Author Topic: Poetry Page (Read 687256 times)

bellemere · « **Reply #3160 on:** December 07, 2011, 08:06:28 PM »

Winter

and the waves
gush pearls
from their snowy throats
As the come
leaping
over the moss-green
black-green
glass=green roughage
as they crumble
on the incline
scattering whatever they carry
in their invisible
and motherly hands
stones,
seaweed,
mussels,
icy and plump
with waled shells
waiting
for the gatherers,
who come flying
on their long white wings
who come walking,
who come muttering
thank you
old dainties,
dark wreckage
coins of the sea,
in my pockets’
and plenty for the gulls.,
and the wind still pounding,
and the sea still streaming in, like a mother wild with gifts.
In this world I am as rich
As I need to be.
Mary Oliver

Babi · « **Reply #3161 on:** December 08, 2011, 08:22:37 AM »

I hope you enjoy every minute of your Christmas visit, BARB. We do see
less of the younger generations once they become involved in the busy-ness
of their lives. But we can still take pride in their accomplishments, and take
pleasure in watching them become the kind of people we wanted them to be.

bellemere · « **Reply #3162 on:** December 08, 2011, 10:26:59 AM »

"still take prpide in their accomplishments" - how true! I miss the little girl who used to climb onto my lap for stories, but how proud this grandmother felt of the beautiful soprano, singing the Domine Deus inVivaldi's
Gloria" at her college Christmas concert!

Babi · « **Reply #3163 on:** December 09, 2011, 08:31:44 AM »

You know what else is wonderful? That I can imagine it, and enjoy it with
you.
I'm sure you well remember these lyrics:

Sunrise, Sunset”

(Tevye)
Is this the little girl I carried?
Is this the little boy at play?

(Golde)
I don't remember growing older
When did they?

(Tevye)
When did she get to be a beauty?
When did he grow to be so tall?

(Golde)
Wasn't it yesterday
When they were small?

(Men)
Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly flow the days
Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers
Blossoming even as we gaze

(Women)
Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly fly the years
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears

(Tevye)
What words of wisdom can I give them?
How can I help to ease their way?

(Golde)
Now they must learn from one another
Day by day

(Perchik)
They look so natural together

(Hodel)
Just like two newlyweds should be

(Perchik & Hodel)
Is there a canopy in store for me?

(All)
Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly fly the years
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears

My granddaughter Jessi will be married in January, complete with a canopy
made up of personalized panels from all those who love her. It should be a
big canopy!

bellemere · « **Reply #3164 on:** December 09, 2011, 07:59:13 PM »

Oh, boy, Babi, that is an incredible tear jerker.

Babi · « **Reply #3165 on:** December 10, 2011, 09:19:51 AM »

If you've never seen "Fiddler on the Roof", BELLEMERE, I urge you to do so. It's an unforgettable classic.

JoanK · « **Reply #3166 on:** December 10, 2011, 03:03:00 PM »

I agree. The combination of Sholem Aleichem's humor, the music (who wrote the music?), and Isaac Stern playing the violin (hopefully not actually on a roof) is unforgettable.

Babi · « **Reply #3167 on:** December 11, 2011, 09:08:17 AM »

Forgive me, but I'm in the mood for Coleridge.

Kubla Khan

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

bellemere · « **Reply #3168 on:** December 11, 2011, 02:49:51 PM »

Frost at Midnight
Frost at Midnight
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772–1834
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,

Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.

But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Babi · « **Reply #3169 on:** December 12, 2011, 08:51:38 AM »

Oh, BELLEMERE, that is wonderful! I hadn't read that one before. It says so much; I could
spend hours just thinking about all that it brought to my mind. Durn, I wish my printer worked.
I wonder if I can find it in one of my books of poetry? Thank you for a lovely gift.

