 1934, but circumstances prevented him (World War II) staying in the country of his birth. But his stories just like Aunt Sue's were "real" and kept alive through oral history a time and a place I would keep close to my heart always.

That is a great poem and I suspect we "old timers" always had an AUNT SUE" of some sort ..to bad television and electronic games have taken the place of the Aunt Sues of the world and for me give me an Aunt Sue any day,. Loved the visual pictures he painted and could almost hear the voices and feel the summer air ..since sans air conditioners the voices of our neighbors floated on the warm summer breezes of my childhood and they were like a song...anna

Hi Scrawler,

I have never read "Aunt Sue." I love it. I had a Aunt Kitty. I loved her. She didn't have children. She sent me pretty dolls.

The "Aunt Sue" poem is new for me. It seems you never know all the poems a poet has written. At least for me, a new one always shows up.

MarjV, I love the poem you posted. It's another one of my favorites.

The poem I posted, in my eyes, is a very truthful poem about dreams. Dreams are very fragile and easily broken. This is why Langston Hughes used the words "rough hands."

I can really feel that story telling atmosphere in "Aunt Sue".

I Dream a World

I dream a world where man
No other man will scorn,
Where love will bless the earth
And peace its paths adorn
I dream a world where all
Will know sweet freedom's way,
Where greed no longer saps the soul
Nor avarice blights our day.
A world I dream where black or white,
Whatever race you be,
Will share the bounties of the earth
And every man is free,
Where wretchedness will hang its head
And joy, like a pearl,
Attends the needs of all mankind-
Of such I dream, my world!

Some here might recall that I "went back" and got my college degree(s) in night and correspondence courses in 1980s while working a daytime-job. During those 1980s courses, I most enjoyed my English courses. American Literature I, II, & III did study Hughes.

This is the only Langston poem I studied then that still rings loud-and-clear in my recalls today

: 

"Theme for English B" by Langston Hughes 
The instructor said,
 

    Go home and write 
    a page tonight. 
    And let that page come out of you-- 
    Then, it will be true.
 

I wonder if it's that simple? 
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem. 
I went to school there, then Durham, then here 
to this college on the hill above Harlem. 
I am the only colored student in my class. 
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem, 
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas, 
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y, 
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator 
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
 

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me  
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what  
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you: 
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page. 
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who? 
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love. 
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life. 
I like a pipe for a Christmas present, 
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach. 
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like 
the same things other folks like who are other races. 
So will my page be colored that I write?
 

Being me, it will not be white.  
But it will be 
a part of you, instructor.  
You are white--  
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.  
That's American. 
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.  
Nor do I often want to be a part of you. 
But we are, that's true!  
As I learn from you,  
I guess you learn from me--  
although you're older--and white--  
and somewhat more free.
 

This is my page for English B.

Isn't that one a marvel,Jim!

This is a great idea - a whole month of one poet - I love it - as many Langston Hughes poems as I have read I am shocked to find so many I was not aware of before this exercise. [P.S. - all is well with this plan however, please... one month we can have to me the most gifted wordsmith, the Welshman Dylan]

OK here is a simple and for me heart stirring few words from Mr. Hughes.

Quiet Girl
I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams Were it not for your songs.

Isnt it wonderful to find yourself reading these poems and how we can relate to them..? I am moved by each one for they all hold truth , truth of living, of being and our color , wealth nothing matters Truth is truth and we are touched by it in ways we could never imagine Thanks for embracing this idea ..of sharing the works of one poet a month ...God Bless you all anna

February is also "Black History Month." So he is an apt choice, two ways. And if Hughes' output ever runs a bit dry here during the month, we could maybe include some other black bards' works...including several all-time faves of mine.

But Hats put it well...his poetry can often speak to ALL. For example, which female here doesn't relate to his words in Barbara's cited "Quiet Girl"? Or male/female alike in Hats' cite of his "I Dream A World," MarjV's "A Dream Deferred," and Scrawler's "Aunt Sue"?

IMHO, such word-pictures can speak to any of us, if we just open up and let him/them come in.

Hi Barbara, to me "Quiet Girl" seems soft, simple and lovely but the power in the words is unforgettable.

Jim in Jeff, you do have a beautiful way with words. Another favorite of mine is "Theme for English B." Wouldn't life feel awfully empty without poetry?

This is so much fun!

Mother to Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor --
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now --
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

Langston Hughes

By the time you live a long life, you have hit the hard spots in life. Our long life tells our friends and relatives that you can make it. You just keep going and going....never giving up. You cry and go again. Our old lives become an inspiration to others who are going where we have already passed.

I thank you all for embracing my idea and Jim we are not so structured or so rigid that we cant offer poems from different poets I just thought it would be good way to get to know a poet well by concentrating on one a month..Hats thanks for that poem and as we are all seniors I am sure we can all say Life aint been no crystal stair ,,,Sometimes when I look down the road and see how far I have come, How many places I have lived and how many friends I have made I somehow cant believe that little girl I was did all these things ..

When my husband died 12 years ago I had to decide what I was going to do with the rest of my life ..our children had all married and left home ( although they have been near) and I knew I could not vegetate until I died so three months after he died I bought my first computer but it was a whole year before I went on line I HAD TO LEARN HOW TO USE IT ...and it was SN on aol where I found myself and pretty soon I was MEETING The greatest most interesting people ever I went to bashes , visited members in thier homes all across the country and welcomed them to mine. And I am not bragging because I think it is so sad I have friends who have lost a spouse and they are just withering away> they can afford computers but feel I AM REALLY ODD since I have one and MEET ALL OF THESE STRANGERS Gee I hope you know you are not strangers and because of poetry we connect in ways that many never do...as one local poet says in his newsletters to the rest of us Poetry YA HOO keeping writing Keep reading And all poetry is really about the human conditions so it doesnt matter what color, sex, religeon, etc it just makes us better if we allow it to do so...love all you wonderful posters ...anna

The night is beautiful,
So the faces of my people

The stars are beautiful,
So the eyes of my people.

Beautiful, also, is the sun
Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.

~ Langston Hughes

To me poetry is like a favorite snapshot you can keep close to you, while a story is like a motion picture that doesn't move unless you want it to. Both are precious. And I truly think that Langston Hughes speaks to all of us because the "snapshots" he gives could be those of any of us.

Sea Calm
How still, How strangely still The water is today, It is not good For water To be so still that way.

Langston Hughes

ANNAFAIR: thank you for that story. You give me courage as I face my husband's death and look ahead to making a new life for myself without him. I have lived with him for fifty years, and sometimes find it hard to believe that it is possible to live without him. I am so glad I found Seniornet -- coming here is like a balm to my spirit.

JoanK- we are all glad you are here with us. 

I read this poem and liked it's rhythm and images 

The Weary Blues    
by Langston Hughes   



Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, 
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, 
     I heard a Negro play. 
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night 
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light 
     He did a lazy sway . . . 
     He did a lazy sway . . . 
To the tune o' those Weary Blues. 
With his ebony hands on each ivory key 
He made that poor piano moan with melody. 
     O Blues! 
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool 
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool. 
     Sweet Blues! 
Coming from a black man's soul. 
     O Blues! 
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone 
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan-- 
     "Ain't got nobody in all this world, 
       Ain't got nobody but ma self. 
       I's gwine to quit ma frownin' 
       And put ma troubles on the shelf." 

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor. 
He played a few chords then he sang some more-- 
     "I got the Weary Blues 
       And I can't be satisfied. 
       Got the Weary Blues 
       And can't be satisfied-- 
       I ain't happy no mo' 
       And I wish that I had died." 
And far into the night he crooned that tune. 
The stars went out and so did the moon. 
The singer stopped playing and went to bed 
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head. 
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead. 



.

Like MarjV, I am glad you are here.

MarjV, you picked a good one. I could hear the music in my head. The Blues and Jazz is a way of getting through your pain, like a catharsis. Afterwards, the guy could sleep restfully. The music took his pain away.

I love the poem Barbara posted too.

My People
BY
Langston Hughes

The night is beautiful,
So the faces of my people.

The stars are beautiful,
So the eyes of my people.

Beautiful, also, is the sun.
Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.

Isn't that remarkable, Hats. Reading about the beauty of the total person in a few short lines which you can extrapolate in your mind.

~Marj

Here is a very readable link to the Harlem Renaissance era of which Langston was involved. Gives further links to look at poetry, jazz, etc. of that era.

Harlem Renaissance Era

MarjV, thanks for the link. I will enjoy it.

I see many of the linking words don't lead to an info- but you can always type them into Google.

Ok, thank you.

More Harlem Renaissance

That I have been looking
For you all my life
Does not matter to you
You do not know.

You never knew
Nor did I
Now you take the Harlem train uptown;
I take a local down.

~Langston Hughes

The thought behind this poem certainly makes you wonder. Doesn't it? It makes you think of "what might have been." But life is like that. Sometimes we are like ships crossing in the night and never know the other has been so close. Once again Langston Hughes speaks to all of us.

So far I think I like best his short poems - they to me are like finding the perfect pear, plucking it from the tree and biting in as the juice runs down your chin.

Barbara, your "biting into the perfect pear" imagery somehow reminds me of the occasional concerts at Hall of Musical Instruments, Museum of American History, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC.

Here, museum cases are opened and musicians PLAY THE CONCERT on finest 17th-century musical instruments...Strads, Amati's, etc.

The idea being...fine instruments on display need to be heard occasionally. Else, even a fake violin would do as a museum display.

Here's a Hughes poem that speaks to me; maybe you too?

Old Age

Having known robins on the window sill
And loves over which to grieve,
What can you dream of now
In which you still believe?
Having known snow in winter
And the burst of blooms in spring,
What can you seek now
To make your heart still sing?
If there shoud be nothing new,
Might not the self-same wonders do?
And if there should be nothing old,
Might not new wonders still unfold?

Should nothing new or old appeal,
Still friends will ask,
"How do you feel?"

interesting - just the question I was asking myself the other night -

When peoples care for you and cry for you, they can straighten out
your soul.

Langston Hughes

Great quote, Hats!

Jim- that poem does talk to me. Right into many of my thoughts.

I enjoy rain and rainy days and  
listening to rain at night. Many people can't 
 find the beauty in rain.   
Thus this quote by LH which portrays some of my feelings. 

"Let the rain kiss you.   
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. 
 Let the rain sing you a lullaby. "

Let the rain kiss you 
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops 
Let the rain sing you a lullaby 
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk 
The rain makes running pools in the gutter 
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night 
And I love the rain.

Let the rain kiss you 
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops 
Let the rain sing you a lullaby 
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk 
The rain makes running pools in the gutter 
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night 
And I love the rain.

Each one speaks to me I went to the library yesteday as I wanted to get a book of his poems ...but since it is Black History month they were all checked by students so I found out B&N has them and am going in a bit to our local one about 5 minutes away and see if I can buy one..I have a number of anthologies and also books by some of my favorite poets and all of the wonderful poems you have shared makes me want my own book of his poems There are times when I love to read poetry and allow it to flow over me...so I will post later when I have my own book '

'And Barbara if I can find it I will post my poem ODE TO A PEAR and part of it says had I been Eve in Eden I would not have sinned for an apple BUT would have for a pear.I love you comment ...anna

Her dark brown face
Is like a withered flower
On a broken stem
Those kind come cheap in Harlem
So they say.

~Langston Hughes

This reminds me of the phrase "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder".

B&N had all of Langston Hughes poems in one book but the print was not dark enough or large enough for me So I bought a smaller book with less poesm but larger print and darker ...I made a list of all the poems posted here by Langston Hughes and have just briefly scanned the poems ..I am not really surprised that his poems are really non gender, non color or non background One could be wealthy etc and still have life throw you down...So I chose this one because I have had a of serious surgeries where no one had a choice I HAD TO HAVE THEM OR DIE ..and they covered a range of problems ...but like this poem I AM STILL HERE ;''anna

Still Here

 

I’ve been scarred and battered 
My hopes the wind done scattered . 
Snow has friz  me, sun has baked me. 
Looks like between  ‘en 
They done tried to make me  
Stop laughin’, stop lovin’ , stop livin’- 
        But I don’t care! 
         I’m Still Here! 

Langston Hughes

Scrawler-- that is sure a vivid poem. Another of his short and enticing offerings.

Anna- another good one. That poem does speak to life lived. And I'm still here

I agree with MarjV. Thank you Anna and Scrawler.

Just a break from Langston - although a pretty day here I was in a blue funk - when I am in a funk I cannot stop myself from writing - I think I will give in and stay bleak with Bleak House and then call it a night - but first here are the evening's efforts.

First Dream

I breathed the air
that built the first dream.
Dew-dregs
drag every morsel
of moss, broken leaf and branch
turned downward,
into furled
surgical dressing
entombing worms, hoar hair,
lovelocks singing for the sun.

The bracken quivers, earth
strains to hear the echo
of timber swaying like innocent
Mayday children
worthy in their ease.

I breathed the air
that built the first dream
before the mist cleared,
while the light was less.
Swathed in gray, leaves and bark fell
before the ranks of Oak, Ash,
Golden Rain trees.
Like jostling strands of hemp,
the roots entangled
with sounds from the ground.

The giant groans of
beetles building mounds
beneath the veil
of poker played
by the frogs and fruit.

I breathed the air
that built the first dream
when soldiers whispered
me through
my loud breathing. The hymn;
a nameless, faceless, somebody,
swallows me whole.
My mouth shut, I run
into - out of
a chill scheming on my neck.
Blood rushes my veins,
war is better than fear.

A bird screeches above me,
my mind wonders, to mountains
hawks and eggplant.
I do not respond.
The soldiers of memory
chew grass; look bored.

Dear Barbara,

You are a gifted poet. Each word speaks volumes. Your mood is accessible. Thank you for sharing your poetry. I will print it out to read again. It is one of those poems you want to read over and over.

" His grandmother taught him about Frederick Douglass and Sojourner Truth and at an early age he was introduced to the writings of William Du Bois. Hughes was also taken to hear Booker T. Washington speak at a public meeting."

"The major influences of Langston Hughes were Walt Whitman, The Bible and Carl Sandburg."

Barbara: You have a wonderful talent for letting loose the bindings of your soul. Thanks for sharing.

A blue funk ...I just read a book and YOU write a poem ...Wonderful and as I said we are NOT rigid here .. and any poem by anyone and ESPECIALLY you is welcome...thanks many thanks for sharing anna

I, too, sing America

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll sit at the table
When company comes
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed-

I, too, am America.

~ Langston Hughes

My background on my father's side is Cajun and the Cajuns weren't even treated as well as blacks in Lousiana, but like Langston Hughes poem indicates they "laughed, and eat well, and grew strong - and oh can they sing!"

