Author Topic: Poetry Page (Read 687331 times)

MarjV · « **Reply #520 on:** July 14, 2009, 08:42:08 PM »

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:

Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey & Fairanna

Beautiful poem.
The endless cycle of the tide - no matter what.

MarjV · « **Reply #521 on:** July 14, 2009, 08:45:04 PM »

Re: Tide. And immediately this poem came to mind.
While not exactly a summer poem it seems to fit the season.

I used to sail our small boat and I sure do understand the call of the sea. Depending on wind alone for movement was a delight. And the challenge of the wind to get where you wanted to go. And the sense of a freedom.

I Must Go Down to the Sea

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

- John Masefield

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #522 on:** July 14, 2009, 10:45:35 PM »

While we are on sailing had to add this romantic bit of sailing the summer seas by the same poet.

Trade Winds

IN the harbor, in the island, in the Spanish Seas,
Are the tiny white houses and the orange trees,
And day-long, night-long, the cool and pleasant breeze
Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.

There is the red wine, the nutty Spanish ale,
The shuffle of the dancers, the old salt's tale,
The squeaking fiddle, and the soughing in the sail
Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.

And o' nights there's fire-flies and the yellow moon,
And in the ghostly palm-trees the sleepy tune
Of the quiet voice calling me, the long low croon
Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.

John Masefield

Babi · « **Reply #523 on:** July 15, 2009, 09:29:19 AM »

Quote

"to build with the care and improvement is who we are rather than believing
we are only what we leave behind "

What a beautiful thought, BARB. And you are so right. We deal with life
based on who we are, and who we are is all we can take with us.

"The little waves, with their soft, white hands
Efface the footprints in the sands,"
I love those lines; such a wonderful image.

MARJ, that Masefield poem is a long-standing favorite of mine. It can leave
me nostalgic for something I've never actually experienced..a sea voyage.
Thanks for posting the other Masefield poem, BARB. I hadn't read that one
before. The man could certainly evoke an atmosphere.

MarjV · « **Reply #524 on:** July 16, 2009, 02:00:24 PM »

No wonder Masefield wanted to go to the sea again...........that island sounds delightful

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #525 on:** July 16, 2009, 02:18:58 PM »

1386

Paul Laurence Dunbar (1903)

The oriole sings in the greening grove
   As if he were half-way waiting,
   The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
   Timid, and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
   And the nights smell warm and pinety,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
   Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
   Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
   And the woods run mad with riot

Babi · « **Reply #526 on:** July 17, 2009, 09:07:19 AM »

I like that idea of 'the woods run mad with riot' with the coming of Spring
sunshine.

Here's a surprisingly short one by John Keats.

On the Grasshopper and the Cricket
by John Keats

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 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.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #527 on:** July 17, 2009, 01:31:18 PM »

"When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees,"

Not just the birds - wheee are we having a summer Babi - although today there are clouds and the sun has not warmed us hitting the high nineties yet, much less the hundreds. I hope it rains, I hope it rains, I HOPE it RAINS - and yet, from some of the posts I am reading other areas of the country are in the middle of cold wet weather and still other areas have had rain, rain, rain all summer long. Truly a good line for this summer is ---

"The poetry of earth is ceasing never"

Babi · « **Reply #528 on:** July 18, 2009, 09:02:29 AM »

We've had a bit of rain here recently. I hope you got some of it in Austin.
I was noticeably cooler yesterday evening after our third shower in two
weeks. Before that...nothing but sun and heat. I badly need to pull some
grass out of a flower bed, but it has been too hot for old ladies to exert
themselves in the sun. Maybe this morning....

MarjV · « **Reply #529 on:** July 18, 2009, 09:38:15 AM »

Summer Wind by William Cullen Bryant

It is a sultry day; the sun has drank
The dew that lay upon the morning grass,
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervors; the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scortching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven;--
Their bases on the mountains--their white tops
Shining in the far ether--fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now,
Among the nearer groves, chesnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in wives!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on the fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And soun of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

This poem is like a story of a very hot day and then the respite comes.
Wonderful images. We've all known a summer day like this especially
there in Texas.

Babi · « **Reply #530 on:** July 19, 2009, 08:56:47 AM »

Now that's the kind of summer I'm familiar with, MARJ, with it's "too
potent fervor" and the "scorching heat". Bless the man who came up with
air conditioning! One could die waiting for that breeze.

I love the old poems like this, with their now quaint language. Whatever is
a 'clock-a-day'? A vine or flower of some kind, apparently.

Summer
by John Clare (1865)

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover’s breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.

The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover’s breast;
I’ll lean upon her breast and I’ll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o’sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.