JoanK · « **Reply #3170 on:** December 12, 2011, 03:59:39 PM »

Winter moon.
The stones on the path
Crunch underfoot. --- Buson

I can't read that "crunch" without shivering.

bellemere · « **Reply #3171 on:** December 12, 2011, 08:58:09 PM »

February
February
By Margaret Atwood b. 1939 Margaret Atwood
Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

Margaret Atwood

Babi · « **Reply #3172 on:** December 13, 2011, 08:39:04 AM »

The winter 'crunch' is so rare around here, JOAN, it inspires me more with
fear of falling. On the occasions things ice over, we can't even get off our
porch until we've melted the ice. Valerie had one bad fall because she didn't
see the ice; cracked her tailbone.

Oh, my, there's a lady who knows cats well. We have one like that, except
he has to go get in Valerie's face in the morning; I keep my bedroom door
shut! (We also feed only dry cat food, unless, maybe, a tin of canned food
for Christmas with their new toys. At least their breath isn't bad.)

bellemere · « **Reply #3173 on:** December 13, 2011, 10:43:00 AM »

In Frost at Midnight the "stranger" refers to the fluttering film of soot formed on the grate of the fireplace. The supersittion was that it portended a visitor. Thus the little boy Coleridge couldhope it was to be his sister visiting his school.
Oh, yes, I saw Fiddler on the Roof in New York and I believe it was the incredible, wonderful Zero Mostel as Tevye.

roshanarose · « **Reply #3174 on:** December 14, 2011, 03:58:21 AM »

bellemere - that poem of Atwood's is so accurate that it is uncanny. Good stuff! My beautiful girl jumps up on the bed when it is cold; goes around in a circle until she is pleased with her bed to be; meows loudly to let me know that she is there; and then puts her paw gently on my face to check if I am still alive.

Babi · « **Reply #3175 on:** December 14, 2011, 09:37:21 AM »

Have any of you seen the "Cutest Pet" competitions that show up on the 'Animal Planet' station
from time to time. They've had competitions for the cutest dog, cat, etc., but this latest one
looked at all kinds of pets. They were incredible, and of course..utterly adorable. Can you believe
a big-eyed loris who goes in ecstasies on being scrached. Or a baby penquin who laughs
with delight on being tickled. Then there is the bird that goes into a really wild dance when the
music is rocking. Try the 'search' mode on your menu and see if you can find them.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #3176 on:** December 14, 2011, 12:15:47 PM »

Just a quickie -

Babi the Kubla Khan is one of my favorites - I have it on a tape that my car still has a tape deck so when I am driving further than to the local grocery I can listen to poetry - as many times as I hear a poem I still love the sounds of those words.

Oh and Bellemere The Frost at Midnight is wonderful - thanks for sharing it - that is one I even read out to my Grandson who was on his way out the door so he had some words to rattle around in his head other than 'the sky is falling' or 'I gotta rush' as if rushing through life can allow us to hear and see the beauty around us. He actually said thanks as he left...wow...from a 17 year old...

JoanK - I like the idea of listening to the crunch - a dark night and here the paths are gravel or dirt and so crunch is always the sound when a foot meets the ground. But a winter crunch - now that is a special snow isn't it - and like you say brrrrr.

roshanarose - what color is your beautiful girl and what is her name?

Here is a poem that says it...this year we were not able to manage but this Christmas visit so we have lots of catching up - Next year there are at least two visits already scheduled and so my grands won't have to hear their grandmother sound like a cartoon as she says = good grief look how you have grown.

Family
~ Ryan Guerrero

Not enough hours in the day, we often say
we watch as the business of life allows time slip away.

Before we know days turn to months and months into years,
Time is mapped with laughter and cheers,
the long road sometimes landmarked with sadness and tears.

Elders pass and children grow,
has it been that long we ask, where does the time go?

Not every chance to gather is taken.
"We'll see them next time" we say and hope we're not mistaken.

A chance like now comes once in a lifetime it seems,
when the bright light of family is nurtured and beams,
there will be laughter and time to reminisce
we will all be proud this is a chance we did not miss.

