Poetry Page

[BarbStAubrey]

Let's Celebrate Summer
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words
that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known
about the poems we share - Please join us.

Summer time fills our mind-pictures with long, lazy picnics by the river, old-fashioned ice cream socials, a day at the seaside, parades, flags, fireworks and burgers hot off the grill.  Poetry can be part of life rather than a thing apart. Share with us your: Warm weather poems, Summer recipes and entertainment that Celebrate poets and poems, Summer craft idea using poetry. Promise to follow through using poetry in a weekly outdoor happening and make this summer the best it can be!

A few Summer Poetry Links:

• Famous Poets and Poems about Summer
• Summer Poems
• Flower Poems for Gardeners

Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey & Fairanna

[Babi]

 I think I am falling in love with Mary Oliver.  "..knows enough to be
perfectly content not knowing". "  it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;"
    Now that is wisdom.

 "Wynken, Blynken and Nod" are old favorites. I made a point of finding them
again when my children were small. I hesitated to copy the entire poem of
"The Garden" since it was so long, but I'm glad you did, BARB.

[MarjV]

Great to see "Wynken, Blyken, Nod".   Sweet times all the reading I did to my boys.

[BarbStAubrey]

A SUMMER WOOING

The wind went wooing the rose,
For the rose was fair.
How the rough wind won her, who knows?
But he left her there.
Far away from her grave he blows:
Does the free wind care?

Louise Chandler Moulton

[BarbStAubrey]

The Summer Rain

And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,
And gently swells the wind to say all's well;
The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,
Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.

I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;
But see that globe come rolling down its stem,
Now like a lonely planet there it floats,
And now it sinks into my garment's hem.

Drip drip the trees for all the country round,
And richness rare distills from every bough;
The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.

For shame the sun will never show himself,
Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so;
My dripping locks--they would become an elf,
Who in a beaded coat does gayly go."

-   Henry David Thoreau,

[MarjV]

The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.

Those are 2 pretty lines from the Thoreau poem.   I like to go out and look at drops on various plants after a rain.

[MarjV]

I came across these 2 haikus by Paul Kester online.   http://www.sondra.net/al/vol8/85rain.htm

Hot summer night rains
Bring voluptuous life to earth.
Hear the corn growing.

 
Saturated clouds,
Thunder and lightning, boom, flash
Rainbows follow rain.

[Babi]

  All I have read by Thoreau is "On Walden Pond"; I never knew he wrote any
poetry.  I like it.  

  What do you think of this one by Ralph Waldo Emerson?

  Berrying
"May be true what I had heard,
Earth's a howling wilderness
Truculent with fraud and force,"
Said I, strolling through the pastures,
And along the riverside.
Caught among the blackberry vines,
Feeding on the Ethiops sweet,
Pleasant fancies overtook me:
I said, "What influence me preferred
Elect to dreams thus beautiful?"
The vines replied, "And didst thou deem
No wisdom to our berries went?"

 I'm still puzzling over the line  "What influence me preferred
Elect to dreams thus beautiful?"  It's so awkward, I'm not sure
what it means!

[winsummm]

haiku's are fun  the five seven five form is what i use when i do use. . .not often although ihave a page ful at my web page.

claire

[winsummm]

ok I have one fresh from the pen and paper
california summer


sunshine dries the earth
California's thirsty globe
steals green from grasses

claire

[JoanK]

Claire: I like that one.

[BarbStAubrey]

ha - a good one Claire.

That is a mouthful Babi isn't  it - near as I can tell it is saying -

what influenced me is saying the same as "Pleasant fancies" that "overtook" him- a judgement call about what influences the writer  - break - next -

preferred - meaning what struck or impressed the author was preferred by the crowed - a dogmatic choice - break - next -

Elect to dreams - Elect is to choose and so, the influenced pleasent fancies are of the calibre that we choose or elevate to what - elevate to a dream status - And because it is elevated to the status of a dream that makes it beautiful - thus beautiful - he is identifying beautiful as something that is chosen be each of us rather than just by what is dogmatically labled beautiful.

I think the sentence seems odd and constrained because certain words have fallen out of favor - we no longer casually use the word elect in our sentences to mean choice.

Also it helps to know the writings of Emerson who was all about individual freedoms versus the crowd who he says scurries hither and thither. That we as individuals are by no means insignificant.

[MarjV]

Claire - great haiku.

I can feel the dryness!

