Author Topic: Poetry Page (Read 755751 times)

Tomereader1 · « **Reply #1240 on:** February 08, 2010, 01:12:40 PM »

A Tray of Decorative Carved-Wood Cardinal-Birds

Pull up a chair and Join us for...
Winter Poetry

Discussion Leaders: Barb & fairanna

A Red, Red Rose

~Robert Burns

O MY Luve 's like a red, red rose
That 's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve 's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune!

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

Thank youBellemere for quoting the words to that lovely song! I cry everytime I hear it. Believe I will print out your post so I will have the words at hand. I know I have written them down somewhere, but, alas, who knows where?

mrssherlock · « **Reply #1241 on:** February 08, 2010, 03:02:25 PM »

bellemere; Goose pimples!

bellemere · « **Reply #1242 on:** February 08, 2010, 04:30:36 PM »

We had a guest once, a young friend of my son's from Germany. He sat at the piano and played and sang The Rose so many times, Iwas ready to hogtie him and ship him back on the next plane to Munich. But it is captivating. My 16 year old granddaugher has a voice that is truly a gift, and she sometimes sings at weddings in her town. Gets a lot of requests for The Rose.
I leave for Mexico on Wednesday, back in three weeks, will be checking the site at Internet Cafes to see what else you can do with making February poetic!

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1243 on:** February 09, 2010, 03:18:05 AM »

Here is one for you Bellemere - Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS

What say the Bells of San Blas
To the ships that southward pass
From the harbor of Mazatlan?
To them it is nothing more
Than the sound of surf on the shore,--
Nothing more to master or man.

But to me, a dreamer of dreams,
To whom what is and what seems
Are often one and the same,--
The Bells of San Blas to me
Have a strange, wild melody,
And are something more than a name.

For bells are the voice of the church;
They have tones that touch and search
The hearts of young and old;
One sound to all, yet each
Lends a meaning to their speech,
And the meaning is manifold.

They are a voice of the Past,
Of an age that is fading fast,
Of a power austere and grand,
When the flag of Spain unfurled
Its folds o'er this western world,
And the Priest was lord of the land.

The chapel that once looked down
On the little seaport town
Has crumbled into the dust;
And on oaken beams below
The bells swing to and fro,
And are green with mould and rust.

"Is, then, the old faith dead,"
They say, "and in its stead
Is some new faith proclaimed,
That we are forced to remain
Naked to sun and rain,
Unsheltered and ashamed?

"Once, in our tower aloof,
We rang over wall and roof
Our warnings and our complaints;
And round about us there
The white doves filled the air,
Like the white souls of the saints.

"The saints! Ah, have they grown
Forgetful of their own?
Are they asleep, or dead,
That open to the sky
Their ruined Missions lie,
No longer tenanted?

"Oh, bring us back once more
The vanished days of yore,
When the world with faith was filled;
Bring back the fervid zeal,
The hearts of fire and steel,
The hands that believe and build.

"Then from our tower again
We will send over land and main
Our voices of command,
Like exiled kings who return
To their thrones, and the people learn
That the Priest is lord of the land!"

O Bells of San Blas in vain
Ye call back the Past again;
The Past is deaf to your prayer!
Out of the shadows of night
The world rolls into light;
It is daybreak everywhere.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1244 on:** February 09, 2010, 03:25:04 AM »

Thread in a Spider's Web
~ by Coral Bracho [translated poem]

A little stream, drawn by the magnets of air and light,
and flowing like time, like copper forming,
is the thread
in a spider's web. Pools of silver shimmer
from one leaf to another, from one path trodden
to another on the soft ground. I see you go across,

over there,
between two lines. ‘I love him',
I say.

The little stream forks; flows between
two possibilities.
Its thread is in thrall to this sea of light,
this liquid,
coursing. This water makes the evening sing, heady
and drunk. Its fire flows
on into the east forever. Held in the sun's
fine balance
I think of you.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1245 on:** February 09, 2010, 03:37:59 AM »

Marks of Time
~ by Mexican Poet Coral Bracho

Between wind and dark,
between a rush of joy
yet deepest calm,
between my lovely white dress flying
and the dark, dark hole of the mine,
are my father's eyes, so gentle, waiting; his dancing
happiness. I go to meet him. This is a land
of little stars, of pyrite crystals,
wherever it's touched by the sunset. Clouds
of quartz, and flint, up high. His bright gaze,
all-embracing,
has the warmth of amber.
He lifts me up into his arms. He comes in close.
Our one shadow drifts over to the edge of the mine. He puts me down.
He gives me his hand.
The whole way down
is just one joy, in silence:
one dark warmth,
one richness, aglow.
Something in that quietness holds us under its wing, it protects
and uplifts us,
very softly,
as we go down.