Babi · « **Reply #3177 on:** December 15, 2011, 08:43:42 AM »

Your 17-yr. old grandson deserves a smile, BARB. Not every kid that age would be able to
appreciate those words...or be thoughtful enough to acknowledge it with a 'Thanks'.
Valerie put some lighted decorations in the windows last night; it's beginning to look more like
Christmas should.

roshanarose · « **Reply #3178 on:** December 15, 2011, 10:51:41 AM »

Barb - Her name is Roxana Taj (Afghan) and she has silver eyes, and a very thick grey and white coat. Do you have a cat too?

PatH · « **Reply #3179 on:** December 15, 2011, 09:29:11 PM »

Quote from: JoanK on December 12, 2011, 03:59:39 PM

Winter moon.
The stones on the path
Crunch underfoot. --- Buson

I can't read that "crunch" without shivering.

For me, haiku leave me with a visual or sensual feeling, and that's true of this one, a long time favorite, also by Buson.

A tethered horse,
snow
in both stirrups.

Octavia · « **Reply #3180 on:** December 16, 2011, 12:13:38 AM »

"Elders pass and children grow', that's the sort of year we've had here. My youngest grandson has been stressing everyone out by still being in the crawling stage on his second Birthday. We all gave a huge sigh of relief when not long ago, he just launched himself, and was away and running.
There's too much lovely poetry here to comment on it all, but I've certainly enjoyed it now that my laptop has quit freezing up. Perhaps it's been all the stormy weather, a particularly violent one a few days ago, brought traffic chaos, and trees down everywhere.
I hope it doesn't interfere with the Carols on TV tomorrow night. It's a lovely sight with massed crowds sitting on the grass with their lighted candles.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #3181 on:** December 16, 2011, 01:18:43 AM »

So glad you were able to stop into poetry Octavia - we miss you and I've my fingers crossed for you that the TV stays healthy for the upcoming Christmas programs.

Wow I like that one Pat - snow in both stirupps - I am assuming that means the snow he riding through is that deep -

roshanarose, nope no cat or dog - nor bird or fish - nor hampster or turtle - I watch the deer - that are out of doors - I have this thing where I just think animals belong outside with fields, barns, barnyards etc. - but then I hated circuses for the same reason - I want my animals to be left to be animals and not childlike companions for people - ah so - no offense here - there are more folks who like animals in the house than the few grumps like me who humbug that idea.

And yes, Babi he is a great 17 year old - he makes us all laugh and has so much energy - sheesh - I guess we all had that kind of energy when we were in our teens. I remember swimming around islands and walking a couple of miles to a favorite spot just for the heck of it because my friends and I were bored. Supposed to get cold tonight - brrr and grrr - hate being cold...

Babi · « **Reply #3182 on:** December 16, 2011, 08:28:54 AM »

Octavia, this is the kind of December day Barb and I are more likely to find...

"That's no December sky!
Surely 'tis June
Holds now her state on high
Queen of the noon.

Only the tree-tops bare
Crowning the hill,
Clear-cut in perfect air,
Warn us that still

Winter, the aged chief,
Mighty in power,
Exiles the tender leaf,
Exiles the flower."
- Robert Fuller Murray (1863-1894), A December Day

JoanK · « **Reply #3183 on:** December 16, 2011, 08:07:48 PM »

BARB: i agree with you about animals. I love to watch wild birds, and my friends don't understand why I DON'T want a caged bird.

" I am assuming that means the snow he riding through is that deep". I see it as meaning that the horse has stood there so long waiting for his master that the snow has accumulated.

The zen like to meditate on the motion that is in stillness, and the stillness that is in motion. this poem exemplifies that for me.

bellemere · « **Reply #3184 on:** December 17, 2011, 10:01:06 AM »

]Oh, well, somebody had to do it. But always read it aloud, not silently, you'll lose the magic.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though.
He wil not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake
The coldest evening of the year.

He gives his tiny bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.

PatH · « **Reply #3185 on:** December 17, 2011, 07:45:53 PM »

Thanks for reminding me of that poem, bellemere, it's a real favorite.

Reading it after the Buson haiku is kind of interesting. They intersect a bit, but are also very different. A similar scene--the snow falling, the stationary horse. Buson does what haiku are designed to do—give you an instant, but with words so carefully chosen that they lead to all sorts of thoughts. Frost also gives us a moment, but he fills it in more; he spells out the conflict between enjoying beauty and going on to the demands of duty. For him it’s a stolen pleasure to watch the falling snow.