MarjV · « **Reply #531 on:** July 20, 2009, 08:32:15 AM »

Or maybe "clock-a-day" could be time passing quickly.

That person sure is yearning for his/her true love.

Babi · « **Reply #532 on:** July 20, 2009, 09:20:46 AM »

I don't know, MARJ. I tried to find a 'clock-a-day', but had no success. I'm
thinking it may be something similar to the flower we call a '4-o-clock', bcause it only blooms in the late afternoon. I guess we'll just have to wonder about
that one.

MarjV · « **Reply #533 on:** July 20, 2009, 02:03:51 PM »

I Googled it also Babi

We are having a big rain this afternoon - long needed

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed
Nothin' seems to fit
Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'

So I just did me some talkin' to the sun
And I said I didn't like the way he got things done
Sleepin' on the job
Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'

But there's one thing I know
The blues they send to meet me won't defeat me
It won't be long till happiness steps up to greet me

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red
Cryin's not for me
'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'
Because I'm free
Nothin's worryin' me

[trumpet]

It won't be long till happiness steps up to greet me

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red
Cryin's not for me
'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'
Because I'm free
Nothin's worryin' me

You can hear and see it here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FRsXHDYXafM&feature=related

fairanna · « **Reply #534 on:** July 20, 2009, 09:54:00 PM »

I miss you all so much and reading all of my favorite poets and their poems made me feel sad that I am not here with you.. I am working in my yard and still going through papers and clothes etc left when my dear companion passed away. For eight years every place we went together ( and since he was ill I always went with him or drove him there) I find going to a place often reduces me to tears...I am not asking for sympathy but have to explain why I am not here ..when fall and winter comes I wont be able to work outdoors and then will be here ..perhaps even before ..I do check in and all of the poems shared are poems I have loved and had meaning to me..I must go down the sea again AH that one is really a favorite ..when I joined my husband in Europe I and our 2 year old sailed on the USS AMERICA at that time the government allowed us to refuse a flight and instead sail the America and THE United States were subsidized and when there vacancies they sent us on them It was not the ship I was supposed to be on but the night we were supposed to leave on our ship my two year old came down with strep throat and we were reassigned to the America .. When people asked why I didn't want to fly I would paraphase "If I must go down to the sea please let it be in a boat" I do read my poetry books searching for a poem but even when I find one I just dint feel like posting ...I do love you all and miss this "home"

Babi · « **Reply #535 on:** July 21, 2009, 08:33:28 AM »

Oh, what fun, MARJ. I could hear the song in my head, and see Gene Kelly
dancing it!

Quote

"When people asked why I didn't want to fly I would paraphase "If
I must go down to the sea please let it be in a boat."

I had to smile at that line, ANNA. I've never been on a longer boat trip than
a ferry ride on the St. Lawrence. I'd like to do that one day, if possible.
We always miss you, but we do understand. It simply takes time to work through a loss; it can't be hurried. Just remember you are greatly loved here.

MarjV · « **Reply #536 on:** July 21, 2009, 12:09:55 PM »

On coolish days I like a bit of sunshine on my bod - so then I found this poem -

Sunshine (Poem)

Sunshine
Has a balm of its own
That soothes the weary soul.

Sunshine
Touches the skin
Soothing, like an old friend.

Sunshine
Please never go away,

Stay,stay,stay
Sunshine stay

Found it on a blog with no name attached as to poet.

MarjV · « **Reply #537 on:** July 21, 2009, 12:17:39 PM »

Then that poem led me to remember John Denver's "Sunshine on my shoulders............" ((not for a hot/humid day)

And here he is singing it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Zx27dP1mTg

sunshine, on my shoulders - makes me happy
sunshine, in my eyes - can make me cry
sunshine, on the water - looks so lovely
sunshine, almost always - makes me high
if i had a day that i could give you
i'd give to you a day just like today
if i had a song that i could sing for you
i'd sing a song to make you feel this way
sunshine, on my shoulders - makes me happy
sunshine, in my eyes - can make me cry
sunshine, on the water - looks so lovely
sunshine, almost always - makes me high
if i had a tale that i could tell you
i'd tell a tale sure to make you smile
if i had a wish that i could wish for you
i'd make a wish for sunshine all the while
sunshine, on my shoulders - makes me happy
sunshine, in my eyes - can make me cry
sunshine, on the water - looks so lovely
sunshine, almost always - makes me high
sunshine almost al the times makes me high
sunshine, almost always

Babi · « **Reply #538 on:** July 22, 2009, 09:53:40 AM »

MARJ, I'm afraid my experience with sunshine here in Texas is scorching
sun, best enjoyed from the shade. Preferably, deep shade. "Sunshine on My Shoulders" was also the first thing I thought of when I read it. I've
always loved that song.

fairanna · « **Reply #539 on:** July 22, 2009, 01:02:29 PM »

I have a disc of John Denvers songs and had a wonderful expierence of seeing him on stage here before he became really really popular .. He was charming and everyone loved his songs ..I think because he sang about things we understood...I am sharing one of my poems ...my daughter loves this poem and I hope you do as well...my husband would often cut a rose from our garden and bring it in to me...and after he died and I started to write poetry I wrote this one from my memory ...