Babi · « **Reply #1246 on:** February 09, 2010, 08:28:30 AM »

I suspect, BELLE, that February is much more perfect in Mexico.

You know, I went to the heading and read Robert Burns poem. Of the love poems we have read, I still like it best. Old-fashioned, I know.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1247 on:** February 11, 2010, 03:38:44 PM »

Emily Dickinson (1830–86)

Part Three: Love VII

I HIDE myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting, wear me too—
And angels know the rest.

I hide myself within my flower,
That, fading from your vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me
Almost a loneliness.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1248 on:** February 11, 2010, 03:41:51 PM »

Emily Dickinson (1830–86).

Part Three: Love XXIX

THE ROSE did caper on her cheek,
Her bodice rose and fell,
Her pretty speech, like drunken men,
Did stagger pitiful.

Her fingers fumbled at her work,—
Her needle would not go;
What ailed so smart a little maid
It puzzled me to know,

Till opposite I spied a cheek
That bore another rose;
Just opposite, another speech
That like the drunkard goes;

A vest that, like the bodice, danced
To the immortal tune,—
Till those two troubled little clocks
Ticked softly into one.

Babi · « **Reply #1249 on:** February 12, 2010, 08:42:26 AM »

Dear Emily. She always makes me smile.

Babi · « **Reply #1250 on:** February 13, 2010, 09:23:20 AM »

Given the weather reports from around the country, this seems timely:

The Snow Storm
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

No hawk hangs over in this air:
The urgent snow is everywhere.
The wing adroiter than a sail
Must lean away from such a gale,
Abandoning its straight intent,
Or else expose tough ligament
And tender flesh to what before
Meant dampened feathers, nothing more.
Forceless upon our backs there fall
Infrequent flakes hexagonal,
Devised in many a curious style
To charm our safety for a while,
Where close to earth like mice we go
Under the horizontal snow.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1251 on:** February 13, 2010, 08:05:28 PM »

Ophelia in the River
~ by Carrie A Deveney

Leaves are falling
To cover the maiden
Whose feet quickly traverse
The wilderness
The catch in her hair
Flowing behind her like garland
In the cool wind
And, she's Ophelia as she
Splashes into the winter river
And floats downstream
Blue lips and purple rimmed eyes
She's a picture of icy beauty
As her dress drags her down to the bottom
Where she waits
A century later
To be thawed in a Spring
That never comes

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1252 on:** February 13, 2010, 08:09:43 PM »

~ By LIU ZONG-YUAN (A.D. 773-819) - was a Mid-Tang Dynasty politician and a victim of political intrigues.

River Snow

A thousand hills, but no birds in flight, ten thousand paths, with no people's tracks. A lonely boat, a straw-hatted old man, fishing alone in the cold river snow.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1253 on:** February 13, 2010, 08:16:59 PM »

Winter in the Country
~ by Claude McKay

Sweet life! how lovely to be here
And feel the soft sea-laden breeze
Strike my flushed face, the spruce's fair
Free limbs to see, the lesser trees'

Bare hands to touch, the sparrow's cheep
To heed, and watch his nimble flight
Above the short brown grass asleep.
Love glorious in his friendly might,

Music that every heart could bless,
And thoughts of life serene, divine,
Beyond my power to express,
Crowd round this lifted heart of mine!

But oh! to leave this paradise
For the city's dirty basement room,
Where, beauty hidden from the eyes,
A table, bed, bureau, and broom

In corner set, two crippled chairs
All covered up with dust and grim
With hideousness and scars of years,
And gaslight burning weird and dim,

Will welcome me . . . And yet, and yet
This very wind, the winter birds
The glory of the soft sunset,
Come there to me in words.

Tomereader1 · « **Reply #1254 on:** February 16, 2010, 12:15:46 PM »

I will assume that it is "safe" to print one's own poetry here on this site; so:
PROMISE OF A WINTER'S DAY

Above the slate-grey pall of sky,
Beyond the razored winds,
Beneath the damp that chills the bones
But not the heart
Lies Spring.

For while it sleeps and grows
In some warm place,
We shiver, full of doubt.
But hold its promise as our shield against the cold,
And wait.