Both have a moment of quiet, no motion but the swirling snow, but Frost then adds the gentle jingle of the horse’s bells, the call to duty, the suggestion of more to come.

And, as you point out, the scene is indeed magic.

roshanarose · « **Reply #3186 on:** December 17, 2011, 09:04:19 PM »

Barb - My cat is my best companion and friend. Every night she sleeps within touch, so I can reach out to her and feel comfort through her fur. I do anthropomorphise her to a great extent, but she is my baby. Loony - maybe? I don't take offense at all - but my cat is fat and content with me. If she were feral, who knows? I can't think for her

On the other other hand

I have set two birds free from cages and rejoiced in the freedom of what appeared to be their wider wing span. I was not popular at all with their owners, but they did eventually see me side. I hate zoos, especially those in which I can see the animals pacing up and down, up and down. I have seen thoroughbred Abyssinian cats kept in cages with just concrete as their beds and surrounds, just so they would not become infected by anything, and sell at a higher price. What humans do to animals is shocking. I just love mine with all my heart.

The Naming Of Cats by T. S. Eliot

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

Roxana Taj's everyday name often varies - From Doo Doo to Princess. From Shitty Kitty to Wussy Pussy. She prefers Baby Girl.

She holds me in thrall -

The Cat That Walked by Himself

"He will kill mice, and he will be kind to babies when he is in the house, just as long as they do not pull his tail too hard. But when he has done that, and between times, and when the moon gets up and night comes, he is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to him. Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone."

Rudyard Kipling

roshanarose · « **Reply #3187 on:** December 17, 2011, 09:23:13 PM »

Re the horse haiku

The horse is tethered, tied up. With no rider in the saddle. There are so many pursuits the rider could be engaged in being off his/her horse. There is snow on the stirrups left by the rider's boots as he/she dismounted. My imagination is challenged by what the rider could be doing. That is what haiku is all about.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #3188 on:** December 18, 2011, 02:09:55 AM »

Pat I love your sharing your thoughts on the two winter poems - and how close the underlying thoughts are to each other - those last lines bring back wonderful memories of Girl Scout camp - we often sang as a three part round

I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.

Thanks for sharing the Robert Frost Bellemere - it was the perfect companion to the Haiku

Babi great - you found the perfect poem that nailed it doesn't it

That's no December sky!
Surely 'tis June

ah roshanarose T.S. Elliot's The Naming of Cats - I have a tape of Elliot himself speaking the poem and of course now when I hear it I put the characters looks from the famous musical written after the poem - great stuff...I forgot about the Kipling - haven't read it or heard it in years - nice reminder.

strange winter this year - one minute it is sunny, in the high 60s and low 70s even here in the mountains and the next the temps drop into the 40s with a gusty wind - one minute the heat is on and the next you almost feel like putting on the AC to take the humidity out of the house - and the fog in the evening after dark and in the early morning - no wonder there are not a string of auto accidents.

Winter-Time
~ by Robert Louis Stevenson (1890)

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap,
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #3189 on:** December 18, 2011, 02:14:00 AM »

Winter: A Dirge
~ (1781) by Robert Burns

The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"
The joyless winter day
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here firm I rest; they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want—O do Thou grant
This one request of mine!—
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #3190 on:** December 18, 2011, 02:33:10 AM »

Hello! Light the fire!
I'll bring inside
a lovely bright ball of snow

roshanarose · « **Reply #3191 on:** December 18, 2011, 07:57:02 PM »

Just gorgeous Barb - I would love to be in the snow, just once in my life, at Christmas time.

Interesting what you say about the weather. I was just reading about Kiwilady's weather in New Zealand and it is very similar to here. Although our summer officially starts in December the weather has been most unseasonable. We have only had two or three really hot days, the remainder have been humid, but not too humid, and cloudy. I enjoy weather like this. I hate the humidity and heat.