Flowers
by Anna Alexander
1996 or 1997

The fragrance arrives before you

Tantalizing it enters

Through my breath

Stored in the labyrinths

Of my mind from times past

From warm gardens

Sunning themselves

From soft grass

From moist earth

The perfume of rain

Emanating

From streets

Sizzling on heated pavement

Wafting miniature drops

Microcosms of scents left there

Of oil and gas and things unknown

How strange all these

Come to me

Because behind me

You hold a rose

Babi · « **Reply #540 on:** July 23, 2009, 08:20:26 AM »

ANNA, I'll say it again. I think you are one of the best poets alive today. I want
all your poems. Please take them to a publisher! Let them do the sorting, etc.! It would be a crying shame if all these wonderful poems wound up in a box on a closet shelf somewhere.

MarjV · « **Reply #541 on:** July 23, 2009, 10:38:05 AM »

Good idea, Babi.

There are small print publishers that can just print the number you want or on demand. However, You'd need to supply them on a disc.

That poem is full of exquisite images; thanks, Anna.

MarjV · « **Reply #542 on:** July 23, 2009, 10:40:10 AM »

Anna: You can see on Google the opportunities for self publishing or print on demand.

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=ISO-8859-1&q=print+on+demand+publishers&aq=f&oq=&aqi=

fairanna · « **Reply #543 on:** July 24, 2009, 01:40:22 AM »

You are so kind concerning my poems .. Truthfully I write because I cannot write .. something will happen , memories never forgotten seem to demand me to write them in a poetic form...a word, a phrase., a leaf falling, birds calling . raindrops., snow,. anything , all seem to speak to me and when I sit down at my computer something magic happens...as I write the title or the first line it seems the rest is there in my computer and my fingers on the keyboard finds the letters needed to write a word and then another word ..I seldom , almost never edit a poem ..when I add my name that is it ..the poem has miraculously appeared...and here is another of mine....mostly because working in my garden takes up my days and my nights are spent cleaning house etc so here it is ..self explanatory

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©

Babi · « **Reply #544 on:** July 24, 2009, 08:41:43 AM »

Interesting how you described your poetry writing (typing), ANNA. I've only
written two poems in my life, and both were under a sort of compulsion. I
paused only briefly in writing them down as they poured out, and I didn't edit,
either. It was as though they were coming from some other source.
I can't give you either poem. One was lost years ago in a computer crash.
The other was given to the family for whom it was written. It must have been
what they needed; it was read at the funeral service.

MarjV · « **Reply #545 on:** July 24, 2009, 10:42:24 AM »

Great poem, Anna. However, so sad the dragonflys are disappearing like other "wildlife" around us. Only sad one monarch bfly here this summer.

I have a friend, Kitty, who writes poetry in the same way as Anna. I'll have to find her Texas Hot poem (she lives near Fort Worth) and post it here.

The dragonfly by Matsuo Basho

The dragonfly
can't quite land
on that blade of grass.

Just picture that haiku!

JoanK · « **Reply #546 on:** July 24, 2009, 09:07:39 PM »

ANNA: you did it again!

And Marge: I love Basho's haiku (I love all of baasho's haiku)

MarjV · « **Reply #547 on:** July 25, 2009, 02:18:48 PM »

This poem is by my dear friend in near Fort Worth Texas. She wrote it a couple years back.

Texas Hot

When Texas is hot...
The land sizzzles,
The trees gasp for air,
The cornfield’s bare,
The porch needs repaired.

The days grow longer,
The evenings are still,
In the distance you hear
The old whippoorwill.

The Model T. Ford,
Sits under the shed.
Mom’s old sneakers
Lie beneath the bed.

Supper is done,
And the flies are shooed.
Papa done eat...
The last of the stew.

Sister’s dropping coins,
In her piggy bank,
She has enough saved,
For the skating rink.

Gram’s knitting,
By the light of the lamp...
While scolding gently,
Our dear old gramp.