[Babi]

  Your explanation of 'elect' certainly makes sense, BARB.  In the first part, tho', the word is 'influence', not  'influenced'.  I've re-read it several
times, and I think he means some 'influence ' affecting a person or a course
of evens.  This influence 'preferred' him...but 'elect to dreams thus beautiful'?
I'm still puzzled, but that's okay.  Fortunately, I don't have to understand
everything. 

[MarjV]

  I'm still puzzled, but that's okay.  Fortunately, I don't have to understand
everything. 

I say Yes, Yes, to that Babi!

[MarjV]

I did a search and I don't think we had this Mary Oliver so far this summer -  this poem puts me right in the midst of remembered brambles.   Mary is definitely a wonder.
 

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, August

 

I remember there was another poem that spoke of how quickly the blackberries
became rather moldy.   Or some similar berry.

[JoanK]

"There is this happy tongue".

Yes! My tongue is happy, too. I read this just after eating rasberries!!

[winsummm]

blackberries hang swollen in the woods

now that is not only an image it feels  juicy.  I love it...........

[MarjV]

I remember this one from way back on the other site when
we did a month of Seamus Heaney - love his work.   There's treats for our tastebuds again - I just had blueberries on my yogurt ---  yum!!!!!!    But here is the rotting berries also


BLACKBERRY PICKING

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

   -- Seamus Heaney

[Babi]

 Oh, how disappointing.  What happened to the blackberry pies, the jams or
preserves?  Why dump all those luscious berries in the byre?!!

Here's one I like better...not about berries but so true of August, half gone
already.

"August rushes by like desert rainfall,
A flood of frenzied upheaval,
Expected,
But still catching me unprepared.
Like a matchflame
Bursting on the scene,
Heat and haze of crimson sunsets.
Like a dream
Of moon and dark barely recalled,
A moment,
Shadows caught in a blink.
Like a quick kiss;
One wishes for more
But it suddenly turns to leave,
Dragging summer away."
-  Elizabeth Maua Taylor 

[BarbStAubrey]

Takes sugar to make jams and cakes - the poverty in Ireland was what we call abject - the pile in the barn was some effort to prolong a crop much like farmers still pile apples and potatoes today.

I remember hiking in Mexico back in the early 90s and the guide had his 11  year old son with him - we hiked for miles to a cabin he used in the fall to pick from his fruit trees that were planted as if grown up wild - we were there in Spring and the one huge room was loaded with piles of apples in various stages of edibility and fermentation. There was a large front porch that we thought we would unroll our sleeping bags but it became so cold at night that we all quickly scurried inside to sleep among the apples.

[BarbStAubrey]

Here is a good Hiking poem:

Directions
by Billy Collins

You know the brick path in the back of the house,
the one you see from the kitchen window,
the one that bends around the far end of the garden
where all the yellow primroses are?
And you know how if you leave the path
and walk into the woods you come
to a heap of rocks, probably pushed
down during the horrors of the Ice Age,
and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now
against the light-brown fallen leaves?
And farther on, you know
the small footbridge with the broken railing
and if you go beyond the you arrive
at the bottom of sheep's head hill?
Well, if you start climbing, and you
might have to grab on to a sapling
when the going gets steep,
you will eventually come to a long stone
ridge with a border of pine trees
which is a high as you can go
and a good enough place to stop.

The best time for this is late afternoon
en the sun strobes through
the columns of trees as you are hiking up,
and when you find an agreeable rock
to sit on, you will be able to see
the light pouring down into the woods
and breaking into the shapes and tones
of things and you will hear nothing
but a sprig of a birdsong or leafy
falling of a cone or t through the trees,
and if this is your day you might even
spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese
driving overhead toward some destination.

But it is hard to speak of these things
how the voices of light enter the body
and begin to recite their stories
how the earth holds us painfully against
ts breast made of humus and brambles
how we will soon be gone regard
the entities that continue to return
greener than ever, spring water flowing
through a meadow and the shadows of clouds
passing over the hills and the ground
where we stand in the tremble of thought
taking the vast outside into ourselves.

Still, let me know before you set out.
Come knock on my door
and I will walk with you as far as the garden
with one hand on your shoulder.
I will even watch after you and not turn back
to the house until you disappear
into the crowd of maple and ash,
heading up toward the hill,
percing the ground with your stick.