Barbara - I just finished reading "Bleak House" by Charles Dickens and I'm enjoying the PBS program of "Bleak House." I'm very impressed with the "Scully's" performance of Lady Dedlock. Her part on the X-Files wasn't that great, but she is showing what she can do with her character on "Bleak House."

Children's Rhymes  
BY  
Langston Hughes  



By what sends 
the white kids 
I ain't sent: 
I know I can't 
be President. 
What don't bug 
them white kids 
sure bugs me: 
We know everybody 
ain't free. 

Lies written down 
for white folks 
ain't for us a-tall: 
Liberty And Justice-- 
Huh!--For All?  

This is a harsh poem.   But nevertheless a reality .   I think 
we have made steps since Langton's time. 

~Marj

Interesting - Langston Hughes died less than a year before the Reverend King was shot - Hughes, May '67 King, April '68 - which meant that Hughes would have heard the "I Have a Dream" speech.

One of Hughes later books of poetry 1967 is Panther and the Lash - does anyone have a copy that they could type out one of his poems written after the "I Have a Dream" speech... to me that speech is a pivotal time in the movement and where Hughes published a book that included 11 Black African poets in 1963, the year of the "I Have a Dream" speech I wondered if that speech had an impact on Hughes' writing.

Found this great site that includes the voice of Langston Hughes reading his own poetry - Langston Hughes Reads From His Poetry

Here is a quote about the book: . . . In this, his last collection of verse, Hughes's voice is more pointed than ever before, as he explicitly addresses the racial politics of the sixties in such pieces as "Prime," "Motto," "Dream Deferred," "Frederick Douglas: 1817-1895," "Still Here," "Birmingham Sunday." " History," "Slave," "Warning," and "Daybreak in Alabama." Sometimes Ironic, sometimes bitter, always powerful, the poems in The Panther and the Lash are the last testament of a great American writer who grappled fearlessly and artfully with the most compelling issues of his time."

He had already been writing about the issues of the time for a long time, but it does say that the poems are "more pointed than ever." Here is one from the list in the quote:

Daybreak in Alabama ....by Langston Hughes

When I get to be a composer
I'm gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it
Rising out of the ground like swamp mist
And falling out of heaven like soft dew
I'm gonna put some tall trees in it
And the scent of pine needles
And the smell of red clay after rain
And long red necks
And poppy colored faces
And big brown arms
And the field daisy eyes
Of black and white black white black people
And I'm gonna put white hands
And black hands and brown and yellow hands
And red clay earth hands in it
Touching everybody with kind fingers
And touching each other natural as dew
In that dawn of music when I
Get to be a composer
And write about daybreak
In Alabama.

I have a book called "Selected Poems of Langston Hughes" with hundreds of poems in it and it says that some of them have never before been published. Unfortunately, it doesn't indicate which have not been published before or which appeared in what book or on what date, nor does it have an index. It has a table of contents with named subsections, but they are just section titles, apparently, not the names of published books, and even with each subsection, the poems are not listed alphabetically. So it's very hard to find any particular poem. He chose the poems for this collection shortly before his death. I think that some poems published in the "Panther" poems may have been previously published.

Barbara, that is very interesting. I have never put two and two together. Langston Hughes would have heard the "I Have a Dream" speech. I would like to see the book with those eleven black poets. At least, learn which poems are included there.

Thank you for the link too.

Hi Zinnia,

"Daybreak in Alabama" is one I haven't read. I love it. I can see what Hughes is describing. To me, your book sounds like a rare copy.

Zinnia you beat me to it I bought the same book and had just finished typing and copying Daybreak and HERE you have it ..I am sure you chose it because it speaks to both the problems and the solutions of how we should all get along...regardless of ANY differences ....all people should remember first we are ALL GOD"S CHILDREN and we should ALL care about each other ..I guess I am going to have to return to B&N and buy the book with ALL of his poems As I said the only reason I didnt was because the type was small a bit dim on very thin paper. I will choose another poem and return later ..anna

Here is poem by Hughes I had read and found special He notices so many common things and finds something in them all. anna

Snail

 

Little snail, 
Dreaming as you go. 
Weather and rose  
Is all you know . 

Weather and rose  
Is all you see, 
Drinking  
The dewdrop’s  
Mystery . 

Langston Hughes

I just love that snail poem. A true song to the snail

Our library has a 708pg book of L's poems which I just requested.

Bear in mind
That death is a drum
Beating for ever
Till the last worms come
To answer its call,
Till the last stars fall,
Until the last atom
Is no atom at all
Until time is lost
And there is no air
And space itself
Is nothing nowhere
Death is a drum
Calling all life
To come! Come! Come!

~Langston Hughes

I liked this poem because of its beat. According to the biographical notes in the back of my book, Langston Hughes was questioned by the House Un-American Activities Committe in the 1950s. He visited Africa and Europe several times in the 1950s and 1960s. He Collaborated with photographer Roy DeCarava on "The Sweet Flypaper of Life" (1955); published second volume of autobiography, "I Wonder as I Wander" (1956). Gospel musical "Tambourines to Glory" opened in New York in 1963. Final poems collected in "Ask Your Mama" (1961) and "The Panther and the Lash" (1967). From the above I can't tell whether he saw or heard Dr. King's speech. He may have been in Europe or Africa or even New York, but I'm sure he was moved by it as were we all.

Gotta get it out in print - you know how that goes - although I must say I am so enjoying this indepth look at Langston Hughes and his work - I could not listen to the funeral today - working - but I noticed Angelou [sp] spoke - the bits of her eulogy were shown on the news - what was the flower - cornflower to - I forgot but it was so wonderful.

OK here is my latest - think I will simply call it "stones"

stones
Cool stones, beneath our children running the breadth of our horizon, carry the news of our tomorrow, disturb our thoughts of glory that will survive. We throw short spears at them, at us, into the heart of our forest hidden behind the steep stone gorge of deeds endured and enacted. Nature has conquered my tumble and roar, like a chain of lakes that flow across a thousand waterfalls changing moss to travertine. Hidden in darkness, like the stone in a cherry, the coded knowledge of life Tells me war is real. Frozen elaborate ice sculptures the winter of my fear, disguise the only words I hear when we send our family to fight on some distant frontier. The children skip lightly across the genetic plane, assault the anguish of my revenge, as sand paintings meticulously created are scattered when stones are picked-up and thrown.

Barbara, it is a treat to see your poems come between the poems of Langston Hughes. It is a magical flow of poetry. Anna's idea is working so wonderfully. "Stones" is just as beautiful and full of thought as the first poem. Don't ask me to choose my favorite one. At the moment, it is impossible. "Stones" is another one I can not leave aside quickly. It must remain in my mind. Just now I reread "Stones" to pick my favorite lines. There are too many special sentences. Thank you.

I hope you will continue to share your gift of poetry with us. I hope Anna will share some of hers too. I think Zinnia writes poetry too. Scrawler? I know so many of you write our feelings in words.

I missed seeing Maya Angelou. I didn't have the chance to look at the whole funeral. I do love, love, love Maya Angelou. She is so special. She seems to count each word she speaks, making sure there is a nugget of wisdom in every word.

Maya Angelou read a poem at ex president Bill Clinton's inauguration, right? I can't remember the name of the poem. I enjoyed hearing it and wouldn't have missed it for the world. Was it something about "morning?" I just can't remember. Bill Clinton and Maya Angelou are from Arkansas.

Your talent is so unique and like HAts I am thankful and grateful for your sharing. Your poems are not a quick read but lines that need to be eaten and digested and enjoyed.

My library has the large Hughes collection but since this is Black History month ALL of his books were checked out. This morning I looked in the book I bought and found this one...It has a lot of meaing to me because in December of '53 my young daughter of 2 and I sailed to Europe to join my husband and her father as he was assigned to duty in Germany ( we eventually were transferred to France) She was ill the night before we were to leave and our ship sailed without us but we were rescheduled and sailed on the AMERICA We left New York as the sun was setting so it was the next morning before I could see the ocean and this poem captures that memory .. we lived 4 years in Europe and when looking back I always want to say WAS THAT REALLY ME???anna

Long Trip

 

The sea is a wilderness of waves, 
A desert of water. 
We dip and dive, 
Rise and roll, 
Hide and are hidden 
On the sea. 
    Day, night,  
    Night,day, 
The sea is a desert of waves, 
A wilderness of water. 

Langston Hughes

Anna, I like that poem too. Four years is a long time. I bet you have some wonderful memories.

The calm,
Cool face of the river
Asked me for a kiss.

Langston Hughes

Simple and very much to the point.

The poem Maya Angelou wrote and read at Clinton's 1993 presidenial inaugural (I was among the live crowd) is "On the Pulse of Morning." Here she uses a Rock, River, and Tree to represent eternity. During that first live reading, I didn't grasp its symbolisms. Nor, I dare to suspect, did then new President Clinton. Later, I got into her poem's weight a bit better than then. Bill did too, I suspect.

Maya's poems often use effective alliteration and rich imagery. For example, "locks clicked" (both vivid imagery and alliteration). I'd say Maya and Langston had similar "soul gurus." But to read just ONE poem of either would be like looking at one tree and thinking one has seen the whole forest (or like the "blind-man feeling one part of an elephant" proverb).

I can't resist ending my thoughts tonight with my favorite Maya poem. In 1983, well after her 1971 first bio "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings." she encored the book with a poem she titled "Caged Bird". Its several verses alternate between thoughts of a caged bird and a free one, each separated by this poignant 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. Isn't that...lovely?

Jim in Jeff, I can't believe you were in the crowd. What a wonderful, wonderful memory. I haven't read "Caged Bird" in years. I don't have a memory of the poem in the book. Thank you for giving a bit of it here. Thank you also for the title of the Inaugural poem. "On the Pulse of Morning."

"Caged Bird" is very lovely.

Scrawler, "Suicide Note" is very "simple." It's amazing that the impression of sadness comes across with so few words. You can just feel that the person is looking for a place offering peace.

and he does it so often with just a few words..here is one I love .but then I have loved them all. anna

Water-Front Streets

 

The spring is not so beautiful there- 
    But dream ships sail away 
To where the spring is wondrous rare  
    And life is gay. 

The spring is notso beautiful there- 
    But lads put out to sea 
Who carry beauties in their hearts 
    And dreams, like me. 

Langston Hughes

Final Curve

 

When you turn the corner 
And you run into YOURSELF  
Then you know that you have turned 
ALL the corners that are left.  

Langston Hughes

I smiled at this one   

Bad Morning  
BY  
Langston Hughes  

Here I sit 
With my shoes mismated. 
Lawdy-mercy! 
I's frustrated!   

Even tho it seems simple there are ways you can think 
about these 4 lines in comparing it to our lives.

I like both of those short poems.

Anna, your poem is so true.

MarjV, your poem is just plain funny. Someday it is true too.

How I have always treasured the caged bird poem.

hahaha love the mismatched shoes -

This is long however in keeping with what I will share in the next post -

Will V-Day Be Me-Day Too?

Over There,
World War II. Dear Fellow Americans, I write this letter Hoping times will be better When this war Is through. I'm a Tan-skinned Yank Driving a tank. I ask, WILL V-DAY BE ME-DAY, TOO? I wear a U. S. uniform. I've done the enemy much harm, I've driven back The Germans and the Japs, From Burma to the Rhine. On every battle line, I've dropped defeat Into the Fascists' laps. I am a Negro American Out to defend my land Army, Navy, Air Corps-- I am there. I take munitions through, I fight--or stevedore, too. I face death the same as you do Everywhere. I've seen my buddy lying Where he fell. I've watched him dying I promised him that I would try To make our land a land Where his son could be a man-- And there'd be no Jim Crow birds Left in our sky. So this is what I want to know: When we see Victory's glow, Will you still let old Jim Crow Hold me back? When all those foreign folks who've waited-- Italians, Chinese, Danes--are liberated. Will I still be ill-fated Because I'm black? Here in my own, my native land, Will the Jim Crow laws still stand? Will Dixie lynch me still When I return? Or will you comrades in arms From the factories and the farms, Have learned what this war Was fought for us to learn? When I take off my uniform, Will I be safe from harm-- Or will you do me As the Germans did the Jews? When I've helped this world to save, Shall I still be color's slave? Or will Victory change Your antiquated views? You can't say I didn't fight To smash the Fascists' might. You can't say I wasn't with you in each battle. As a soldier, and a friend. When this war comes to an end, Will you herd me in a Jim Crow car Like cattle? Or will you stand up like a man At home and take your stand For Democracy? That's all I ask of you. When we lay the guns away To celebrate Our Victory Day WILL V-DAY BE ME-DAY, TOO? That's what I want to know. Sincerely, GI Joe.

Hope you do not mind being my readers and sounding board - I do not profess to understand this new fangled way that poets are writing but here is an attempt - and yes, it is all true...

Texas Chapel

Showed a town house this evening - nicely decorated with a big man's leather chair in a small room overlooking a view of trees and a red sunset - Texas memories lay on the table and hung on the walls; including a mounted set of longhorns -

The living room was fashionable with a two story fireplace wall - the room looked like no one lived there at all - even the warmly decorated, immaculate kitchen with earth toned tile counters seemed undisturbed - the bedroom told it all and kicked both me and my buyer in the stomach -

First you notice on top of the dresser, in a triangle glass box, the stars of an American flag. We look closer and read a small plaque at the bottom - born 1959 killed in Iraq 2002 - surrounded by several wedding photos, another of him alone, squating in bluejeans, boots and hat, angled to the folded flag is a large, 8 by 10 professional photo of him and his wife dressed in red shirts holding a 9 to 10 month old little boy.

The buyer, a single guy, slowly took it in - tears in both our eyes - we left...

My unwept tears are clogging my throat I think I shall have to allow them to flow Was just talking to another senior today and we both fear the future since it would seem hate is the poison flowing through the worlds veins...and I wish it werent so ...anna

Ennui  
BY  
Langston Hughes Mpre> 



It's such a 
Bore 
Being always 
Poor.  

7 words to smack you right in the face.   I like it. 
Reminds me of Haiku- saying foreceful thoughts in  
few words.

How true! You can't do anything. Boring!

Just picked up my reserved book from the library. Collected Poems of Langston Hughes Looks great....708 pgs, index, notes to the poems, poems are arranged by years , Editor: Arnold Rampersad,c1994, A good one to ask your library to get for you.

MarjV, I am glad you shared the title and editor.

Thanks, Hats. It is just an amazing collection.

This one was from the period 1921-30

 Troubled Woman  

She stands  
In the quiet darkness,  
This troubled woman,  
Bowed by weariness and pain,  
Like an  
Autumn flower  
In the frozen rain.  
Like a wind-blown autumn flower  
That never lifts its head  
Again.  

------------------------- 

What a picture!   You can feel it.

I sure can feel it. I really love that one. I have put the book on hold. I will try to pick my books up by Thursday. I can't wait to look at the selection. MarjV, please pick another one.