Ah, it will come.
In one bright burst of blue before our eyes.
In silken gold caress of sun upon the skin.
And with the fresh, new smell of green
We will, like Spring
Be born again.

Joanne McIntyre, January 1983

JoanK · « **Reply #1255 on:** February 16, 2010, 05:22:51 PM »

That's lovely.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1256 on:** February 16, 2010, 11:32:11 PM »

Thanks for sharing Joanne - I love your lines
Beyond the razored winds,
Beneath the damp that chills the bones

Babi I love the line - Where close to earth like mice we go - snow above or not to me the image is so true after you have been high in a plane and then after a certain altitude we completely disappear from view - with all our power and affect we are like mice - they can take over a kitchen and then a house effecting us with their scurry for food. To me that is similar to us as we effect the atmosphere and climate essentially in our scurry for food or the wealth to buy the food.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1257 on:** February 17, 2010, 01:29:50 AM »

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind

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 if 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 a friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1258 on:** February 17, 2010, 01:31:56 AM »

Spellbound
~ by Emily Brontë

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing dear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1259 on:** February 17, 2010, 01:42:35 AM »

Heavy Snowfall in A Year Gone Past
~ by Laura Jensen

Heavy snowfall in a year gone past
hammered the sudden edge
of the house foundations
to a rounder world
a whiter light after the end of day.
My favorite coat, lush sable
in color, a petty fake
that warmed me to the ears
hangs after the seasons
a beaten animal grinning buttons.
It became quite real to me
and now is matted on a hook.
How far away what mattered
has flourished without me,
along the tasty road in the wood:

clark, clark, the hidden birds call
or do wrong, do wrong, someone
do wrong, snapping apples
from out in the woodside, telling
their fathers names, pie cannonrude
barkwithfist brendanbe with cherries.

It is a vast field
where snow will fall again.
Is the vast field ownership
or a presence of mind?

Babi · « **Reply #1260 on:** February 17, 2010, 08:35:45 AM »

I really like that, JOANNE. Glad you decided to share it with us. I've
written three poems in my life, each under such a stimulus as made the
poem flow almost by itself. I've lost them somewhere, but I assure you
I cannot write poetry without such inspiration.

Emily Bronte's poem is a bit scary and ominous, isn't it? Well, after
all she is the author of "Wuthering Heights". I found that one too
depressing; didn't get very far with it.

I'm afraid Laura Jensen just makes me frown, wondering what on earth
she is nattering on about.

fairanna · « **Reply #1261 on:** February 19, 2010, 11:46:02 AM »

Joanne that is lovely and hopefully prophetic ,in the 38 years I have called this house home ...I cant recall any year when by late January the crocus hasnt spread its gold across my yard or a February when my plum tree hasnt been dressed like a debutant at a ball...all is still quiet with no promise of spring... Thankfully the day time temperature is a bit warmer but the wind is frigid to the feel and no hint of spring to the touch,,,,,

Was looking for a love poem but what I found was a poem about a love that never came.....

The Look

Stephon kissed me in the spring
Robin in the fall
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.

Stephon's kiss was lost in jest
Robin's lost in play
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
Haunts me night and day.

Sara Teasdale

Sort of makes me sad...because it is not only kisses that never happen but promises life makes that are never fulfilled...

I hope if where you live this has been a long winter that spring is near...of course sometimes spring is something to fear.... anna

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1262 on:** February 19, 2010, 12:49:01 PM »

Yes, Fairanna a long winter this year - so much that we are struggling to find winter poems - it is nice when a new season allows us to take the cream of poetry off the top - all the poems we have heard in our lifetime that where we may not know them by heart we sure recognize the words.

I keep forgetting Sandburg and here is one of his...

Winter Milk

THE MILK drops on your chin, Helga,
Must not interfere with the cranberry red of your cheeks
Nor the sky winter blue of your eyes.
Let your mammy keep hands off the chin.
This is a high holy spatter of white on the reds and blues.

Before the bottle was taken away,
Before you so proudly began today
Drinking your milk from the rim of a cup
They did not splash this high holy white on your chin.

There are dreams in your eyes, Helga.
Tall reaches of wind sweep the clear blue.
The winter is young yet, so young.
Only a little cupful of winter has touched your lips.
Drink on … milk with your lips … dreams with your eyes.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1263 on:** February 19, 2010, 12:56:18 PM »

I thought t his was beautifully done...remember we studied her work for a month back a few years ago.