[Babi]

 BARB, I love Billy Collins "Directions".  "..find an agreeable rock to sit
on.." made me smile. NOthing nicer than an agreeable rock when you need to
sit and look and rest a bit.  And the play of sunlight and shadow through
trees is one of my favorite things in the world.

[bellemere]

I posted this once, but darned if I can find it now.  anyway, here it is again.  Mysterious, evocative.  I feel so         MALAGA

The scent of unseen jasmine on the warm night beach.

The tram along the sea-road all the way from town
through its wide open sides drank unseen jasmine down,
Living was nothing all those nights but that strong flower,
whose hidden voice on darkness grew to such mad power
I could have sworn for once I travelled through full peace
And even love at last had perfect calm release,
Only by breathing in the unseen jasmine scent
that ruled us and the summer every hour we went.

The tranquil unrushed wine drunk on the daytime beach
Or from an open room all that our sight could reach
was heat, sea, light, unending image of peace;
and then at last the night brought jasmine's great release--
not images but calm uncovetous content,
the wide-eyed heart alert at rest in June's own scent.

In daytime's humdrum town from small child after child
we bought cluster after cluster of the star-flowers wild
white widowed heads,re-wired on strong weed  stalks they'd trimmed
to long green elegance; but still the whole month brimmed
at night along the beach with a strong voice like peace;
and each morning the mind stayed crisp in such release.

Some hint of certainty,still worth longing I could teach,
lies lost in strength of jasmine down a summer beach.

               Pearse Hutchison

[BarbStAubrey]

Wow did I just have a journey into a whole pot of learning by looking up the poet who wrote the poem you shared Bellamere -

Amazing - you think or rather I thought I had a grasp on the general areas of history and social life that have existed and then this opens up - I am going to add some of the links that I used that I explored about secret languages - ancient languages - Travellers and who they are...

This all started while reading about the life of Pearce Hutchinson - who I expected to be a new poet and from the poem about Jasmine I was thinking maybe Georgia or the Gulf Coast. I was not prepared for Ireland, Scotland, Portugal and Spain written by a poet with a white beard whose parents were deep into the Troubles in Ireland.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pearse_Hutchinson

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galician-Portuguese

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fala_language

And can you believe this - a language - a language!! - not a group of words but a whole language for a profession or how would you describe a group of people that perform a certain skill for money - a whole language for Stonecutters

It sounds like other professions had their own language - gives a new picture of how language comes to  us - I always thought in terms of areas of the country that people lived and developed a common language - it never occurred to me that those of a certain profession or work would be the creators and owners of a separate language - Wow think of the poets and playwriters and songs that we never hear about that were written in these languages.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fala_dos_arxinas

Looking up Cant at first I thought rather than a language it would be like Hip Hop is to our language today - but it really is a full language - wait till you  read the Shelta site that gives the translation of the Lords Prayer in  two of these Cants as well as in English and Irish.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cant

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shelta_language

At First I was clueless as to the special meaning of Travellers - found a link at the bottom of the page and this wonder comes  up - I think we hear the word Tinker or Gypsy rather than Traveler - exploring the site it appears they are the great "unwashed" that the Government wants them to settle down but is not giving them places to settle to the point of even taking homes away from those who had settled and were able to accumulate financial comfort.

http://www.travellersrest.org/Travellers.htm

The page about the "Controversy" gives a description of the problem from the Travellers point of view
http://www.travellersrest.org/Controversy.htm

Then of course had to find a bit about the Thieves Cant - hard to believe they could fool the police of the day - but then you have to wonder if there is a language bond that develops among those in jail today that is separate from their jailers.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thieves%27_cant

Which led me to wondering more about what a Droll was

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drolls

I had no idea that it was illegal for a time in England to act on stage - and it is these Puritans that settled America - hmmmm

And here are a few of the poets that Pearce Hutchinson knew their work.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Josep_Carner

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piaras_Feirit%C3%A9ar

This is his mother's friend
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constance_Markievicz
 
And the infamous internment camp where his father was imprisoned.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frongoch_internment_camp

And the man who helped his father find work
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89amon_de_Valera

Whoa with childhood steeped in the Irish Troubles it is amazing to read the poem you shared Bellamere - to Imagine he still had a soft spot - wow

I recognized the word Synge as an Irish playwriter and poet - and so I put it together that the street that the school was located was probably named after the playwriter who wrote "Playboy of the Western World" - the irony is there is hardly a stronger pile to the Irish Catholic than an Irish Christian Brother and here their school is located on a street named for a Protestant playwright.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synge_Street_CBS

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Millington_Synge

Well we started this foray with a poet and ended with a poet learning tons in between.  Thanks for over an  hours research that was an amazing experience.
 