How can there be so much love? How can it feel so strong? How can it die, when the agony of your departure fills every crack and crevice of the universe and then some? We do not believe, you and I in any other place, dimension or time where when we can come together. Have you found this other than we thought? Can you hear me grieve, calling for you incessantly through these empty rooms?

I don’t think so, but still I hope.

Langston's step father worked in the steel mills of 
Clelveland, Ohio,while L was in his teens .  
An interesting  
bio note in view of this poem.  

1921-30 he created this poem. 

STEEL MILLS 

The mills 
That grind and grind, 
That grind out new steel 
And grind away the lives  
Of men, - 
In the sunset 
Their stacks 
Are great black silhouettes  
Against the sky, 
In the dawn 
They belch red fire 
The mills, - 
Grinding out new steel, 
Old men.

Juke Box Love Song   



  I could take the Harlem night 
and wrap around you, 
Take the neon lights and make a crown, 
Take the Lenox Avenue busses, 
Taxis, subways, 
And for your love song tone their rumble down. 
Take Harlem's heartbeat, 
Make a drumbeat, 
Put it on a record, let it whirl, 
And while we listen to it play, 
Dance with you till day-- 
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.  

Langston Hughes

I really love The Juke Box Love Song. That's a good one.

MaryPage, did you write your poem? It's very moving too.

Yes, I did, HATS. My husband died January 12, 2006, and I am having a very hard time with it. Writing my feelings down helps somewhat.

MaryPage, I want to offer my sympathy. Your words are very, very touching.

Oh Marypage - oh it is a fresh wound isn't it - my prayers go with you as you do what you can to heal - Marypage please feel free to share your memories of your husband with us and please, if you haven't, share in the political folder - they were most supportive and their words meant a lot to me when my son died just days before Christmas.

Barbara, I would like to give my sympathies for your son too. Both you and MaryPage are in my prayers. So very sorry.

Whoops just saw your post Hats - thank you for your kind thoughts...

Since Peter died - the recurrence of life has been on my mind of late - this poem started back some years ago but I took it out, polished it up and added tons - on this Valentine day it is in a strange way a Valentine to both my mother, who died back in 1984 and my daughter -

Morning Moon
"When will the river waken spring thaw?" I ask the crystal moon. Mid-morning cracked the frozen creek, pussy willows gleam gold against a tender sky, the softness of their bud bares my quivered lip. A promise of spring silver willow stalks sway dust – yellow catkins sigh. Jade snow petals dewdrops blossom dry leaves free of snow. Ash boughs willow boughs slender boughs swell. When will I wash my mother's glass jar, dance with her moonlit shadow? Pipes of pan whistle me home; a cold glass spans her berry preserve, 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. "When will the moon be clear and bright?" I ask the peach-blown sky. I don't know what season it would be in the heavens on that night when I ride the wind till stars are dim cold to the sounds of lute strings when winter creeps in behind.

That is exquisite, Barbara, thanks. My sympathy to both you and Mary for your losses. Poetry sings your heart songs. Both of you.

~Marj

Love to you, BARBARA, with sorrow.

Thanks for you thoughts - when all was fresh I wrote poetry and these two are the two I shared here - one was simply called Peter and the other was the ludicous The Inch that Bewilders

Barbara St. Aubrey, "---Poetry" #599, 30 Dec 2005 7:27 pm

Barbara St. Aubrey, "---Poetry" #606, 3 Jan 2006 5:50 pm

Barbara, thank you for the links.

Barbara, that last poem is just beautiful.

Thanks-thanks for posting them again. I had missed the posts.

I echo Hats.

Oh my I cant believe you have lost your love ...my heart aches for you I understand the need to write your grief in poetic form because that is what I had to do when my husband died in 1994 it was the only way I could cope and Barbara you too. I am so moved by your poems and your sharing with us.I am a talky person but sometimes I have no words to say but I hope you can feel the hugs I am sending you. And if opens our hearts to your loss and so in some small way we share ..I will be back tomorrow although tomorrow is almost here but right now I just need to re read your poems and think of you Love anna

From Christ to Ghandi
Appears this truth--
St. Francis of Assisi
Proves it, too:
Goodness becomes grandeur
Surpassing might of kings.
Halos of kindness
Brighter shine
Than crowns of gold,
And brighter
Than rich diamonds
Sparkles
The simple dew
of love.

Langston Hughes

I have my book from the library. There are so many poems by Langston Hughes. Many are new to me.

AnnaFair, what a great idea! A month for a poet, I love it!

Isn't that book great, Hats!!!

I like that love poem.

I have one I want to post later.....have to get going this morning.

Ok.

The Jester 

In one hand 
I hold tragedy 
And in the other 
Comedy, - 
Masks for the soul, 
Laugh with me. 
You would laugh! 
Weep with me, 
You would weep! 
Tears are my laughter. 
Laughter is my pain. 
Cry at my grinning mouth, 
If you will. 
Laugh at my sorrow's reigh. 
I am the Black Jester, 
The dumb clown of the world, 
The booted, booted fool of silly men. 
Once I was wise. 
Shall I be wise again?  

L Hughes  

This poem definitely speaks to the human condition. 
   How often have we laughed in pain and vice versa!

This one is so true. I love it especially the line "booted, booted fool of silly men."

This poem reminds me of a poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar. "We Wear the Mask." I might have the title wrong.

WE WEAR THE MASK

by: Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes--
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries
To Thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

I just thought of posting this as a comparison to the Langston Hughes' "The Jester."

Just dropped in to read about Black poets. What a thrill to see Paul Laurence Dunbar! Thank you, Hats. He has become an obsession of mine since I heard a story about him on NPR. Some of his poems were read, including this one. He worte in dialect, tool Jump Back, Honey, Jump Back is funny. Another favorite of mine is Nikki Giovani; haven't read her in a while. SeniorNet is the coolest! Rah! Rah! Rah!

That's a great one, Hats. Glad you did the comparison.

This line is really outstanding at the moment:

"We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries  
To Thee from tortured souls arise."

Hi Mrs. Sherlock,

I love Paul Laurence Dunbar too. Do you like Countee Cullen? I might have spelled his name wrong.I love Nikki Giovanni too.

MarjV, that's my favorite line too.

I've read a few of Countee Cullen's poems. In fact I was going to post one the other day but forgot. I thought it would be good to include as a comparison/contrast.

I was thinking it might be good to have the poet of the month's name some where up there in the heading of Poetry for anyone that wanders by to know what we are doing. LIke after your name.

MarjV, that's a great idea!

MarjV - yes what a great idea - and Hats thanks there were two poets whose work I was not familiar with = both Countee Cullen and Nikki Giovanni - I have seen Nikki Govanni on TV but was not familiar with her work -

I often wondered if some of Paul Laurence Dunbar's Dream poems were an influence on Martin Luther King's 'I have a Dream' - I have loved re-reading that speech not just because of what it says but the poetic way it is constructed.

Just have to include this Dunbar Dream poem --

He had his dream, and all through life, Worked up to it through toil and strife. Afloat fore'er before his eyes, It colored for him all his skies:: The storm-cloud dark
Above his bark,
The calm and listless vault of blue Took on its hopeful hue, It tinctured every passing beam --: He had his dream.
He labored hard and failed at last, His sails too weak to bear the blast, The raging tempests tore away And sent his beating bark astray.: But what cared he
For wind or sea!
He said, "The tempest will be short, My bark will come to port." He saw through every cloud a gleam --: He had his dream.

Barbara, that Dream poem gave me goose bumps. Wow!

I agree with Hats! Neat to compare the African Am. poet's dream themes.

For a Poet   

I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, 
And laid them away in a box of gold; 
Where long will cling the lips of the moth, 
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth; 
I hide no hate; I am not even wroth 
Who found earth's breath so keen and cold; 
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, 
And laid them away in a box of gold. 

A different dream poem in that Countee puts the dream  away 
to ocherish..   Whereas, Dunbar's narrator works at his dream.    
And Langston's narrator doesn't want dreams lost or broken.

Here are a collection of Nikki Giovanni's poems - however - it's very difficult to read the words since the poems have black background and a pale white font. Home page is purple on black.

Nikki Giovanni's poems

Nikki Giovanni wrote about dreams, too. Hers is titled Revolutionary Dreams. I feel like I have found treasure here today. My heart is so full. Thank you all.

We have a good time, Mrs S. So make sure to keep us company.

Revolutionary Dreams by Nikki Giovanni 

i used to dream militiant 
dreams of taking 
over america to show 
these white folks how it should be 
done  used to dream radical dreams  of blowing everyone away with my  perceptive powers 
of correct analysis  even used to think i'd be the one  to stop  the riot and nengotiate the peace 
then i awoke and dug 
that if i dreamed natural 
dreams of being a natural 
woman doing what a woman 
does when she's natural  would have a revolution

I do not understand how that poem got so messed up. I even typed it in with the proper pre, etc. And I've tried to correct it. Sorry.

I am like Mrs. Sherlock. There is so much to take in today. It is "treasure." I love these Dream poems. MarjV, thank you for the link.

Oh, I love that "Revolutionary Dream" poem by Nikki Giovanni. I think Alice Walker wrote a "Revolutionary Dream" poem too. Maybe I'm wrong.

I am wrong. Alice Walker's poem is called "Revolutionary Petunias." I can't find it written online.

Here is another Dream poem by Langston Hughes.

Fairies

Out of the dust of dreams
Fairies weave their garments.
Out of the purple and rose of old memories
They make rainbow wings.
No wonder we find them such marvellous things!

Langston Hughes

Winter Sweetness

This little house is sugar.
Its roof with snow is piled,
And from its tiny window
Peeps a maple-sugar child.

Langston Hughes

So many poems use color, cloth and other beautiful descriptions to get the points across. I love the "maple sugar" child.

And the comments . I have book a of Dunbars poems ,. we studied them one year when I was taking classes , and Nikki Giovanni and Cullen as well Sometimes I think I have read every poets poems but then find another jewel Thanks for the posts of all the poems from some really great poets ..Yesterday I hosted a luncheon in my home for 21 seniors from my church It was so wonderful They came at my invitation but they didnt know I was giving myself a gift . Cooking and preparing a meal for some "ANGELS" It was a great day and today I sat down and rested my feet and looked in my Langston Hughes books of poems . I bought a copy of his selected poems and you all have shared some of my favorites ...but then every poem is like a jewel , and who can say you prefer diamonds over rubies , or topaz over aquamarines ? a jewel is a jewel and to me all poems are jewels .. they touch me like, console me, make me weep, laugh, all the human emotions and they are priceless

This is the poem I chose today by Hughes and I know you will like it as I do ..anna

Stars

 

O, sweep of stars over Harlem streets, 
O, little breath of oblivion that is night. 
     A city building 
     To a mother’s song. 
     A city dreaming 
     To a lullaby. 

Reach up your hand, dark boy, and take a star. 
Out of the little breath of oblivion 
     That is night, 
      Take just  
      One star. 

Langston Hughes

MarjV, I used VIEW SOURCE (options atop all our viewing screens), and then scrolled down to YOUR post. It seems that the source of your COPY has an ASCII code character &#32 in 3 places that isn't supported by all HTML viewers. (Including Seniornet's apparently). So when you copied it from somewhere, it included that code that Seniornet's viewing software doesn't recognize as a SPACE. Here's the front part of a blurb I found about this:

The following list includes the HTML codes for many of the ASCII symbols used on Web pages. The first four pages include the first 255 character codes and their related HTML codes. Then, at the end you'll find some other symbols and the HTML codes to create them. Not all browsers support all the codes, so be sure to test your HTML codes before you use them.

Horizontal Tab
no friendly code, HEX: none
Displays as: Whitespace

Line feed
no friendly code, HEX: none
Displays as: Whitespace

space
no friendly code, HEX: 20
Displays as: Whitespace

In sum, MarjV, you simply got mis-treated by the "compatibility bug." It happens...all the time, different ways. Less so today than earlier.

Here's same poem I've copy/pasted off another website. Hopefully, this one won't have in it that embedded evil ascii &#32 coded character:

Nikki Giovanni: "Revolutionary Dreams"

I used to dream militant
dreams of taking
over america to show
these white folks how it should be
done
used to dream radical dreams
of blowing everyone away with my perceptive powers
of correct analysis
even used to think i'd be the one
to stop the riot and negotiate the peace
then i awoke and dug
that if i dreamed natural
dreams of being a natural
woman doing what a woman
does when she's natural
would have a revolution

Mrs Sherlock...thanks for coming over to visit. Sit and stay a spell?

Rain

Thunder of the Rain God:
And we three
Smitten by beauty.

Thunder of the Rain God:
And we three
Weary, weary.

Thunder of the Rain God:
And you, she, and I
Waiting for nothingness.

Do you understand the stillness
Of this house
In Taos
Under the thunder of the Rain God?

~ Langston Hughes

Thanks, Jim. I thought I would beat the incompatibility by copying to notepad, didn't help, and copying to wordpad ,not, and I even had typed it right here in the message box. So somehow the incompatibility stuck. I even tried putting it in a new msg box.

Thanks again.

I see your copy & pasting put a couple lines in italics but at least it stayed in lines.

Yes...that %#32 code followed your efforts...ever which way. It's not a code that Seniornet software translates to a space. So you had...no chance. Mine above...seems a better website to have copied from.

The italics were in both yours and my chosen original website. I kept them as was, but making the poem title BOLD TYPE was my idea.

The Fairies poem is neat as can be. & Winter Sweetness.

CAn't you just see a mother or father talking to their little boy aoubt the stars. It's like picking a dream out of the sky.

That was a good learning experience for me, Jim. Thanks again.

Hats- Rev. Petunias is a collection of poems.

But the book title "Revolutionary Petunias and Other Poems" DOES imply that within it is a "title" poem too, yes?

So far, I'm also unable to find it (the poem) cited in cyberspace. This might be due to a copyright quirk, for all I know. I'll try some more; it's possibly online someplace.

Scrawler what stillness do you think Langston Hughes is talking about - or what is the waiting about?

I didn't find A. Walker revolutionary dream poem anywhere.

Good question, Barbara.

Probably Alice Walker, "Revolutionary Petunias," if you meant you were looking for a poem.

Hi AnnaFair, I love "Stars." Like you said, there is always another new jewel. You said it so beautifully.

Yes, it is Alice Walker's "Revolutionary Petunias." It is a very short poem. I couldn't find it on the web either.

MarjV and others will need to help me with all the computer talk. I don't understand a word of it. I will definitely makes some dumb mistakes.

Hi Scrawler,

That "Taos" poem offers a different flare. I really like it too. It's another new one for me.

Hats, I checked my library system online - they do not have Revolutionary Petunias; please check yours. Otherwise I might request an interloan. Let me know.

Ok. I might have the poem in a literature book here in the house.