For Anna Akhmatova
February 1986, on the twentieth anniversary of her death

You, who sang so many poets
and the death of cities and the young century,
your songs have kept us awake when
we should have died.

And may i now living, listen in your release
of the mute screams of a hundred mothers,
waiting before the prison wall,
their lips gone 'blue with cold.'

What is it to endure just one winter,
the childhood willow choked in ice,
the Neva rolling on alone,
or night that teases you, but never comes?

What, to endure your own beauty?
The clap of tall black boots, not dancing naked
feet on the stairs? Your heart beating for a word?
Oh, but the long , dark cloud

--it passes. This day is reborn in your arms!
And sometime, I'll wear your profile,
like a reticent god, where trembling
you translate a different star!

~elaine maria upton

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1264 on:** February 19, 2010, 01:13:52 PM »

here is one of her poems referred to in the Anniversary poem honoring Akhrnatova

How can you bear to look at the Neva?

How can you bear to look at the Neva?
How can you bear to cross the bridges?.
Not in vain am I known as the grieving one
Since the time you appeared to me.
The black angels' wings are sharp,
Judgment Day is coming soon,
And raspberry-colored bonfires bloom,
Like roses, in the snow.

1914
~Anna Akhmatova

The Russian Revolution started in St. Petersburg located on the Neva and in 1914 the city was considered too German so its name was changed to Petrograd. St. Petersburg had been the capitol of Russia for over 200 years until the Soviets moved the capitol to Moscow to avoid anti-soviet forces near and in Petrograd.

this is copied from the Russian news site Kommersant:

Quote

In 1902 St. Petersburg celebrated the 100th anniversary of Alexander I's establishment of ministries system. In May 1903 St. Petersburg celebrated its 200th anniversary. The new Troitsky (Trinity) Bridge was officially opened in the royal presence and then a church service took place on the Senate Square next to the Bronze Horseman, the monument to the founder of the city.

The tragedy came in 1905. In January 1905 (it became known as "Bloody Sunday") a peaceful demonstration of workers was fired at by troops at the Palace Square. This led to the start of the 1905-1907 Revolution. On October 17, 1905 Nicholas II had to issue a manifesto proclaiming a number of civil rights and instituting a new parliament, consisting of the Duma and the reformed State Council. The district where the Duma was located soon became one of the most popular residential areas.

However, the government curtailed many of the freedoms and blocked many of the Duma's initiatives. In the end, the people's patience came to an end and the streets were filled with rebels. The city was renamed Petrograd and saw the two revolutions of 1917. But that happened later.

Meanwhile St. Petersburg was the shelter for many of the most prominent artists, musicians, composers, writers and poets who made this period the "Silver Age". In the poetry there appeared trends of symbolism and futurism and mystic tendencies in philosophy. The Russian Orthodox Church was preparing for recovery of patriarchate cancelled by Peter the Great. With a population of 2 million people, the modern metropolis was about to face new challenges, but the war changed all the plans

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1265 on:** February 19, 2010, 01:28:51 PM »

Crossing the Neva in Winter 1900 - 1917

http://www.nlr.ru/petersburg/spbpcards/photos/lo000000044_1_m.jpg

A later photo of the Trinity or Troitsky bridge

http://www.saint-petersburg.com/bridges/trinity-bridge.asp

fairanna · « **Reply #1266 on:** February 19, 2010, 08:21:08 PM »

Thanks for posting the poetry of Anna Akhmatova I have her book and this winter I have read many of hers,,,the leader of my poetry class warns - we should read five poems by a poet before starting to write ours...Can I count the books of poetry by a vast number of poets I have read....? Just reading the poems posted .. thanks for posting them ...anna AND THE PICTURES of winter....ah !

Babi · « **Reply #1267 on:** February 20, 2010, 09:09:41 AM »

I'm glad you explained the background of those two poems, BARB. They
had me puzzled until I understood the context. The picture of the Neva in winter had me shivering, tho'.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1268 on:** February 20, 2010, 10:46:13 AM »

Wonderful news from the BBC this morning - First, here are three Miguel Hernandez Poems translated to English
http://www.press.uchicago.edu/Misc/Chicago/327736.html

Quote

Spain to recognise civil war poet Miguel Hernandez
~ By Sarah Rainsford, BBC News, Madrid

Miguel Hernandez is ranked among Spain's finest poets

The Spanish government says it will formally recognise one of the country's best-known poets as a victim of the dictatorship of Gen Francisco Franco.