I like this poem. It was written by a New England (Australia) poet who had migrated from Poland. He lived in a small country town called Tenterfield, not far from where I grew up, so "our bush summer experience" is similar.

Summer in the Country

Summer in the country
was brushing away
flies from your face
and wiping sweat from your eyes—

watching grasses and grains
shimmer in paddocks
or sheep and cattle
grazing beyond a windbreak of pines.

Galahs clanged over the homestead.
A windmill turned
when a breeze sprung up.
Cockatoos screeched from the pepper tree.

Only crows frightened me
with their sorrowful cries
and the way they flew slowly
like black crosses.

The old slab-split shed
was a treasure-trove
of harnesses, bridles, farm
machinery, forty-four-gallon drums—

its walls covered
with cobwebs that housed
unimaginable spiders
but where it was cool inside.

I didn’t miss Europe
like my parents did—
nor a Christmas without snow
I’d hear them talking about.

Summer in the country
was being given a glass of cold lemonade
and falling asleep
under a red-gum’s shade.

– Peter Skrzynecki

Babi · « **Reply #3192 on:** December 19, 2011, 09:00:57 AM »

I have T. S. Eliot's "Cats". It is a quiet amusement when I am in the need of
whimsy. I love them all.

How perfectly Stevenson describes the cold on one's face and the "frosty
pepper" that makes one vigorously rub one's nose. 'Frosty pepper' us so apt.

This verse from Burns surprised me, but then I realized how little I know
about his life.
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #3193 on:** December 19, 2011, 12:58:09 PM »

roshanarose I am so glad you found and shared the Australian poem that touches on the holiday experience in your part of the world. I found a site with the work of several Australian poets however, it would not let me copy to paste one of the poems here and they were far too long to type out one of the poems - I remember last year hearing how y'all celebrate Christmas with a barbeque or a swim party - not sure I want to be able to swim on Christmas or New Year's day but I loved it when I was home and could enjoy coffee on the patio - since I have been at my daughter's here in the mountains of NC there is no coffee-on-the-patio-warm - and some years, like last year there was snow on the ground the entire time I was here - this year seems warmer than any I can remember. It is lovely to see the bright sun with large trees, especially, pine trees silhouetted against the blue sky.

Babi the Burns' poem using the word 'grief' does sound like his life experience before he was recognized for his poetry doesn't it - plus he sure did sprinkle the earth with children and yet, his grief may have been not only because of his experiences resulting from poverty but out of the 9 children he and Jean had together only 3 survived - I did not realize he only lived 37 years - even at that time in history it was a short life.

Poverty
   ~ By Jane Taylor

I saw an old cottage of clay,
   And only of mud was the floor;
It was all falling into decay,
   And the snow drifted in at the door.

Yet there a poor family dwelt,
   In a hovel so dismal and rude;
And though gnawing hunger they felt,
   They had not a morsel of food.

The children were crying for bread,
   And to their poor mother they’d run;
‘Oh, give us some breakfast,’ they said,
   Alas! their poor mother had none.

She viewed them with looks of despair,
   She said (and I’m sure it was true),
‘’Tis not for myself that I care,
   But, my poor little children, for you.’

O then, let the wealthy and gay
   But see such a hovel as this,
That in a poor cottage of clay
   They may know what true misery is.
And what I may have to bestow
   I never will squander away,
While many poor people I know
   Around me are wretched as they.

roshanarose · « **Reply #3194 on:** December 19, 2011, 10:11:34 PM »

Barb - Jane Taylor's poem reminded me so much of Thomas Hardy's work. So sad, so real.

I am thinking about Gum a lot, in fact every time I log in here I think of Gum. I miss her very much. I see everywhere posts that she would love to answer to and add extra information, as was her wont.

Babi · « **Reply #3195 on:** December 20, 2011, 09:37:22 AM »

Thanks for telling me a bit about Burns life, BARB. Poverty, and the loss
of so many children....no wonder the man was bowed down with grief.