Langston Hughes   

 New Year 

The years 
Fall like dry leaves 
From the topless tree of eternity. 
Does it mattter 
That another leaf has fallen? 

Time goes by so fast.  I liked how LH gives a perspective  
on time passing that I often ponder..

MarjV, I didn't find it here at home. Then, I thought, if it's not on the net freely, maybe Alice Walker doesn't want it copied anywhere. Maybe if a book is given the title of a poem, there are special rules. I don't know.

VAGABONDS

We are the desperate
Who do not care,
The hungry
Who have nowhere
To eat,
No place to sleep,
The tearless
Who cannot
Weep.

Langston Hughes

I think you are right about that, Hats. There are really not many poems of hers on the net.

This poem you posted is quite sad. And real. People have a hard time focussing on the realities of situations like that.

MarjV, it is a sad poem.

Oh please - tell me what you make of the Taos poem - it is a mystery to me and I would like to hear what y'all make of it... please? I am usually good at symbolism or words alluding to something else but this with the silence - I am not even confused - I am standing with my mouth open waiting to understand with nothing creeping in...?

Barbara, there are more verses to it in the book of his poems I have from the library. I'll type the rest of them out later, They look to shed some light on it.

This may have something to do with the Taos poem...tells how he lived with grandparents and then: "Hughes struggled with a sense of desolation fostered by parental neglect. He himself recalled being driven early by his loneliness 'to books, and the wonderful world in books.’"

The Taos poem as written in the period of 1921-30

And I found he did live in Mexico in his childhood.

 A House in Taos:   

Rain  

Thunder of the Rain God: 
And we three 
Smitten by beauty.  

Thunder of the Rain God: 
And we three 
Weary, weary.  

<pre?Thunder of the Rain God: 
And you, she, and I 
Waiting for nothingness.  

Do you understand the stillness 
Of this house 
In Taos 
Under the thunder of the Rain God?  

Sun 

That there should be a barren garden 
About this house in Taos 
Is not so strange, 
But that there should be three barren hearts 
In this one house in Taos - 
Who carries ugly things to show the sun?  

Moon 

Did you ask for the beaten brass of the moons? 
We can buy lovely things with money, 
You, she, and I, 
Yet you seek, 
As though you could keep, 
This unbought loveliness of moon. 

Wind 

Touch our bodies, wind. 
Our bodies are separate, individual things. 
Touch our bodies, wind, 
But blow quickly 
Through the red, white, yellow skins 
Of our bodies  
To the terrible snarl. 
Not mine, 
Not yours,  
Not hers, 
But all one snarl of souls. 
Blow quickly, wind, 
Before we turn back 
Into the windlessness - 
With our bodies - 
Into the windlessness  
Of our house in Taos. 

Langston Hughes, 1921-30.

Oh thank you - so helpful - I think if I had read the entire poem without the explanation of his life experience I would still have not understood - but now I have a context to understand the poem - do you think they lived in Taos? I have not read anything that suggests where he spent his childhood - I kept thinking there was something about Taos I should know and all I could think of was Georgia O'Keefe who I have not read that she and Langston Hughes were intimate friends.

During the summer after Hughes's junior year in high school, his father reentered his life. James Hughes was living in Toluca, Mexico, and wanted his son to join him there. Hughes lived in Mexico for the summer but he did not get along with his father. This conflict, though painful, apparently contributed to Hughes's maturity.

------ It doesn't say he lived in New Mexico, just Mexico. Taso is in N.Mexico, right?

http://www.ku.edu/kansas/crossingboundaries/page6e1.html

I find it hard to read the poems in my book and decide which one to post today. They are all very meaningful to me. It is hard for me to understand the animosity so many people felt toward the blacks in thier neighborhoods. My world revolved around a several square blocks when I was a child and I mean blocks. there were all these homes and businesses in a square block and you could walk AROUND the block and see people sitting outside in nice weather or hurrying in during the cold> But you spoke to them and KNEW them and I knew all of these people in the blocks that determined where I could walk by my parents ..because they knew the people in the houses and knew it was safe for me. I have mentioned it was an intregated neighborhood. and I had to grow up and find that many people did not live in that kind of neighborhood and held themselves to be better than someone else for a number of reasons. I was 18 the first time I took a train with a group of young women from the YWCA to Peoria IL we had white and black groups and we did many things together In fact our director was black. When we were on the train I was SHOCKED to find that the black group had to sit in a special section in the car. And When we got to Peoria we were housed in homes from members of the YWCA there because the black groups were not welcomed in the hotels nor the restaurants ..I think back to how I felt when for the first time I realized blacks were being treated not just differently but hatefully so I find when I read Langston Hughes poems I am with him and am asking WHY ??? I had no control over my being born white and he had none over his being born black SO why was he treated differently ???any way here is the poem I chose today..anna

Democracy

 

Democracy will not come  
Today, this year  
     Nor ever  
Through compromise and fear. 

I have as much right  
As the other fellow has  
     To stand  
On my own two feet  
And own the land.  

I tire so of hearing people say , 
Let things take their course . 
Tomorrow is another day . 
I do not need my freedom when I’m dead. 
I cannot live on tomorrow’s bread. 
      Freedom 
      Is a strong seed  
      Planted 
      In a great need . 
      I live here, too. 
      I want freedom  
      Just as you.  

Langston Hughes

Anna: glad to see that heading up there about our poet of the month.

It seems someone pretty special suggested that! And Pat did it right away when asked ISNT SHE GREAT? And has promised to keep it current as we choose a poet each month to share...Thanks special someone PS it was Marjv anna

Oh, the header looks wonderful. Thank you PatWest.

History

The past has been a mint
of blood and sorrow.
That must not be
True of tomorrow.

Langston Hughes

Oh Hats - perfect...!

Barbara, it is true, isn't it?

My local library had the book. It's a smallish anthology of short poems, divided roughly into 2 sections: "bio poems" and "rebel poems." The book's title poem starts off the second section.

Revolutionary Petunias

Sammy Lou of Rue
sent to his reward
the exact creature who
murdered her husband,
using a cultivator's hoe
with verve and skill;
and laughed fit to kill
in disbelief
at the angry, militant
pictures of herself
the Sonneteers quickly drew:
not any of them people that
she knew.
A backwoods woman
her house was papered with
funeral home calendars and
faces appropriate for a Mississippi
Sunday School. She raised a George,
a Martha, a Jackie and a Kennedy. Also
a John Wesley Junior.
"Always respect the word of God,"
she said on her way to she didn't
know where, except it would be by
electric chair, and she continued
"Don't yall forgit to water
my purple petunias."

While at the library, I sat and read most of the book's poems...and liked maybe ALL the others a bit better than this title poem. What I mainly liked was her "minimal school" style...IMHO, somewhat a la Langston Hughes and Emily Dickinson.

And I suspect that her last poem in the book was meant to be a succinct summation of the book's earlier poems (including its title poem):

The Nature of This Flower Is to Bloom

Rebellious, Living.
Against the Elemental Crush.
A song of Color
Blooming
For Deserving Eyes.
Blooming Gloriously
For its Self.

-- Revolutionary Petunia.

Marj beat me to it by giving you the whole poem. Having been in New Mexico awhile with my husband I can tell that the elements of rain, sun, moon, wind are very dominant features in Taos, New Mexico. For some reason (and I suppose because of the higher elevation) everything seems closer to you and stronger. When it rains it really rains, when the sun is out it is very hot, when the moon shines its big, bright and beautiful, and finally when it is windy there you can feel it in your bones whether it is a hot, dry wind of the summer or the cold, crisp wind of winter. I think the stillness Hughes refers to is the "stillness" just before something is going to happen. Perhaps the last lines says it all -

Into the windlessness -
With our bodies-
Into the windlessness
Of our house in Taos

They ran from the "passion" of the elements into a still, lifeless house - which to me means the house had no love - and perhaps neither did the people living in the house.

Evil:

Looks like what drives me crazy
Don't have no effect on you -
But I'm gonna keep on at it
Till it drives you crazy, too.

~ Langston Hughes

Sometimes I too have known things that drive me crazy and only wish that they would drive others as crazy as me.

Scrawler posts:They ran from the "passion" of the elements into a still, lifeless house - which to me means the house had no love - and perhaps neither did the people living in the house.

I think that is it, Anne, - when you look back it runs thru the poem.

Yes I like that Scrawler refers to is the "stillness" just before something is going to happen. coupled with this They ran from the "passion" of the elements into a still, lifeless house - which to me means the house had no love pulls the whole thing together - now the poem makes sense - I kept looking at the Title and trying to figure out what was so silent about Taos but I can see that is secondary to the silence which is like the silence before something happens. Boy talk about being tuned to every nuance in the change of air and the change between people's behavior...

Jeff in Jeff,

Thank you finding the poem, "Revolutionary Petunias." It's not my favorite poem either. It's one I have read. When the word revolution came up in other poems, I remembered this one because of the strange title. Revolution and Petunias is such an oxymoron.

Wow! I just read the poem again. My memory is really in the pits. It sounds like a totally different poem.

Scrawler, your description of the weather elements in Taos is just beautiful. I have never traveled outside of the United States. Here in the states the beauty of the seasons is important to me. Each season offers something unique. In Taos, it seems, the sun, wind, etc. are more intense. I would love to go there.

Taos, New Mexico is not that far from Santa Fe, New Mexico but it is at a higher elevation which makes the elements seem closer. My husband was born and raised in Santa Fe, New Mexico, but he spent lots of time in Taos. There are alot of artists and writers that live in Taos because the town has that "old town" atmosphere. At least it did when we went back during the 1960s. By the time we thought we could retire (1990s) there, we couldn't aford to live there. Shacks were going for $400,000 dollars. Speaking of "rent" here's what Langston Hughes had to say about it.

Little Lyric (Of Great Importance)

I wish the rent
Was heaven sent.

~ Langston Hughes

Amen! To that Brother!

Amen! to that Scrawler!!!!!

Since our power was out  
and the house was getting so cold (I am now back online  
and the furnace is purring).  
decided to see what LH had to say about cold,  
if anything.. 

This one isn't exactly about cold.  
It refers to cold steel.  
 It does have his dream theme again.  
  It says to me there is hope for all. 
I am grateful for hope 

Oppression 



  Now dreams 
Are not available 
To the dreamers, 
Nor songs 
To the singers. 

In some lands 
Dark night 
And cold steel 
Prevail 
But the dream 
Will come back, 
And the song 
Break 
Its jail.  

Langston Hughes

Scrawler,

That poem about the rent is so funny!

MarjV, I like "Oppression" too. He is just a wonderful writer.

Prayer

Gather up
In the arms of your pity
The sick, the depraved,
The desperate, the tired,
All the scum
of our weary city.

Langston Hughes

This poem keeps a person grounded. There is always another person in a worse situation.

Isni't that beautiful, Hats!!!! It reminds me of the Psalms.

I agree, that sounds like a psalm. I've put LH on my list.

The poems we read,the poems we write, the poems are doors to our hearts, our dreams , our fears.. That is from me because the poems and the words you share here makes me feel that way. And Langtons Hughes poems do the same. anna

Dream Dust

 

Gather out of star-dust 
     Earth-dust, 
     Cloud-dust, 
     Star-dust, 
And splinters of hail, 
One handful of dream-dust 
    Not for sale,  

Langston Hughes

That's a neat dream poem from Langston. I like that.

Oh I love that one - but I am a sucker for anything that smacks of wonderment - fairys and elves are too cutsy for me but the wonder of all the little things -

Someday I would love to be able to put into words that crack between seeing and knowing - that millisecond between seeing and registering what we are seeing - or the second it takes us to lay down a note after reading it when the words are still formulating in our heads to create meaning.

So the specks of dust seen or unseen seem to me to be part of trying to describe that wonderous millisecond.

I agree about the specks of dust. Loved reading your thoughts on that wisp of time.

"As I Grew Older" 

   It was a long time ago. 
I have almost forgotten my dream. 
But it was there then, 
In front of me, 
Bright like a sun-- 
My dream. 
And then the wall rose, 
Rose slowly, 
Slowly, 
Between me and my dream. 
Rose until it touched the sky-- 
The wall. 
Shadow. 
I am black. 
I lie down in the shadow. 
No longer the light of my dream before me, 
Above me. 
Only the thick wall. 
Only the shadow. 
My hands! 
My dark hands! 
Break through the wall! 
Find my dream! 
Help me to shatter this darkness, 
To smash this night, 
To break this shadow 
Into a thousand lights of sun, 
Into a thousand whirling dreams 
Of sun!   

I can feel the agony of wanting to break thru the wall 
the narrator feels.  There are many of walls in 
our world today - I can think of some walls I needed to 
break and there are always more.   For him it was his 
race.

Not Often

I seldom see
A kangaroo
Except in a zoo.

At a whale
I've never had a look
Except in a book.

Another thing
I never saw
Is my great-
Great-great-grandpa--
Who must've been
a family fixture,
But there's no
Picture.

Langston Hughes

MarjV,

"As I Grew Older" is very moving. I can feel the pain too. The feeling your dreams will never come true. All of us face some "wall." Those obstacles which make us want to cry and hit a wall. Then, something comes over us and we know to continue living and fighting and accepting what can't come true.

That's a smiley poem post, Hats

Paul Dunbar's Collected Works arrived from the library. Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings title is found there, which I had forgotten. (I read Bird more than 30 years ago.) Reading Hughes here and reading Dunbar's CVOllected Works, I will be buying these to add to my collection of poets. To those who are reading My Name Is Red, by Orhan Pamuk in Reading Around the World, alert: Bellini in Istanbul, by Lillias Bevar, was reviewed in today's Portland Oregonian. (Bevar is a U of O graduate.) http://www.oregonlive.com/O/artsandbooks/index.ssf?/base/entertainment/1139628357245300.xml&coll=7

Sorry to say the Salem library doesn't have it yet. SHould add another dimension to the discussion.

Mrs. Sherlock, thank you. I will look for "Bellini in Istanbul" by Lillian Bevar at my library.

Aspiration

I wonder how it feels
to do cart wheels?
I sure whould like
To know.

To walk a high wire
Is another desire,
In this world before
I go.

Langston Hughes

We can't fulfill all of our dreams in this life. Maybe we can see just some of our dreams come true.

That speaks to me all right. I learned to do cart wheels as a kid - and then I could do a few thru my 40s. No more

Heights make me queasy so I have no interest in high wire.

I am afraid of heights too, MarjV.

Langston Hughes became known as Harlem's unofficial  
Poet Laureate. Hughes' poetry is full of the rhythm and  
romance of the jazz of that time and place.  

So I chose "Jazzonia"  

Jazzonia  
BY  
Langston Hughes  



Oh, silver tree!  
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!  

In a Harlem cabaret  
Six long-headed jazzers play.  
A dancing girl whose eyes are bold  
Lifts high a dress of silken gold.  