[bellemere]

You have the mind of  a true polymath.  I was content just to llook up Hutchinson to see if he was still alive. I found the poem in  a book : Irish Verse" Irish Poetry from the Sixth Century to the Present. 
A remainder on the mark=down shelf  at Barnes and Noble. Once in a while a treasure shows up there.

[BarbStAubrey]

Nope just curiosity - the kind that they used to say killed the cat - drove my mother and my forth grade teacher crazy. Every sentence ends in a question about some new word, idea, happening, place that must be explored.

[Babi]

 I admit to a large curiousity bump also, BARB.  I was aware of how old
language forms can be retained in isolated communities.  Our own 'hill
people' of the Appalachias preserved old English forms right into modern
times. 
  It seems reasonable that people who live a nomadic type of life would
incorporate words from different languages for their own use.  And of
course every trade, skill and profession has its own argot.
   I'm currently reading a book called "Raven and Nightingale", in which one college professor uses words so erudite that even other professors need to pause a minute to translate what she just said.  (It's an affectation and certainly isn't helpful 'communication'.)

[BarbStAubrey]

Well now it is fitting together why Yeats wrote poetry that most say were about the glories of Ireland and the hero's of Ireland - he was active during the Troubles and during the Easter Rising.

I read the link to Hutchinson's mother's friend, Constance Markievicz http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constance_Markievicz
And learned she was an artist and had a sister who was also connected to the art world - they were friends with some of Irelands well known writers and artists including Yeats and Lady Gregory [who supported Yeats].

The write-up says that Constance Markievicz came to the cause after renting  a cabin that belonged to the poet Padriaic Colum and reading his copy of The Peasant and Sinn Féin
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Padraic_Colum

It sounds to me like the Rebellion had the art community right in the thick of it. Most important to me is this information helps cement for me Yeats' time in History -  I knew he was a later poet than the Romance Poets but I had not put together his writing in context with Irish history. No wonder he wrote so much about Ireland's glory.

I have not been able to find on-line any more poems by Pearce Hutchinson but here is a lovely light poem by Yeats.

TO A CHILD DANCING IN THE WIND

by: W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

ANCE there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water's roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool's triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?

[Babi]

 I don't know as I would call it a 'light' poem, BARB. The image of the child
dancing on the shore is lovely, but the poem goes on to refer to griefs...
the fool's triumph, love lost, good men dead.  I wonder what memories birthed
the lines, "What need have you to dread the monstrous crying of wind?"

[BarbStAubrey]

Babi reading about the folks during this time in History and following the links it appears that Yeats experienced as they call it - unrequited love - he loved Maud Gonne and she would not marry him. Maud was the women in most of his poems. That is how I interpret this line...

"Love lost as soon as won,"

Here is the link to Maud Gonne that speaks of the her turning down the proposals of marriage from Yeats - Maud was one of the women friends of Constance Markievicz who was a friend of Pearce Hutchinson's mother. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maud_Gonne

And then the line - "Nor the best labourer dead" I would think refers to one or more of those who died fighting to reclaim their land, Home Rule and freedom during the Irish "Rising".

And yes, he does speak in this poem of the heart ache and pain however, the vision of a child dancing on the seashore in spite of all that I think is remarkable - to see the sweetness and gentleness in life expressed as a child at the seashore says something about the human spirit that we still believe in the fairy like movement and goodness of a child regardless our suffering.  

[BarbStAubrey]

Here is a Yeats poem I remember from High School. We used to love rolling these names around - I went to a Carmelite High School where the priests and brothers were from Ireland - I didn't realize as a teen how recent the death of Yeats - 1939 - but we learned some of the ancient tales and associated his poetry with those tales.

THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE

HE host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.