I wholly empathize with Jane Taylor. I remember when I was a young woman
seeing a man gambling at a table in Las Vegas. He had a thick roll of $100.
bills, and he kept ripping them off one by one and tossing them on the table.
I watched him, and thought what a terrible waste of money that could be doing some good. I think he got uncomfortable with my staring, as he glanced at me and left. I wish I could believe it made him do some thinking, but probably not.

bellemere · « **Reply #3196 on:** December 21, 2011, 07:55:57 PM »

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.

Hamlet,
Act I
Scene I

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #3197 on:** December 21, 2011, 08:33:54 PM »

Erlkönig
~ von J.W. Goethe    - Translation by Hyde Flippo

Who rides so late through the night and wind?
   It's the father with his child;
He has the boy safe in his arm,
   He holds him secure, he holds him warm.

“My son, what makes you hide your face in fear?” –
Father, don't you see the Erlking?
The Erlking with crown and flowing robe? –
   “My son, it's a wisp of fog.” –

You dear child, come along with me!
Such lovely games I'll play with you;
Many colorful flowers are at the shore,
    My mother has many a golden garment.”

My father, my father, and do you not hear
What the Erlking promises me so softly? –
“Be quiet, stay quiet, my child;
In the dry leaves the wind is rustling.” –

“Won't you come along with me, my fine boy?
My daughters shall attend to you so nicely.
    My daughters do their nightly dance,
And they'll rock you and dance you and sing you to sleep.”

My father, my father, and do you not see over there
Erlking's daughters in that dark place? –
“My son, my son, I see it most definitely:
It's the willow trees looking so grey.”

“I love you; I'm charmed by your beautiful form;
And if you're not willing, then I'll use force.”
My father, my father, now he's grabbing hold of me!
Erlking has done me harm! –

The father shudders, he rides swiftly,
He holds in (his) arms the moaning child.
He reaches the farmhouse with effort and urgency.
    In his arms the child was dead.

Babi · « **Reply #3198 on:** December 22, 2011, 08:23:10 AM »

Oh, good, BELLEMERE. A Christmas verse. I want to read some, too.

I found the Erlkonig story unpleasant, if I may put it that way. Of course,
the translation may be a bit awkward, but the basic story remains unsatisfactory.

Here's a lovely Christmas poem.

[The Christ-child lay on Mary's Lap

The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary were the world,
But here is all aright.)

The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast
His hair was like a star.
(O stern and cunning are the kings,
But here the true hearts are.)

The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,
His hair was like a fire.
(O weary, weary is the world,
But here the world's desire.)

The Christ-child stood on Mary's knee,
His hair was like a crown,
And all the flowers looked up at Him,
And all the stars looked down[/color]
G. K. Chesterton

JoanK · « **Reply #3199 on:** December 22, 2011, 04:35:01 PM »

John William Waterhouse

Share With Us
The Magic, The Words Of...
Winter Poetry

Deer Park
~ Wang Wei

An empty mountain. No one seen,
but heard is someone talking here.
The sun re-enters forest depths;
green lights on mosses reappear.

Discussion Leaders: Barb

Christmas is wonderful. But also hectic: we too often run ourselves ragged doing things that have nothing to do with what Christmas is about.

In that spirit, I'd like to post a poem (with her permission) by my wonderful 92 year old neighbor, Alma Blanton. She wrote a book "God and Mrs. Adam" in which she wrote a poem about each of the women in the bible. Here, for those who are exhausted from Christmas preparations, is Mrs. Noah.

Gen 6 through 9

Mrs Noah

by Alma Blanton

Sometime
When the kids fight
And the cats want in and out
And dinner burns
And the PTA committee chairwoman calls
And your husband goes fishing
And the lawn needs care
And the house needs paint
And Marge and bill are coming
Think about Mrs Noah.

Her husband built an ark
In the desert!
(You know how dry it is there)
And went around telling everyone there'd be
Oi. Such a flood!
And gathered up pairs of animals
And left them for her to feed
While he gathered up birds
And cooped her and the wild life
And the kids and the in-laws*
On a boat for nearly a year
Then when it was over
Got royally drunk and decided to raise
grapes

*Mrs Noah's three sons were already married: but they all came home and stayed for the entire year.

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