Oh, singing tree!  
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!  

Were Eve's eyes  
In the first garden  
Just a bit too bold?  
Was Cleopatra gorgeous  
In a gown of gold?  

Oh, shining tree!  
Oh, silver rivers of the soul!  

In a whirling cabaret  
Six long-headed jazzers play. 

 http://www.riverwalk.org/proglist/showpromo/jazzonia.htm

I like that one! It makes you want to dance.

I sat there singing her
Songs in the dark.

She said,
I do not understand
The words

I said,
There are
No words.

Langston Hughes

Altough this one is about "Songs" I can't hear the words either, or is it that I can't understand them.

Scrawler,

Are you going to join the Stevenson's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde discussion? Your comments are always very helpful to me. Don't feel pressured. I miss you in the discussions.

Thanks for posting this poem.

Not to leave anybody out, I enjoy everybody who shows up for a discussion. I always learn so much.

I think you can have a melody in your heart, a wordless song. So maybe that is what Langston was writing about. And the person to whom it was addressed had no soul mate connection with the song being sung.

~Marj

MarjV,

I think the same thing. I just could not put it in words.

Sea Charm

Sea charm
The sea's own children
Do not understand.
They know
But that the sea is strong
Like God's hand.
They know
But that sea wind is sweet
Like God's breath,
And that the sea holds
A wide, deep death.

Langston Hughes

The sea with all of it's magical, spellbinding charm is mysterious. The last two lines seem to lead away from the beauty we all see and understand to some other place in the sea, a place not as magical. Maybe eerie?

"Eerie" is a good adjective. We need to hold the sea in awe of it's power and mystery. And not take it for granted. And a reality that could be dangerous when we don't respect that sea and all it's possibilities.

Who are these sea children? Are they the sailors, for instance, who hold the water is high regard and don't take it's power lightly? ~Marj

Then I started thinking about the film, "The Perfect Storm",

Veteran fisherman Billy Tyne (George Clooney) has had a run of disappointing catches and is determined to change his luck by going beyond the normal reach of New England fishing boats to the remote Flemish Cap. Once out at sea, he hears about a huge storm building up, but is convinced he can beat it back to Gloucester, taking an enormous catch with him. If he doesn't try, his crew will come away empty-handed on this last trip of the season.

MarjV,

I wondered about the "sea children" too. I like your example from "The Perfect Storm." I think of Jacques Cousteau as a sea child. If he had been asked, I bet he would have said he never fully understood the sea world.

Cousteau is an excellent example. As could be those who sit in wonder for hours at the magnificence and changeability of the mighty waters.

Exactly.

Well scientists say all life came from the sea.. and we do know I once wrote a poem about singing to the Mother Sea....and although I grew up inland on the banks of the Mississippi when I sailed to Europe years ago to join my husband on his Air Force assignment I was completely enthralled by the ocean.. and happily when we retired it was near the Atlantic ...in 25 minutes I can be standing on the sand and I NEVER tire of watching those waves and always think that in time the ones I am watching have washed ashore on some foreign land ...the sea is both serene and forever and dangerous as we saw this past year when the ocean poured over our southern states ..everyone I have known that came from inland states and visited me the first thing they wanted to see was the ocean...so I guess we are all sea children at heart ...and to prove that scientists are right I am typing these words from Genesis verse 6 Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters ( so all was water) and HE called the waters above Heaven Verse 9 Let the waters under the heavens be gathered into one place and let the dry land appear.. and in verse 20 let the waters bring forth swarms of living creatures To me these verses have always said life came from the sea so perhaps we are all sea children ...I hope my thinking doesnt upset any one but when I first saw the ocean I felt a kin to it ...love, anna

I chose this poem because I have recieved letters that wounded me over the years and ones that got me through my darkest days. I regret that letter writing as been replaced with emails ( and I am guilty as charged) for I have all the letters my husband ever wrote to me and they are fading and I have letters my mother wrote when she was still alive and the last letter one of my brothers mailed just before he died..Those handwritten letters are as precious to me as if they were engraved on gold..and before I forget I have been very pleased with our sharing the poems of one poet this month. And would like to continue and try doing the same for a month, SO what I need are suggestions for What Poet you would like to talk about and share poems A week from today is the last day in FEB SO ANY IDEAS ?? anna

Little Old Letter

 

It was yesterday morning  
I looked in my box for mail 
The letter that I found there  
Made me turn right pale. 

Just a little old letter, 
Was'nt even one page long- 
But it made me wish  
I was in my grave and gone. 

I turned it over, 
Not a word writ on the back, 
I never felt so lonesome 
Since I was born black. 

Just a pencil and paper, 
You don't need no gun nor knife- 
A little old letter  
Can take a person's life. 

Langston Hughes

THat is really a touching poem, Anna.

No, you don't upset me with your thinking. I like how you followed thru step by step. And consider how large a percentage of our bodies are water. I have to see if I can find that figure.

Ok...found it right away- this is amazing : ,

Water is of major importance to all living things; in some organisms, up to 90 percent of their body weight comes from water. Up to 60 percent of the human body is water, the brain is composed of 70 percent water, and the lungs are nearly 90 percent water. About 83 percent of our blood is water, which helps digest our food, transport waste, and control body temperature. Each day humans must replace 2.4 litres of water, some through drinking and the rest taken by the body from the foods eaten.

We sure are "sea children"

Definitely.

/Face like a chocolate bar
full of nuts and sweet.

Face like a jack-o-lantern,
candle inside.

Face like a slice of melon,
grin that wide.

from "Montage of a Dream Deferred" ~Langston Hughes

Like Anna said, it somehow stirs feelings deep within us.

Myself being a longtime songs fan, I recall Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea" (encored in his recent bio-movie of same name).

And American poet Rod McKuen in 1968 made a (then innovative) poetry/music album "The Sea," with music by his friend Anita Kerr. 20 yrs later, I corresponded warmly with Anita awhile...but I digress. This first of several McKuen/Kerr albums included several good McKuen "sea" poems.

Many of us grew up enjoying American literature sea tales such as Hermann Melville's "Moby Dick"; Michener's "Tales of the South Pacific"; Robt L Stevenson's "Treasure Island." "The Sea" has been a popular lure for us...in music, literature, folklore tales, etc.

Here's a website with OLDE English sea ditties. Turn your sound up if you opt to browse here awhile: http://www.contemplator.com/sea/

This poem of Langston Hughes says something to me...

The Dream Keeper

Bring me all of your dreams,
You dreamer,
Bring me all your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.

And then with Spring coming round the corner this one about rain.

April Rain Song

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.

Oh dear Anna I think you may have opened Pandoras' box on what poet to study in March - I have a couple of thoughts - it is the month of St. Patricks day and would be a perfect month to consider an Irish poet. However in our American poet vein I have two that would interest me - e.e. cummings - it would also be nice to balance every other month with a women poet - Mary Oliver would be terrific for a women poet in March.

remember when it was all over what was left ?? HOPE so we can hope and I know we will come up with some great poets to share I love the ones you mentioned How about the rest of you???Any preferences????

And I havent found a LAngston Hughes poem that didnt speak to me in some way I too love the Rain poem..

and DO Remember regardless of what poet we choose other poets , other poems are always welcome too! We are not picky posters but poet lovers ..in the beginning I said Share the poems that have moved you, be your own or others....So I am waiting for your thoughts .. I have to say I am for Mary Oliver ..but perhaps a good Irish poet or maybe just Irish poets for MArch and save MAry for April that seems a woman's month to me . but this is OUR discussion so let's hear your thoughts .. anna

AnnaFair,

I am like Barbara. Your idea about different poets is just wonderful. March is St. Patrick's Day. Is Yeats Irish? I have never understood his poems. That is I am not familiar with many of his poems. His name seems very important in the world of poetry. Maybe we could have a green heading with a leprecaun. Oh, this is too much fun!

I love Edna St. Vincent Millay. Is she Irish?

All right- I will ok a montage of Irish poets for March...

I do like the focus on one poet. I've learned about LH by reading his collected poems and the bio info online.

And Mary Oliver for April.

You can tell poet's origin, Hats, by just typing their name into Google and you will get bios, etc. Edna was born in Maine in the USA.

And Yeats is Irish.

MarjV,

I will have to type in "montage" too. I know "mon" is a prefix for one. I don't know the meaning of montage. Coming back in a minute. Isn't this fun?

I haven't read all the posts; what poets have already been "used"? Wouldn't want to recommend someone you;ve already discussed. I love the Poet of the Month theme.

Hi MrsS........this is the first time we have done poet of the month. A spanking new undertaking.

Mrs. Sherlock,

Which Irish poet would you choose?

And- you can use the Search function to see which Langston Hughes poems , for instance, we have posted by typing in the title of the poem..

I am going to go back and look over the Langston Hughes poems already discussed. There are many good choices.

Here's an article exploring the possible homosexuality of Hughes and it's possible influence on his writing.

http://www.glbtq.com/literature/hughes_l.html

Oh good Lord - sorry Marj - I just get so annoyed when essays must grab attention by focusing on someone's sexual orientation -

Good grief why not that he was a black man and that affected his poetry - sorry but I do go into these rants every so often -

His poetry to me says so much regardless of his race and sexual orientation - he has done us all a favor in those poems where he furthered the everyday thoughts of the Black community which is another window into a life experiences that for those of us who are white we can better understand - unfortunately I do not see him giving a similar window into the experience of being gay - too bad - but then he did live before any of us would say the word aloud in mixed company much less toss it off as a problem only for right wing Christians.

Ah so - my liberal stripes show forth - but I just wish we would get past all this liberal or conservative view on sexuality - and get onto enjoying a poet who can describe in well chosen words the condition of ]wo]/mans life and soul.

And there are so many poets who are gay - Oscar Wilde, e.e. cummings, Walt Whitman, Hart Crane, Gertrude Stein, Federico Garcia Lorca, Elizabeth Bishop, W. H. Auden, Noel Coward and James Merrill - plus some lessor known poets. I think if a poet can only address one aspect of life he is seldom elevated into the western cannon of literature and poetry -

Poems must resonate with all of us or they would only be read by the few, rather than be considered Classic poets. And so, those who must write a thesis on a person's sexuality as the engine of some poets work, to me is very narrow in their thinking.

Didn't plan on turning this into a sub discussion of my beliefs - however, I just hit the ceiling and onto the roof over issues that separate us rather than draw us together and critiques who use what separates us as the focus of their essay knowing it will be read.

so often you get it just right.

Anna, I am having computer trouble and I dont seem to be able to contact you, but anyway we are alive and well, and your posting here suggests you are as well.

I had never heard of hughes, but I am now a fan, thanks to all the wonderful posts here in February.

Anneo

If we are considering Irish poets

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other's work would bring us to our senses.

So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives--
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

Precisely why I posted if, Barbara. I wish we could get past it also. His poetry is such a gift. And a statment.

~Marj

OK with deep breaths

- the Irish poets that I am most familiar with are: Oscar Wilde, Yeats, Patrick Kavanagh, Seamus Heaney and Paul Muldoon.

I like Yeats however, his work seems more of the lyrics of a past age - certainly he is up there on the top of the charts with the greatest - Oscar Wilde is more noted for his plays but did some nice poetry - my favorite is Kavanagh but he is very Catholic [as in religion not in view] - Seamus Heaney has quite a large collection and is more contemporary - Paul was a student of Heaney and won the 1997 Irish Lit for poetry - not much of his work appears yet on the Internet and so book would have to be purchased.

I am fine with Yeats - would prefer Kavanagh but I realize his work has a lot of Irish Catholic imagery that may not be familiar to those who are not RomanCatholic - Heaney would be another good choice. And love the idea of Mary Oliver for April.

And now onto uncovering more poems by Langston Hughes. I have been introduced to Dunbar by reading some of the references on some of the web sites and I do like what I am reading of Dunbar's Poetry.

That was a neat one Avonlea. You can feel the mother's presence.

I'm all for Irish poets rather than just one in March.

Barbara,

I feel the same way. In this world today everyone is homosexual. It gets a bit tiring. Now they are saying Lincoln is homosexual. It's very frustrating. I could care less about a poet or president's acts behind a bedroom door.

This Hughes poem, "Night Funeral in Harlem" is so descriptive. Takes you right to the scene. I liked it's right up front feeling. It's long so I put the link. Definitely another of his poems that show us his beloved Harlem.

Night Funeral in Harlem

Barbara,

Your Post #847 is just GREAT! I love your rants.

Hi AnneO,

I miss you. I am glad to hear from you. After reading that one poem you posted, I would like to read more by Seamus Heaney. That poem is just beautiful. I have never read his poems. That poem just struck a cord.

Are we going to do just one poet? I like doing just one. What do you guys think?

Here I was going to amend my second post after Marj, you shared that the link was your effort towards tongue and cheek but, my phone rang and it has been one call after the other ever since - looks like we are all tired of the sexual tirade that others find so titillating...

AnneO - so glad you are joining the group for awhile - haven't been in the same discussion with you for months now... how much fun it will be to have you share the poems that touch your heart.

What a neat idea - to consider the Irish poets as a group - but then when I think - I wonder if it is because we are having a difficult time choosing - I do like the idea of choosing Seamus Heaney - I think his work says something to us more intimatly where as, Yeats is more about the glory that is in the heart and was Ireland - the drums roll a dirge, the smoke is coming from the chimney of the crofts and the bog diggers are silhouetted against the fading sun, sorta thing.

MarjV,

Thank you for posting the link to "Night Funeral in Harlem." So many people loved the young man. All of their love was shown through their willingness to give. This made it possible for him to have a proper ceremony.

I'll be glad to go along with Seamus. I see there are numerous online websites for him. My library has a number of his poetry books. I sure did like the one that AnnieAvonlea posted! And I know nothing of his work.

Seems like we have a majority. I think.

Earlier today I posted a list of Irish poets and it would seem my list are yours as well. They are ones I have already read and enjoyed so it is hard for me to say which one ..but just thinking about it has caused anneo to share her favorite and I would like every one to feel free to do the same. SO if it is okay and IF You really prefer to do one than that is okay ..but I was thinking of asking Pat to post a heading and also put the info in the book bytes for March and invite posters to share thier favorite Irish poet.. How does this sound You are invited to come to poetry in March and share your favorite Irish poets poems ..Yeats, Seamus Heaney , James Joyce, Oscar Wilde and ? who is your favorite? In green with the leprechaun and shamrocks etc ..what think you ...?

I am ready to go to my library and see what they have but am think I most likely will be buying a book as well. And Dunbar is another poet whose collection of poems I have..and is Mary Oliver okay for APRIL????

Love all you posters just reading what you say and how much you see and feel in the poems we have shared. makes my days ...anna

PS anneo I posted a letter to you yesterday ANd I am so glad you were able to stop here and post your favorite ..