Sidhe - Gaelic for wind

Clooth-na-Bare - means the old woman of Bare, but it is a corruption of Cailleac Bare, the old woman of Bare, who, under a similar name appear in the legends of many places

Caoilte - (Cweeltia) one of the last of the Fianna, he was loved by Scathniamh

Fianna of Ireland - a band of legendary soldiers and Finn was the head of them

Niamh of the Golden Hair - one of the Tuatha De Danann and the daughter of Manannan, the god of the sea. Niamh chose Oisin to be her lover and live with her in Tir Na nOg

Nemnach - a well on the Hill of the Sidhe, out of which flowed the stream called Nith

Knocknarea - http://www.stonepages.com/ireland/knocknarea.html

[Babi]

 

to see the sweetness and gentleness in life expressed as a child at the seashore says something about the human spirit that we still believe in the fairy like movement and goodness of a child regardless our suffering.

 
  Beautifully expressed, BARB.

 The Yeats poem is lovely to read, but I wouldn't attempt to read it out loud. 

Here is an interesting poem I found by someone named Sophia Wellbeloved.

I know that over there,
by the far bank,
under the overhanging trees
the river will be running black
its thick skin pierced by rain,
each puncture makes a milky
rim, and over here, where I
stand, on the side I walk on,
the river will be flowing white
under the clouded sky its skin
gleaming, its wounds arked
by dark ripples, and nothing
crosses from here to there,
though I also know that round
the bend before me
someone is killing time.

[BarbStAubrey]

what great imagery in the poem isn't there Babi

the river will be running black
its thick skin pierced by rain,
each puncture makes a milky
rim,

The last line someone is killing time. leaves you thinking exactly what does she mean. It is an expression we all use and yet, in the context of her imagery the line can take on  another meaning as if there was someone actually murdering someone called Time with all the Myth and practical complications associated with Time.

Well I am off to see if there are any pop-up dining tent shelters at either Academy or Walmart for less than $50.  Saw some on-line for only $18- starting tomorrow we are on strict water rationing and can only water our lawns one day a week. I have several sun spots in the  yard and if I can get a couple of shelters up and then I may even string some line between the trees and hang sheets between the trees and the fence to create shade - most would leave it since the grass is bleached but the deer are chewing up the areas so that I will have several mud holes plus the shelters may keep them from walking under them. We shall see what we shall see - I am off not to play house but to play clouds.

[Babi]

 And how often does one get to 'play clouds'?    Good luck with your
efforts to save our lawn, and I hope some rain will be heading your way
very soon.

[MarjV]

Love the Billy Collins "walk"

And also the scent of jasmine poem.

Both evoke all sorts of memories and scents I remember.

Loved reading about the language, Barbara.   Need to look at those sites you linked.

I've missed a couple days here.

That's great:  "playing clouds".


Too much to say about these posts starting with the Pearse poem.  So I stop.   Very rich.

[BarbStAubrey]

The Lion Of The Senate

This death, although we tried to prepare
Has grabbed tightly, people everywhere
Every political figure and every constituent
Lost this iconic figure and his needed involvement

I watched closely and read how he
Organized bipartisanship and caused both sides to agree  
No other senator served in this way
Only he made crossing sides seem okay

Forty seven year he worked hard to enact legislation
The Cancer, Disabilities, Civil Rights Acts. Nationality and Immigration
Health Insurance, Children’s Health program, Mental Health Parity
Edward M. Kennedy Serve America Act, most recently

Senator Kennedy worked with President Bush, the two parties combined
Enacted in 2002 an educational Act, No Children Left Behind
Numerous other bills, over 300, in his political odyssey
Are now part of the Lion’s great legacy

Ted passed the baton to Barack before he passed away
Expecting Americans will enjoy Universal Health Care soon, one day

[bellemere]

My favorite Yeats poem is The Stolen Child; but it breaks my heart at the end.  I suspect that "stolen by the fairies' was the answer given to the older children when they came down in the morning and asked "Where's the baby?"in a country of dire poverty where so many babies died.
Too long to reproduce here:  This is just the last verse:

Away with us he's going , the solemn-eyed.
He'll hear no more the lowing of the calves on the warm hillside,
Nor the kettle on the hob sing peace into his breast,
Nor watch the brown mice bob round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he's come, the human child, to the waters and the wild,
With a fairy hand-in-hand, from a  world more full of weeping
Than he can undersant. 

 
 

[bellemere]

So sorry for that typo  the last word is "understand"

[BarbStAubrey]

Here is a link Bellemere to The Stolen Child
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19415

Of all those reading the poem on  You Tube I thought this read by Malachy McCourt is one of the best.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-3444913216159463782&ei=NxCYSuIxhbKuAq_vhYgI&hl=en