It will present the family of the poet, Miguel Hernandez, with an official letter rehabilitating his memory.

Hernandez was imprisoned as a traitor 70 years ago for supporting the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War, and died in prison at the age of 31.

The family applied for his rehabilitation under a 2007 law.

The decision to rehabilitate him comes as Spain marks the centenary of the poet's birth with a series of events.

"We have always lived with this sadness, and finally we have cleansed his memory," the poet's daughter-in-law, Lucia Izquierdo, told the BBC.

"We wanted his image restored as a poet of the people, and a great man."

The family applied for the rehabilitation under Spain's Historical Memory Law, passed in 2007 to recognise the victims on both sides of the Civil War, and during Franco's rule.

Hernandez never took up arms, but he staunchly supported Republican forces
According to Spain's justice ministry, 237 people had been recognised under the law out of 831 applications received up until October 2009, with 17 cases refused.

Ranked alongside Federico Garcia Lorca and others as one of Spain's finest poets, Miguel Hernandez was from a poor, peasant family.

A staunch Republican, many of his poems depict the horror of the Civil War.

He was arrested and imprisoned in 1940, when his family say he refused on principle to sign a confession and apology in return for permission to go into exile.

"He was never a traitor, he was always on the side of justice," Ms Izquierdo said. "It is frightening to think what they did to him."

"He never took up arms, but they were against him because he defended Spain with his pen," she added.

"His legacy is some of the most beautiful poetry we have. His unjust death deprived us of more."

Gen Franco commuted the death penalty against the poet to a 30-year sentence, but Hernandez died soon after when he contracted tuberculosis, which went untreated in harsh prison conditions.

Many of the poet's most moving works were written in prison, including the famous "Onion Lullaby".

He addressed that poem to his wife when he learned she and their child were surviving on nothing but onions.

The poet's family did not request compensation from the state for his treatment, as it could under the 2007 law - only his rehabilitation.

They are now preparing an appeal to the Supreme Court to get the original death sentence against him annulled and clear the last black mark against his name.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1269 on:** February 20, 2010, 10:52:05 AM »

Lullaby of the Onion
~ by Miguel Hernández

Miguel Hernandez
(dedicated to his son, after receiving a letter from his wife
in which she said she had nothing to eat but bread and onions)

The onion is frost
shut in and poor.
Frost of your days
and of my nights.
Hunger and onion,
black ice and frost
large and round.

My little boy
was in hunger's cradle.
He was nursed
on onion blood.
But your blood
is frosted with sugar,
onion and hunger.

A dark woman
dissolved in moonlight
pours herself thread by thread
into the cradle.
Laugh, son,
you can swallow the moon
when you want to.

Lark of my house,
keep laughing.
The laughter in your eyes
is the light of the world.
Laugh so much
that my soul, hearing you,
will beat in space.

Your laughter frees me,
gives me wings.
It sweeps away my loneliness,
knocks down my cell.
Mouth that flies,
heart that turns
to lightning on your lips.

Your laughter is
the sharpest sword,
conqueror of flowers
and larks.
Rival of the sun.
Future of my bones
and of my love.

The flesh fluttering,
the sudden eyelid,
and the baby is rosier
than ever.
How many linnets
take off, wings fluttering,
from your body!

I woke up from childhood:
don't you wake up.
I have to frown:
always laugh.
Keep to your cradle,
defending laughter
feather by feather.

Yours is a flight so high,
so wide,
that your body is a sky
newly born.
If only I could climb
to the origin
of your flight!

Eight months old you laugh
with five orange blossoms.
With five little
ferocities.
With five teeth
like five young
jasmine blossoms.

They will be the frontier
of tomorrow's kisses
when you feel your teeth
as weapons,
when you feel a flame
running under your gums
driving toward the centre.

Fly away, son, on the double
moon of the breast:
it is saddened by onion,
you are satisfied.
Don't let go.
Don't find out what's happening,
or what goes on.

Translated by Don Share

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1270 on:** February 20, 2010, 10:54:57 AM »

Nice Bio of Miguel Hernández (1910 - 1942)

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=98130

JoanK · « **Reply #1271 on:** February 20, 2010, 08:35:13 PM »

As two friends of mine have died in the last weeks, I'll skip some seasons, and post a death haiku:

How easily it lights up,
How easily it goes out--
The firefly.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1272 on:** February 21, 2010, 02:02:18 AM »

Joan these quote come to mind that say it better - my thoughts are with you...