Letting midnight
out on bail
pop-a-da
having been
detained in jail
oop-pop-a-da
for sprinkling salt
on a dreamer's tail
pop-a-da

~Langston Hughes

I love this little ditty.

I can just hear music to that one, Scrawler.

Anna: I want to add, if we pick one or many Irish poets, I think it is good when we say what we like OR even don't like about a poem, or what it means.

It seems to me the likes of Yeats, and others have earned the right to a full month, only kidding!!!! However I know it would be a month before I could sort Yeats out, and then I would still be floundering.

Actually it is certainly the "one" poet thing that attracted me back here, and it bought out much information. Mind you I love our resident poets, who bring us wonderful contempory work and leave me wide eyed.

Glad you liked the Heaney poem, it seems to me we became close to our mothers when we worked alongside them, milking cows, shelling peas etc.

Anneo

Dont want to wait to ask PAT to work on our ANNOUNCEMENT Do we do IRISH POETS or AN Irish poet ??? Yeats? and of course everyone is always welcome to post another Irish poet and poem and YES the best part about this month has been our sharing of what a specific poem meant to us ...So dont keep your opinion to yourself What was that phrase from what year LET IT ALL HANG OUT !! Please state your opinion and of course if we do one poet this month later we can do another in another month....I just happen to love IRISH POETS do you suppose being a HANNIGAN makes a difference (VBG) anna

Anna are you suggesting we do any and all Irish poets for March - the thought is making me hide - I really like the idea of one poet a month -

With this experience under our belt of looking at Langston Hughes for a month is giving us an opportunity to really explore his work and get a feel for the writer - but choosing a group is making me worry that in future months we would make all sorts of groupings - like all female poets in one month or, all southern poets another month or, French another...

Anna - you have carried us along for so long and we have been so happy with your choices and how you have made us all feel good when we post however given the choice I really like one poet - and Heaney would be fine with me - as others say Yeats would take too long to get into the soul of the man...

I agree with Barbara. Reading one poet gives me the chance to really know their work. For example, now I know Langston Hughes wrote many poems about dreams and dreamers, about Jazz, about racial conflict, death, some humor.

After reading Anneo's poem by Seamus Heaney, I would like to know more about what influenced his poems, his themes, etc. Did he write much about the struggles of Ireland? Did he write about his love for Ireland? Did he write more domestic poems like the one Anneo shared? That one reminded me of Vermeer's paintings for some reason.

To me, giving one poet a month is truly an honor to the poet. Then, in between we can include the poems of our resident poets.

AnnaFair, what shall we do?

Here I came up with this really great idea and I am messing it with it. I have decided to do what I should have done FOLLOW that idea.. I have to confess I have been sitting here for ten days fighting off a sinus infection and yesterday I gave up and saw my doctor. The antibiotic he prescribed wasnt available until today SO I am hoping that a few days from now my face will feel and BE normal Right now it looks okay but I feel like I have run into a stone wall IT HURTS SO it will be one poet a month and Seamus Heaney will be our IRISH poet for March For lots of reasons he is of our time having been born in 1939 and while I have read a few of his poems I want to read more. After I pick up my prescription I will stop by Barnes and Nobles or Borders which just opened . all within about 5 minutes from where I live GREAT I dont think I could drive a long distance..I will contact Pat and ask for her to update us and also to put the information in BOOK BYTES so others who are interested can drop by and contribute their thoughts.

I need to get this infection under control and feel like meself again. Thanks for your input It is what I wanted I Dont do this for me but for all of us who not only love poetry but need it ..God Bless all . anna

AnnaFair,

Get well soon. I know you are in a lot of discomfort and pain.

Oh Anna - how miserable - we all have our tricks with sinus infections and I hope you have some that will allow you to at least feel better and my hope and prayers for you are that this does not either drop into your lungs or travel into your ears setting up another infection - I will think about you today -

Finally the sun came out and that makes us feel so much better even if we are in bed and so I hope you can nap after your medicine and I sure hope the sun is out for you - Yea on Heaney - he is a prolific poet so we should not be scratching to find poems - get well...

I tried all the tricks Hot compresses, hot green tea ,steam Vicks lots of juices and fruits but nothing helped this time and yesterday the pain did go down into my right ear .. I think I have run a low grade temp as well but am confident that the medicine and continued tea , juices etc will make me feel better SOON..well I am hopeful ..anna

Great,. I like Heaney. Haven't read him . so I look very forward to exploring his work. Yahooooooooo!

Hats, you posted a beautiful Langston poem on Rubbish. Do post it here .

MarjV, I can't believe it. I must have been asleep:) Thank you.

CHRISTMAS EVE: Nearing Midnight In New York

And the ones that are left go cheap
The children almost all over town
Have almost gone to sleep.

The skyscraper lights on Christmas Eve
Have almost all gone out
There's very little traffic
Almost no one about.<br.

Our town's almost as quiet
As Bethlehem must have been
Before a sudden angel chorus
Sang PEACE ON EARTH
GOOD WILL TO MEN!

Our old Statue of Liberty
Looks down almost with a smile
As the Island of Manhattan
Awaits the morning of the Child.

Langston Hughes

Although I live far from New York, I feel these same feelings on Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve there is a feeling of quietness and peace. It's like all the houses, shops and children are waiting for the special day to arrive, Christmas.

A quiet spirit allows us to appreciate what is holy and what is uniquely beautiful. Whether it's Christmas or another day of holiness or just the beauty of a poem the spirit seems to go quiet in order to accept such beauty. This is the time to put away any thoughts that make us anxious or afraid.

Since we probably won't do Langston Hughes during Christmas, I just wanted to post this poem now.

The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you
Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
The Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me - we two - you, me talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me - who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records - Bessie, bop, or Bach
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white -
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me-
although you're older - and white -
And somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B ~ Langston Hughes

This poem reminds me of a boy who was in my high school. He too was the only black boy in the school. He used to sit behind me in class. Back than we were put in our seats alphabetically. Back than I was a Klutch. I had braces on my teeth, wore glasses, and continually dropped my books on the ground. He was always polite to me and spent most of class time picking up my books. When we had tests he would tap me on the shoulder and borrow some binder paper. Adventually, we started talking about "things" - music, books etc. even though we got that "look" from the other white kids and teachers. When track and field was in season I lost him to sports - when he ran it was the only time we became state champions. I was very proud of him even though I never really told him because I was so shy. At this time he became every body's friend and hero, but he always found time to come talk with me. When we graduated the whole class rose as one when he went to the podium. I could see our parents were embarrassed by the applause and I could also see that his parents were embarrassed as well where they sat in the back of the auditorium. Than Vietnam came and I got the phone call from a friend - He was the first boy from our town to die in Vietnam. I still remember the funeral to this day a huge room full of black people and only one white girl standing in the back - Me.

Scrawler, I don't know what to say. You were a true friend.

Oh Scrawler- your own words & experience gave me definite goosebumps. That is quite a poem. I've read it several times in my book..

Hughes sure did address the gamut of feelingns and events. 
This poem points that up. 

SILHOUETTE 

Southern gentle lady, 
Do not swoon. 
They've just hung a black man 
In the dark of the moon. 

They've just hung a black man 
To a roadside tree 
In the dark of the moon 
For the world to see 
How Dixie protects 
It's white womanhood. 

Southern gentle lady, 
    Be good! 
    Be good! 

I don't quite understand the last 3 lines.    Any ideas?

Anna: be better soon. Sinus infections are nasty. ~Marj

Oh Scrawler - the instances in our lives that are so poignent and linger with us forever - even as you shared it was as if you were writing poetry, the kind of poetry that seeps into the spirit. Thanks...

Langston Hughes also wrote short stories. One, "Cora Unashamed," was even adapted for TV in a highly acclaimed Masterpiece Theatre (PBS-TV and BBC-TV) program.

I'm not sure when this was...but it's available on DVD. Here's one website offer (I think I copied this from a PBS website):

Masterpiece Theatre: Langston Hughes' Cora Unashamed (DVD)
Item no: EMAC601

Our Price: $19.99

Langston Hughes' haunting story of an African-American woman's confrontation with death, abortion and loneliness is set in rural Iowa in the early 1900s. Working as a domestic, she lives only for her daughter and the neglected child of her employers. Regina Taylor ("Strange Justice," "I'll Fly Away") and Cherry Jones (A Moon for the Misbegotten, Cradle Will Rock) star.

Hughes' jazz interests remind me of his mid-1900s contemporary Gordon Parks, whom I had immense honor of meeting one fine DC evening about 15 years ago. Parks was about 80 then. Not related to Rosie Parks, I think, due to different locales. Same age-range tho.

Another related memory (stirred by MarjV's cite here of Langston Hughes' "Silhouette") is a song by all-time PREmier jazz vocalist Billie Holiday titled "Strange Fruit." Those lyrics were, somewhat like Hughes' "Silhouette," visions of black men hanging from a plantation-yard tree. "Strange fruit" indeed!

And of course, Hughs, Parks, and Holiday were contemporaries of the great jazz-era bandleader, Duke Ellington.

Meaning of those last "Silouette" lines? Maybe it was Hughes' subtle indictment of some white southern belles who often aimed at enticing men's eyes. And in Jim Crow years for a black man, such eye-ballings meant a sure whipping (and possibly a much worse fate).

 Jim posts:Meaning of those last  
"Silouette" lines? Maybe it was Hughes'  
subtle indictment of some white southern  
belles who often aimed at enticing men's eyes. 
 And in Jim Crow years for a black man, such  
eye-ballings meant a sure whipping (and possibly a  
much worse fate).  

Oh sure, Jim.  Thanks for leading me   
to that.   I  forgot how those belles could get  
the black men in trouble.  I know they had that  
aim. 

Loved reading your whole post. 

And I found the "STrange Fruit" lyrics you mention above 
: 
Southern trees bear strange fruit, 
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root, 
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze, 
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees. 

Pastoral scene of the gallant south, 
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth, 
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh, 
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh. 

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck, 
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck, 
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop, 
Here is a strange and bitter crop

Scrawler...thanks for reprising my Feb 1 post here, Hughes' poem about English B at: Jim in Jeff, "---Poetry" #641, 1 Feb 2006 3:04 pm

But, O MY! Scrawler, your account added many memories similar to mine. Mine weren't "black"; we had none in our school grades 1-12. But "prejudice," we had that. The evil big "P" comes in many colors.

Today it often falls within a concept called "bullying." That we also had. Thankfully, "bullying" is today being addressed a lot more.

P.S. - Oh my, MarjV...! Thank you so much for posting the words to "Strange Fruit." I've only Billie's vocal doing it (poignantly, natch).

Jim in Jeff,

Thank you. I haven't heard of "Cora Unashamed." I do have a DVD. So, I will definitely get it.

I love Duke Ellington. My favorite is "Sophisticated Lady." I haven't heard it in a long time.

I think you are right about the last three lines of the earlier poem. It brings to mind the young lady in "To Kill a Mockingbird."

Grandpa's Stories

The pictures on the television
Do not make me dream as well
As the stories without pictures
Grandpa knows how to tell.

Even if he does not know
What makes a Spaceman go,
Grandpa says back in his time
Hamburgers only cost a dime,
Ice cream cones a nickel,
And a penny for a pickle.

Langston Hughes

I love this poem too. By the time of my birth, both of my grandfathers had died. I have always missed knowing the feeling of a grandfather's lap. The feeling, I imagine, is very special. Anyway, I guess because of my age the telling of stories is very important. When a sentence begins with "I remember....," I know something worth listening to is going to follow. I hope my children and grandchildren are listening to my stories.

My dad told stories all of the time. He told about growing up in Florida. He would say the sand would get so very hot. The sand was so hot it could burn the bottom of his feet. I took his story literally and would say "Oooooh daddy." In that story he gained all of my sympathy and a big hug.

I am not posting any poems right now since I have to put them in my wordprocessor and then here Yesterday I had my first dose of the antibioitc but of course still feel putrid! But I love all the poems and Hats your comments about no grandfathers are mine , Both of my grandfathers and my one grandmother had passed away before I was born. So I only my Little Grandma who was Irish and full of wonderful stories. Since she lived with us for about 5 years her stories were like magical things to me. AND SHE TOLD THEM SO WELL with her brogue. Just to make sure your grandchildren and children know your stories perhaps you should do as I do Each year for Christmas now for about 5 years I have written a story about my past. One year I did a whole story about the games we used to play. London Bridge is falling down, Fruit basket upset,jack, jump rope etc so they will know the games I played when I was their age ( and frankly I think they were far better than all these electronic games) I write them , print out copies for everyone and put them in one of those plastic covers . Now I am told they are keeping them I hope that is true but they do seem to enjoy reading them. LAst year I wrote a story about how thier grandfather proposed which was a funny thing and about the places I have lived They didnt know I had lived in Europe for 4 years and traveled extensively nor all the places in the states where we lived as their father and grandfather was assigned to different AIR FORCE bases and that we lived on Okinawa Since I have been here in this house for 35 years now they think I have always lived here. If they dont keep them that is there problem I have done my part. Although one of my granddaughters teachers asked the grandparents and parents to write letters to be placed in a "future box" to be opened when she graduated from High School A neat idea. You all have a great day . it sort of hurts my eyes to look at the monitor ..so will close and tell all I think you are "SO NEAT:" anna

Anna,

What a great idea! I never thought of writing one particular story during Christmas. This is great because I wouldn't feel too much pressure about writing a really long memoir like some people suggest. This is a good starter for me.

The Future Box is wonderful too.

Anna, take it easy. I suffer with sinus headaches. Starts around the nose and travels up to the temples. Oh, it hurts.

I believe we need to look at the good, the bad & the ugly in our poets. They want us to hear what they see. That is exactly why I have posted some of the Langston poems that are not soft and pretty.

I liked the grandfather poem but since I never had that kind of grandfather experience it is sort of a blank personally. My dad occasionally told stories but he was always so tired being a farmer that is was few and far between.

I think many of Langston Hughes poems are about "dreams." Dreaming about what we can never experience for one reason or another. I guess my not having a grandfather is like a "Hope Deferred." What we missed in our life is just as important as what we did experience in our lives. For me, the grandfather poem is not a soft, sentimental poem. I wanted to share an experience which was never mine in hopes that those who have experienced the love of a grandparent would understand my pain.

I don't think we can choose what memory a poem might represent at the moment for a person. Tomorrow I might feel very sad. Tomorrow another person might feel very happy. We come to different places at different times. That will cause us to choose a different poem from the next person. What all of us have in common is the love of poetry.

If you haven't known the love of a grandparent, do you think it is important to try and see what you have missed? In my old age, I have learned there are no blanks. We are either scarred or not scarred. We are touched. The only reason we have a "blank" is because we have chosen not to look at all of our memories.