He has done something,
But I don’t know what...
He just gets careless,
When it’s Texas Hot!

-Kitty Ivey
=

MarjV · « **Reply #548 on:** July 25, 2009, 02:20:52 PM »

And here is another Kitty sent me last evening; I call it "Texas Hot II"

When the summer is hot,
The flower's go to pot -
The day lilies cease to bloom.

The lizard "loiters" in the shade,
The birds splash a bath -
The slug slugs it out,
I have no doubt.

A southerly breeze,
will sometimes tease -
Porch sitters are fewer,
Fish pass on by the lures.

The "crepe myrtle" has blooms,
It looks like the fertile crescent -
In the "midst of the desert," of old,
Stalwart and arrogant with it's beauty.

- Kitty Ivey

JoanK · « **Reply #549 on:** July 26, 2009, 02:38:53 PM »

I love "Texas is Hot"

Babi · « **Reply #550 on:** July 27, 2009, 08:03:34 AM »

I love trees, but this poem about cottonwoods is downright alarming.

Cottonwood Summer

by Jack Peachum

“You may have your mighty oaks—
Go on– listen to your whispering pines,
Tend your pretty flowers—
For I’ll outlast them all—
I can grow anywhere, any time—
Give me an inch of your ground,
And I will bury you!
I ask nothing of you, neither food nor water,
I thrive in the drought and I rest in the cold—
Next year I’ll be stronger,
My roots going deeper,
And some night I’ll creep into your room,
Plant myself over you, cover you up,
Bind you to the sheets—
My branches will grow out of your heart.”

MarjV · « **Reply #551 on:** July 28, 2009, 08:08:16 AM »

It sure is alarming, Babi. A nightmare scenario for sure no matter what meaning you assign to the "cottonwood".

Babi · « **Reply #552 on:** July 28, 2009, 10:53:07 AM »

It never occurred to me that there might be an alternative meaning to 'cottonwood'. I can't imagine what that might be. There are cottonwoods around here, and I've never noticed any problems with them. I understand that they do have an exceptionally fast growth rate. I can only assume that Mr. Peachum has been seriously inconvenienced by the
location of a cottonwood, and wrote his poem in a fit of pique.

MarjV · « **Reply #553 on:** July 29, 2009, 07:33:35 AM »

"fit of pique" --- wonderful phrase, Babi!

re cottonwood: I was thinking about negative feelings that are hard to deal with and can practically strangle your life especially when we have those awake times in the night. While all around you others seem to be coping so easily like the oaks, pines and flowers.

MarjV · « **Reply #554 on:** July 29, 2009, 07:37:39 AM »

Green-Striped Melons

They lie
under stars in a field.
They lie under rain in a field.
Under sun.

Some people
are like this as well --
like a painting
hidden beneath another painting.

An unexpected weight
the sign of their ripeness.

~ Jane Hirshfield

(Alaska Quarterly, Fall & Winter, 2008)

JoanK · « **Reply #555 on:** July 29, 2009, 01:39:08 PM »

MARJ: what an interesting poem -- it really makes me think.

Babi · « **Reply #556 on:** July 30, 2009, 08:29:10 AM »

Ah, MARJ, I know all about those 'awake times'. Far better to simply get up,
go make some chamomile tea and read a book!

Pat · « **Reply #557 on:** July 30, 2009, 09:13:10 AM »

Quote from: Babi on July 27, 2009, 08:03:34 AM

I love trees, but this poem about cottonwoods is downright alarming.

We spray vigorously cottonwood starts in the pasture. They not only grow very fast, but deplete the soil so no grass will grow under them. They were orignally promoted ny theDA as quick shade for cattle, but became more of a menace.

In the barnyard or house yard, they cover everything with a fine fluffy white 'cotton' seed and will often blow into the house if the door is opened on a windy day.

MarjV · « **Reply #558 on:** July 30, 2009, 09:18:48 AM »

I never knew that about cottonwood! We have it blow all over inthe late spring around here but not a large number of trees.

Will we continue Summer Poems thru August? I vote for that.

Yes, the Melon poem is "ripe" for thinking!

I felt so when I first read it.

Babi · « **Reply #559 on:** July 31, 2009, 08:45:23 AM »

Ah, that explains it, PAT. Perhaps Mr. Peachum was a cattleman, too, or grew
up on a farm or ranch.
My test for ripeness in melons was always a 'knock,knock'. I've discovered
that losing my hearing puts rather a damper on that, but how many melons
would I have to lift to judge comparative ripeness? They're all heavy to me, but
they're not all ripe.

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Author Topic: Poetry Page (Read 687331 times)