"The loss of a friend is like that of a limb; time may heal the anguish of the wound, but the loss cannot be repaired." ~ Robert Southey

“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.” ~ Norman Cousins

Babi · « **Reply #1273 on:** February 21, 2010, 08:50:43 AM »

It is a sad time, JOAN, and you Haiku fits our feelings so well.

Since Spring is so slow in coming this year, I found this little 'interim'
poem. Perhaps it will encourage the snowbound and the sad.

The Wind Sings Welcome in Early Spring
by Carl Sandburg
(For Paula)THE GRIP of the ice is gone now.
The silvers chase purple.
The purples tag silver.
They let out their runners
Here where summer says to the lilies:
“Wish and be wistful,
Circle this wind-hunted, wind-sung water.”

Come along always, come along now.
You for me, kiss me, pull me by the ear.
Push me along with the wind push.
Sing like the whinnying wind.
Sing like the hustling obstreperous wind.

Have you ever seen deeper purple …
this in my wild wind fingers?
Could you have more fun with a pony or a goat?
Have you seen such flicking heels before,
Silver jig heels on the purple sky rim?
Come along always, come along now.

JoanK · « **Reply #1274 on:** February 21, 2010, 03:53:23 PM »

Oh, that's lovely.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1275 on:** February 24, 2010, 02:58:58 AM »

Babi that is a keeper - just makes me feel like Spring is on the way but it was fun to play in the snow today -

We only get snow once every 5 years or so and down it came like a wintery scene in a glass globe. We ended up with about 4 inches so that kids jammed in one afternoon everything they knew about that you do in snow.

Snowmen, angles, snowball fights, sliding down whatever hill they could find on mostly garbage can lids, plastic laundry baskets and cardboard boxes. Since I live across from one of the biggest hills around safe inside a schoolyard the hill was like a Grandma Mosses painting with hundreds of kids gleefully sliding and playing in the snow.

Tomorrow afternoon it will be back up in the 60s so it was one day to remember for years till another snowfall hits Austin.

Snowfall
~ Brady McCrary

Snow snow wonderful snow. Snowman, snow forts, snow igloos, snow mobiles, snow boarding.
All my favorite in the snow, all right, and all white. I hope it snows all night.

Babi · « **Reply #1276 on:** February 24, 2010, 09:01:32 AM »

I was surprised to learn that this Christina Rosetti poem was a Christmas carol.

In the Bleak Mid-Winter
Words: Christina Rosetti
Music: CRANHAM (Gustav Holst)

In the bleak midwinter,
frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold Him,
nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter
a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Angels and archangels
may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
thronged the air;
But His mother only,
in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him,
poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd,
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man,
I would do my part;
Yet what I can give Him: give my heart.

Pat · « **Reply #1277 on:** February 24, 2010, 09:21:52 PM »

Babi, I live near Galesburg, IL where Carl Sandburg was born and grew up
( on the wrong side of the tracks as the locals like to say).

And I have always liked his poetry, and this poem speaking of wind.
Sandburg knew what the wind was; as it came in from the west and whipped
about the small house of his parents on 3rd ave.

fairanna · « **Reply #1278 on:** February 25, 2010, 12:32:24 PM »

Perhaps since I was born and raised in Illinois I have always loved Sandburg...did I discover him on my own or did my teachers introduce him to me ..doesnt matter his poetry I think was the first I read that wasnt what was called a proper rhyme Here is a small poem I just wrote for our neighborhood news letter not great ..but true for me...sunny and VERY COLD AND WINDY HERE

March

I have always heard ....
When March comes in like a lamb
It will leave like a lion.
Can the reverse then be true?
Haven't decided if I would prefer
A thousand bleating sheep
Or a single lions roar!

I just plead for springtime to be here......

anna alexander 2/25/10 12:09 PM

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1279 on:** February 25, 2010, 02:24:48 PM »

I am feeling low today and this poem says it all...

What Spring Will Bring' Achoo
~ Candy Barstow

Bed sheets on the line flapping in the breeze,
Blooming flowers that make me sneeze,
Bees awakened gathering for honey,
Pollen makes my nose real runny,
Puffy white clouds and crisp blue skies,
Itchy watery red rimmed eyes,
Cutting hay with a baler,
As I reach for my inhaler,
Spring makes my allergies an issue,
Does anyone happen to have a tissue?

News:

Author Topic: Poetry Page (Read 755751 times)