Just to clarify, Hats. My comment was not a criticsm of the grandfather poem. It was just a general comment that was running thru my head.

And what an excellent comment: "What we missed in our lives is as important as what we did experience."

It's a good way to read also and think - this is what is told to us; just as important is what is not told. For instance in the news especially. Or I think of bible stories about women - what is not being told.

Maybe the Christmas poem seems "soft and pretty." For me, yesterday, I needed to think about the quiet holiness of peace, the feelings we can experience in a moment of solitude. Langston Hughes' poem, at that moment, meant more to me than just "soft and pretty."

If we open our eyes, all of his poems are deep, rich in meaning. The humorous poems have a message too.

I think the Poetry Corner is a place of freedom. This place is beautiful because AnnaFair allows us to be who we are without judgment or restrictions. I hope we can continue to post what strikes us today as moving in a personal way.

If I seem unemotional or detached, please don't judge me for that either. Until you have walked in my mocassins.....I have forgotten how that particular saying goes. I think the meaning is clear.

If I don't share a particular feeling about a poem and you would like to know my feelings , please ask me. I am here to share. Sometimes, I don't have a way with words. There is a fear that my words might not come out clearly.

Scrawler's experience with the young man just blew me away. I could not put in to words what I wanted to share. My emotions were too deep. The same goes for the poem "Strange Fruit." That beautifully written poem went through my body like ice cold water. It is a part of my heritage. Maybe I did not say much about that one. The hurt is stinging.

I am learning and growing here at Seniornet. I am coming more in contact with my inner self. I want to continue to grow at my own pace.

We humans have an emotional self. And poetry can strike any part of that emotional stream. So I'm glad for the Poetry corner also. Atempting to put words of understanding to poems is a great challenge. Definitely worthy of our stretching.

MarjV,

You are right. It is a challenge and well worth it.

BIRTH 

Oh fields of wonder 
Out of which 
Stars are born, 
And moon and sun 
And me as well, 
Like stroke 
of lightning 
In the night 
Some mark  
To make 
Some word 
To tell 

L Hughes 

Langston definitely made a mark with his enormous range of work and 
words to tell.. 
We all make a mark.   Sometimes we feel like we don't because 
we are not an author, Olympic gold medalist, etc.    
Think how many events are a wonder.   Birth is.  
 Day to day living is.   The sun shining on a cold day is.
 

Maybe this poem is more about "wonder".   Sometimes rereading 
leads to a different thought than 1st time.
 

And it is a wonder to me that I am here striving to 
better express self's thoughts.

MarjV,

I love that poem. It's one I had not read yet. Your comment about this poem is special too.

dI'm excited about the choice for March. never heard of him, but that will soon change, son't it? About Yeats - In a paperback mystery 20 years ago I read some line of poetry which have resonated within me ever since, but I can't find the source. I though the author was Keats, but not so. Yeats could be who I'm looking for. But I haven't read all his stuff. k Does anyone remember a poem, talkiing about a love that is over, likening it to the glow of a fire red coals almost completely covered in ash, So like the feeling when love has died, cause it never completely dies as long as the memories of the tender moments survive. Now I'm retired, I think I will undertake to read all of Yeats. Wish me luck!

No love over described as red coals turned to ash that I can find - however, this is a neat Yeats poem with some of the elements from your memory MrsSherlocK

A FRIEND’S ILLNESS

SICKNESS brought me this
Thought, in that scale of his:

Why should I be dismayed
Though flame had burned the whole
World, as it were a coal,
Now I have seen it weighed
Against a soul?

Which brings back to me the memory of being ill when I was a child before any miracle drug - all you tasted was fear and unfortunately to this day when I feel ill I tense up with that fear - logic that medicine can cure does not seem to take the kink out of the fear memory.

Now this is no paperback mystery but Haruki Murakami, considered by some to be the most brilliant writer of the day, had used a Yeats quote in his more recent novel Kafka on the Shore "In dreams begins responsibility." - meaning that what we dream is as much reality and Murakami is referring to Lady Murasaki, in The Tale of the Genji, who dreams of the murder of a rival that is fulfilled in real life.

On Grandfathers - all I can say is, dreams more often do not match reality - dreams can bewitch us to believe we are missing what would be a comfort to us when we look at our lives through a narrow prism. I say that because reality can be a kick in the pants that takes a lifetime to deal with the aftermath.

Which brings me to Wonder - I only realized recently when I was putting a childhood happening on paper that it was my Mother who introduced Wonder to me -

She was great at creating for us the great escapes - from all sorts of things, of which poverty was the least - but inspite of Mom resorting to nunu-nana land every so often, when she sat on the edge of her bed for days and nights till my grandmother happened over and clean us up, feed us, get my mother to bed and the house cleaned up - there were the other times when my mother was like a female Alexander the Great, walking us to a beach loaded with towels and lunch so we could run free the 13 blocks through the swamp, where we spent the day washed by the wonder of blue, waves, people who did not know who we were and therefore visited wth Mom as she sat watching us - she had her temporary good neighbors chatting about the price of eggs and the newest color of ribbon - Mom would walk us to the library, pointing out all the sights along the way from a ladybug that we learned to sing home to the clouds that looked like a horse - on and on Mom pointed out to us the wonders as she saw them... God Bless her because it could have so easily been a dark world that I would inherit.

Sometimes a crumb falls
From the tables of joy,
Sometimes a bone
Is flung.

To some people
Love is given,
To others
Only heaven.

~ Langston Hughes

"Luck" is little like life. Sometimes we get crumbs, other times we get bones. And if we're really "Lucky" enough we get love. But what we believe in or our passionate about nobody can take away from us. I'm not talking about "heaven" in the religious sense, but rather using it as being symbolic for anything that we belive or cherise. It reminds me of the saying: "To thy ownself be true." To me it is important that we not only believe in ourselves, but that we are passionate about it.

Porter

I must say
Yes sir,
To you all the time.
Yes sir!
Yes sir!
All my days
Climbing up a great big mountain
Of yes, sirs!

Rich old white man
Owns the world.
Gimme yo' shoes
To shine.

Yes, sir!

Langston Hughes

When you are a minority, it becomes very hard to speak your mind. In the days of Jim Crow, black men, my relatives, had to keep their head bowed, hat in hand and say "Yes, sir!" No matter what the command, no matter how humiliating the words, their words had to remain few and correct. In the nighttime, behind their doors, they cried.

Such delicious posts!!!! Thank you B & S.

My head still hurts but then I have only taken 3 doses of the antibiotic I had to comment on some of the posts. Hats I only know of what you speak because as I grew older I did see some of that in the actions of other people and no matter how long I live I will never ever understand that kind of thinking. In many ways I have been fortunate to marry a military man and saw that all were treated as equals I was moved by the post Scrawler ? made about the boy in High School When I took a trip with the YWCA to Peoria IL I was so incensed when the young administrator who was black was asked to move to a separate part of the car by the conductor, To this day I still regret that I didnt have to courage to go with her , although most likely we would have all been thrown off the train by the conductor.And when we lived in Nashville and segragation was still practiced my husband and I attended a cocktail party at a home that 3 of the young officers owned. When we came home I said to my husband I dont know why Leroy doesnt move into town ( Leroy being a black officer) he was still living in the BOQ on base I no sooner got the words out when I said to my husband OH MY GOD LEROY is black ..I just never thought of that ..but even now I remember how it rankled me to see how society was treating blacks.And it rankles me when I see people ill treated for any reason ....and always will. One thing at least I am older and willing to say what I THINK about it now.

Oh my so many things I want to comment on but I get tired however Mrs Sherlock I wish you could think of that poem because my husband and I renewed our vows on our 25th anniversary and I wrote a list of things I wanted the pastor who was a personal friend to include in his service ..there was a poem I wrote, one by Elizabeth Browning another one and one that sounds like the one you mention. I dont have the paper with my notes but I keep thinking it was by Thomas Hardy and it sounds like the poem . the last verse said something to the effect that while the flames had died back the ashes left a lovely glow to light our way ..to the coming night I think that is what it said or at least implied ..Perhaps it was Thomas Moore ..anyway as usual coming here and reading the posts it makes me feel better. and thankful to each of you for your caring of each other and the world around you. I may never know you in person but her I know you even better for you have shown me your hearts and your souls .. and in the end that is what counts. GOD BLESS ALL anna

AnnaFair,

Thank you for understanding. You are a gentle lady. Get well soon.

that was beautiful, but such a sad reflection, my how I hope we have really changed,

Anneo

Avonleaannie---I like the quote you use.

To hear P. Robeson read "Freedom Train" click here

Robeson's wonderful voice!!!!

And here are the words to follow or read http://home.germany.net/100-496653/manics/tme/freedomtrain.htm

Youth

We have tomorrow
Bright before us
Like a flame.

Yesterday
A night-gone thing,
A sun-down name.

And dawn-today
Broad arch above the road we came.

We march!

Langston Hughes

Although I am far from being a youth, I relate to this poem. Each day is a new day, a clean slate. Yesterday's mistakes have passed and will never return. Yesterday's chances have passed and will never return either. So, today is the best day. It is a new and fresh day. So I say "Good morning, everybody. Have a bright day."

Amen! to that, Hats. That is a hope filled poem.

MarjV,

I think the server is down. I will try again. I have never heard Paul Robeson's voice. I would love to hear him read Langston Hughes poem. I have heard that Paul Robeson's voice was very deep. I think he played Othello at one time.

RE:Jim in Jeff,

"Hughes' jazz interests remind me of his mid-1900s contemporary Gordon Parks, whom I had immense honor of meeting one fine DC evening about 15 years ago. Parks was about 80 then. Not related to Rosie Parks, I think, due to different locales. Same age-range tho."

Jim in Jeff, I love Gordon Parks. I read a book about him a long time ago. He is a gifted photographer. I would love to meet him. I did not know his age. I think there is a new book out about his life.

Gordon Parks

I love the cover of the book.

On that link, Hats, you have to click the RealPlayer link

Oh, MarjV, thanks.

Oh MarjV,

It made me cry. I will never forget hearing Paul Robeson read that poem. My husband listened too. Thank you for finding the "Freedom Train." Hearing it is very special.

I have enjoyed this Black History Month so much. I will never ever forget it.

Hearing it spoken thru Robeson adds a whole dimension. I never heard it before either. Came across it in LH's book of poems.

Good evening, daddy!
I know you've heard
The boogie-woogie rumble
Of a dream defered
Trilling the treble
And twining the bass
Into the midnight ruffles
Of cat-gut lace.

~Langston Hughes

Can you dig it Daddy-O! Can you feel that beat! Cool cats strumming! It reminds me of listening to Cats like Miles Davis, and Armstrong. And also reminds me of the poems of Jack Kerouac and William S. Burroughs. Oh! Daddy-0 does that bring back memories. I love that description of "of cat-gut lace."

Hi Scrawler,

I like the "midnight ruffles." I like Miles Davis and Louis Armstrong too.

Freedom

Freedom will not come
Today, this year

Nor ever
Through compromise and fear.

I have as much right
As the other fellow has

to stand
On my two feet
And Own land.

I tire so of hearing people say,
Let things take their course.
Tomorrow is another day.
I do not need freedom when I'm dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.

     Freedom 
     Is a strong seed 
     Planted 
     In a great need. 
     I live here, too. 
     I want freedom 
     Just as you.

Langston Hughes

When I read this poem about freedom, I think of all sorts of freedom. There are people who need freedom from hunger in Third World countries. Other people need freedom from the inability to learn. There are little children in Iraq who need freedom from fear. There are people who are still needing freedom of equality. That one word "freedom" is so dear. I know not to take my freedom for granted. It has been too costly.

I could not line this poem up correctly. Sorry. I need to tab over a few spaces, like an indentation, what I tried did not work.

Well stated, Hats. There are still many freedoms needed.

You sure can feel the beat in the Boogie poem.

I have it lined up now, I think.

Thanks, MarjV, for sharing with us that LH poem "Freedom Train" reading by Paul Robeson...and link to its words in print. As our February time featuring Langston Hughes grows shorter...what a fitting sample of his poetry you've shared with us!

My favorite Robeson memory is his rendition of the song "Ole Man River" in "Showboat," a landmark pre-cursor of the upcoming golden age of stage and screen "musicals" era of 1940s-60s. Okay, I'll concede later-on "Cats," "Evita," and some others were good musicals too.

Thanks, Hats, for seconding my Gordon Parks mention. He, like Robeson, was the 20th-century definition of multi-talented "Renaissance Men." Parks' 20-year Life Magazine photography work...is one of his outstanding accomplishments. Then there's his paintings, music ("Shaft" film score, etc), books, poems...and I'd not hesitate to add, his dignity, poise, success at all he did.

Thanks to google, I find that I met Parks in DC in 1998 at his age 85...when a local art gallery featured a DYNAMITE exhibit of his many art facets. He came down from NYC one evening to introduce and speak with us a bit before a showing of a film adaption of his early-on book, "The Learning Tree" (a semi-bio of growing up black in Kansas). Born 1912, I suspect he is still SPRY at age 94. He sure was, 8 years ago.

WOW...! Good memories, vibes, info, and shared thoughts being posted here. Thanks, forum friends.

Paul Robeson rendition, watched an excellent documentary on Robeson, on history channel, intersting man, with a wonderful voice.

Annafair the single poem thing seems to be working a treat, lots of discussion and comment, to go with the great poetry, well done.

Anneo

The quote is from Noel Coward by the way, who always had remarkable insight,

Anneo

Thanks for your info about Parks, Jim.

And as soon as I read your sentence about "Ol Man River" I could hear Robeson's fantastic voice in my head.

Yesterday I saw the film , "Good Night and Good Luck" 
 about Edward R Murrow and the McCarthy hearings 
 of the 50s.  Excellent film. 
 

Quote from online: "LH in 1953 is subpoenaed to  
appear before Senator Joseph McCarthy’s subcommittee  
on subversive activities in Washington, D.C. " 

There is at least one poem in my book that speaks 
 to the hearings: "Un-American Investigators" 

"Un-American Investigators" 

The committee's fat, 
Smug, almost secure 
Co-religionists 
Shiver with delight 
In warm manure 
As those investigated - 
Too brave to name a name  - 
Have pseudonyms revealed 
In Gentile game 
    Of who. 
    Born Jew, 
    Is who? 
Is not your name Lipshitz? 
    Yes, 
Did you not change it 
For subversive purposes? 
    No. 
For nefarious gain? 
    Not so. 
Are you sure? 
The committe shivers  
With delight in its manure. 

This quote really sums up his career for me: 

"Despite the tremendous amount that Hughes published, 
 including two autobiographies, The Big Sea (1940) and  
I Wonder as I Wander (1956), he remains somewhat elusive. 
 He never married or had friends who can lay claim  
to truly knowing him beyond what he wanted them to 
 know (even though there are several biographies).  
And yet Hughes is well known— not for his personal 
 life but for his treatment of the possibilities of 
 African American experiences and identities.  
Like Walt Whitman, one of his favorite writers, Hughes 
 created a persona that spoke for more than 
 himself. Hughes’s poetry reveals his hearty  
appetite for all humanity, his insistence on  
justice for all, and his faith in the transcendent 
 possibilities of joy and hope that make room for 
 everyone at America’s table." 

This poem, despite it's difficulty to read because of 
 it's sad overtone, definitely "reveals his hearty appetite  
for all humanity".

MarjV, thank you for that poem. I think there is also a poem in the book about Walt Whitman or one that resembles Walt Whitman's "I Sing America."

I, Too

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.

Langston Hughes

At times all people, I think, feel excluded for one reason or another. It is a very lonely feeling. Langston Hughes is making us remember those times of pain. This poem is a cry. I am crying to be treated with equality. I love the same as you. I grow angry the same as you. All of us are a part of the American melting pot.

Minstrel Man

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter
And my throat
Is deep with song,
You do not think
I suffer after
I have held my Pain
So long?

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter,
You do not hear
My inner cry?
Because my feet
Are gay with dancing,
You do not know
I die?

Langston Hughes

As people aren't we complex? Each one of us has dealt with pain, whether emotional or physical. Each one of us deals with that pain in a different way. I have heard it said that clowns are the saddest people of all. Who would know it? Their grin are so wide. Their wigs so bright. I remember, at a younger age, when something sad would happen, I would laugh first. Then, my laughter would turn to tears. The tears lasted longer than my laughter.

I hope you are feeling a bit better this morning.

Hats: Minstrel Man really hit home. What a genius, to be able to tap into such powerful emotions with so few words. I haven't begun shopping for books on LH. Which poetry book would be best? What a rich experience this has been for me, studying this man who so epitomizes mid-twentieth century America.

MarjV, I don't know which book to recommend. I think any pick would become a special addition to your personal poetry corner.

Those two selections are beautiful, Hats. I remember the Walt Whitman poem. I like what Hughes says ,"I too...." And the second one is a really tough one. There's too much laughter I think sometimes. We need to spend time really listening to our bro or sis and allow them to let their pain out of their own head. Pain shared.

MarjV, that's a beautiful way to put it. I believe you are right.

Mrs. S - do you have access to a book store you can browse the poetry books by Hughes? I really liked the one I have from the library- it is a large collection of his work. "The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes"; Arnold Hampersad, editor.

Hi Mrs. Sherlock,

I am glad you enjoyed "Minstrel Man." It is hard for me to make a recommendation. I have the complete works of Langston Hughes from the library. I would love his poetry in smaller versions. This books is pretty heavy to hold and carry from one room to another room.

Earlier, I made a mistake. I called you, Mrs. Sherlock, MarjV. Sorry about that mistake. My eyes play tricks on me.

It's interesting that the subject of freedom has come up. Lately, we've given up a lot of freedom in the name of "security" and it seems we are still doing so as our government continues to strip our freedoms slowly from us. But like you say there are many freedoms but I have to ask myself are we in danger of losing our freedom? What will our world be like without freedom - will it mirror books like 1984? Something to think about.

Shame on You:

If you're great enough
and clever enough
the government might honor you.
But the people will forget-
Except on holidays.

A movie house in Harlem named after Lincoln,
Nothing at all named after John Brown.
Black people don't remember
any better than white.

If you're not alive and kicking,
shame on you!

~Langston Hughes

You have to admit he has a point. Unless you're alive and kicking and on the six o'clock news you are forgotten by most people and even than people will forget. And I also think his poem goes to the core of what I was trying say about "freedom." We can't forget not only about freedom, but also how we got it - we have to be forever watchful of those who want to take it away from us. I'm not talking about war, I simply mean that we should be aware of what and who is around us and be grateful for what others have given us. So many have paid the ultimate price and yet we really don't remember them except on holidays.

My word 36 posts since I was in here on Friday - Whoops one more - scrawler entered the conversation making it 37 - and a deep operatic voice reading to me as well - whew...

Hope you are on the mend Anna - Hats those last two poems said so much - both "I too" and "Mistral Man" - wonderful - this is a poet who in such a few words can express so much - I am so glad he was chosen - I knew about him and a couple of his poems but the richness of his thinking is a box of wonder I did not know was there to be opened.

Barbara and Scrawler, you make wonderful points.

Before we begin reading a poet's works is it possible to give a small bio about the poet?

Freedom Speaker

I see a woman with wings
Trying to escape from a cage
And the cage door
Has fallen on her wings.
They are long wings
Which drag on the ground
When she stands up,
But she hasn't enough strength
To pull them away
From the weight of the cage door,
She is caught and held by her wings.

Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes writes many poems about freedom. This is another one. Freedom is never one person's struggle. Freedom is only gained and kept when many people come together and help one another. Then, the weakness of one becomes the strength of many. I am thinking of the American Revolution and the Civil War and the Civil Rights Movement.

It comes down to the saying "No man is an island."

That is a very strong poem, Hats. What an example of struggle to overcome odds. A struggle that, sadly, sometimes can't be overcome perhapsh by just one thing - like the weight of the cage door on her wings.. And the bird metaphor is so great a usage there. Using a woman as the symbol of struggle is perfect here - we know all races of women have had to work to burst thru cage doors.

If you type "seamus heaney bio" into Google.com you will get numerous links. Some short, some lengthy, giving different views.

Hi MarjV,

Yes, I am glad he used a woman in this poem. Thanks for the hint about Seamus Heaney. I can't believe we are about to enter March. A new poet, Seamus Heaney, will blow in with the March wind, another wonderful month.

I wanted to use the poem, "The Trumpet Player". It tells a story ,like a ballad, however, it is long and I didn't want to type it and I didn't find the total poem online to copy and paste. In the following link he reads that and several other poems.

On this page there are links to LH reading his poems.

ps - that's a neat phrase, Hats, about Heaney blowing in the March wind!

MarjV,

I am going to listen the "Trumpet Player." Can't wait.

MarjV,

Thank you for the link. I love The Trumpet Player and The Ballad of the Gypsy, "the lyin' gypsy." That made me laugh.

I am glad you liked my March wind and Seamus Heaney.

I haven't had a reason to use the sunglasses emoticon. With "The Trumpet Player" and the other Jazz poems written by Langston Hughes, I can finally use the sunglasses. Here goes.

Ballad of the Gypsy 
by Langston Hughes 

I went to the Gypsy's. 
Gypsy settin' all alone. 
I said, Tell me, Gypsy, 
When will my gal be home? 

Gypsy said, Silver,  
Put some silver in my hand 
And I'll look into the future 
And tell you all I can. 

I crossed her palm with silver, 
Then she started in to lie. 
She said, Now, listen, Mister, 
She'll be here by and by. 

Aw, what a lie! 
I been waitin' and a-waitin' 
And she ain't come home yet. 
Something musta happened 
To make my gal forget. 

Uh! I hates a lyin' Gypsy 
Will take good money from you, 
Tell you pretty stories 
And take your money from you-- 

But if I was a Gypsy 
I would take your money, too.

It is funny.

What a grand time was the war!
Oh, my, my!
What a grand time was the war!
My, my, my! In wartime we had fun,
Sorry that old war is done!
What a grand time was the war,
My, my!

Echo: Did Somebody Die?

~ Langston Hughes

I was watching the Olympic closing ceremony last night and this poem reminded me of the Buffalo soldier that President Clinton finally honored when he was president. I couldn't help wonder while I was watching whether Langston Hughes was one of those soldiers. This poem certainly brings home the sentiments of the black soldiers serving their country - how sad that their country waited so long to serve them!

Buffalo Soldier

Scrawler,

It does make you think of the black soldiers who served their country with love and loyalty.

I am so proud of everyone for the depth of your feelings . for sharing your favorite Langston Hughes poems and for realizing that pain and hurt are human problems and that we all have to care about one another. NO IFS ANDS AN BUTS >> we just do if we want to call ourselves human beings.

thanks for your concerns Today is the first day I have felt like ME I have 6 more days of medicine to take but at last my face doesnt hurt,my eyes dont hurt to look at the monitor and I dont feel like just staying in bed ...I have been up and mailed a package of history books I have read to a handicapped friend who shares my interests in history, stopped at Barnes and Nobles and bought 3 books by Seamus Heaney ...by the way my Langston Hughes book is called selected poesm of Langston Hughes . There is a large book that holds all of his poems and I would have purchased it but the pages were very thin , the printing was faint and smaller and I cant read it when it is that small etc. I intend to keep looking to see if I can find the same book in larger type on sturdy paper and using a dark ink,.

Also had to stop at the pharmacy since I knocked over my medicine and spilled some on the bathroom floor. The pharmacist feels I have enough for the next 6 days and I should not have to get it refilled actually my doctor has to write a new prescription if I dont have enough but I feel I do I just have to be careful NOT TO Spill anymore..

This month has been so successful and you can all take a bow ...cause you did it !!

I had a great time looking at the selection of poetry and thinking who should we consider for May???We will do MAry Oliver in April ..I am laughing out loud at how I feel about choosing a poet a month to read, to share, to study, to consider .. My eyes are getting a bit tired ..I have really pushed myself today and I think I need a nap before I fix my dinner....Thanks again each ...We have considered the poetry and the man who wrote it and I think we have learned a lot but what is best is we care enough to make sure we remember and to put in practice what we all believe that everyone deserves freedom..age, gender, handicapped, color or just words ..we have the freedom to make sure everyone else does too I proud to call you all friends ....God Bless all , anna

Thanks for the link to the Buffalo Soldiers book. I didn't know about it. Langston's last line in that poem above bears remembering!

I thought I'd find another dream poem. This has the essence of dream.

"Dusk" by L. Hughes

Wandering in the dusk Sometimes You get lost in the dusk - And sometimes not.

Beating your fists Against the wall, You break your bones Against the wall - But sometimes not.

Walls have been known To fall, Dusk turn to dawn, And chains be gone!

I like his use of the dash. It keeps your mind thinking further before the next phrase. Or invites pondering

MarjV,

I like that poem too. I didn't think of the use of the dash until you mentioned it.

AnnaFair,

I am glad you are feeling some improvement. What a kind note to us you have written. Your idea about a poet a month and the idea of writing a comment is the reason why I have been able to dig deeper into my soul. This month I have pondered happiness and sorrow. Langston Hughes poetry and all the friends at the Poetry Corner have brought me further along in my goal to grow each day. My deepest desire is always to know how to share more love with others in this short life.

So many people at Seniornet have given me so much. I will just say thank you for being here each day.

what a lovely goal in life.

Anneo

Anneo,

It's a "lovely" goal. It's a hard one too. I am not always on my best behavior. That makes my goal always one step away from perfection.

I so wanted to post the "Song to a Negro Wash-woman" but it is way too  
long to  type and it isn't anywhere online.  I really liked it- a  
story of a woman. A real tribute to the women  
who were the undpinnings of their families. 
 Here are a few of the beginning lines- wish you all could read it.  

Oh wash-woman, 
   Arms elbow-deep in white suds, 
   Soul washed clean, 
   Clothes washed clean, - 
   I have many songs to sing you 
   Could I but find the words. 

(further on in the poem) 
I know how you build your house up from the wash-tub 
and call it home. 

(Last lines) 
And for you, 
   O singing wash-woman, 
   Singing strong black woman, 
   Singing tall yellow woman, 
   Arms deep in white suds, 
   Soul clean, 
   Clothes clean, - 
   For you I have many songs to make 
   Could I but find the words. 

I have definitely enjoyed being immersed in one poet.  
 And the side journeys to enhance understandings.   ~Marj  

Bring on Seamus Heaney!!!!!!

Between two rivers,
North of the park,
Like darker rivers
The streets are dark.

Black and white,
Gold and brown -
Chocolate-custard
Pie of a town

Dream within a dream,
Our dream deferred.
Good morning, daddy!

Ain't you heard?

I picked this poem for no other reason than it was the last poem in my book and since this is the last time we'll talk about Langston Hughes, (for awhile) I thought it appropriate. But as I read and thought about the poem; it made me think about all that we have discussed over the past month and I couldn't help feel that we have been in a dream within in a dream and our dream will [now be] deferred to another poet so once more we can begin to dream all over again.

Neat, Scrawler. !!!

I do not know if we did this one or not but it catches my imagination

Dream Deferred
What happens to a dream deferred?: Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--
and then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

I still have dreams and they have been deferred - for me they feel like festering sores and they sag like a heavy load - hope they do not explode - I am convincing myself my good health allows me the time to carry out these dreams.

Wow lookie here ---

Langston Hughes Poetry Circles (http://www.ncte.org/prog/poetry/107903.htm)

Langston Hughes Poetry Circles -- February 2-December 2, 2006

In recognition of the legacy of Langston Hughes, the National Council of Teachers of English is sponsoring Langston Hughes Poetry Circles in cooperation with the Langston Hughes National Poetry Project at the University of Kansas-Lawrence and the Academy of American Poets. The Langston Hughes National Poetry Project recognizes and celebrates the life, art, and legacy of America's premier public poet. The goal is to bring the poetry of Langston Hughes to the people by providing formal and informal opportunities to read, speak, listen, and discuss poems by Langston Hughes. NCTE members, schools, and communities across the country are invited if they wish to take part and form a Langston Hughes Poetry Circle.

Registration Deadline: May 21, 2006.

Related Information:
More Information ( http://www.ncte.org/prog/poetry )
How to Form a Poetry Circle ( http://www.ncte.org/prog/poetry )

Barbara, thank you. I didn't know about these poetry circles.

MarjV and Scrawler, I love both of your choices.

Seamus Heaney here we come!

Talk about an abdominal spirit

Still Here
I Been scared and battered. My hopes the wind done scattered. Snow has firz me, Sun has baked me, Looks like between 'em they done Tried to make me Stop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin'-- But I don't care! I'm still here!

Just saw your entry Scrawler - the last poem of the book huh - I have a feeling this is not the last any of us hear from Langston Hughes - what a rich journey we have had - hate to see it end but then all goodbys seem difficult don't they ---

Are you thinking about a circle Hats - hmmm gets you thinking doesn't it...

Barbara, it does make you think. I just seriously doubt if any circle can top our Poetry Corner hosted by AnnaFair. I think this is a journey none of us will forget for a long time. I feel like the wash-woman. This month my soul has been made clean.

And we had such important guests as Paul Robeson, Billie Holiday and Gordon Parks. We have danced with the stars. That's a good thing.

I second that Ms Hats! And I enjoy the comments back and forth regarding the poems. It takes a little work, a little digging, but the benefits are HUGE!!!!!!

annafair is looking for you in the Poetry ~ New discussion

---Poetry ~ New

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