Poetry Page

[BarbStAubrey]

The Apple Orchard           ~ by Shawn Bailey The dew-softened blades of fescue wet my feet, small brushstrokes of icy wetness on my way to the orchard. The sunlight scatters the morning mist that shelters the trees from the horizon. I spy the juicy red apples lounging in the trees, moist with dawn and there are thousands of them. Fruitful, edible decor.

Autumn Poetry

In this Discussion we share what stirs our heart -
Bring us a gift of a poem
Yours, or the work of another poet.

• Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn
• Fall Season Poems

Discussion Leaders: Barb & fairanna

[BarbStAubrey]

Recently read about  Robert Frost the man - sounds like he was not an easy man to live with - ah so, many of the most creative and successful in their field seem to be difficult personalities. But then we know there are a few Grisham's and McMurty's that say you can be creative, successful in your field as well as, with you friends and loved ones.

Well we needed a bona-fide poem and this is a Robert Frost I do not remember ever reading - it was one of his early words first published in the Atlantic Monthly.

The Sound of Trees

I wonder about the trees:
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice,
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.

[Babi]

You know, I'd never actually seen all the words to Scarborough Fair. I thought it
was a lovely tune, but the lyrics....well, it's not a love song, is it?  Fellow has a
high opinion of himself, I must say.  If I owned an acre of land and could sew a shirt
without a seam, I could very well do without this fellow.

  You know, I do believe those long walks the trees lured Frost to early on, are where the rest
of his poems came from.  Another bow and curtsey to the trees!

  In response to Scarborough Fair's high-handed ex-boyfriend, I recall the old song, ;Reuben, Reuben'.   You'll find some lyrics have been added to this version.

 
        Reuben, Reuben I've been thinkin'
        What a glad world this would be
        If the boys were all transported
        Far across the Northern sea!

        Rachael, Rachael  I've been thinkin'
        What a glad world this would be
        If the girls were all transported
        Far across the Northern sea!

        Oh my goodness gracious Reuben,
        what a weird world this would be,
        If the girls were all transported
        Far across the Northern sea!

        Oh my goodness gracious Rachael,
        what a weird world this would be,
        If the boys were all transported
        Far across the Northern sea!

        Reuben, Reuben I've been thinkin'
        Girls would lead a life of ease
        If they had no boys to taunt them,
        Nor be tickled, pestered, teased!

        Rachael, Rachael  I've been thinkin'
        What a great life boys would lead,
        If we had no girls interrupting,
        Reminding of manners when we feed!

        Reuben, Rachael I've been thinkin'
        What a weird world this must be.
        If across the sea I were transported,
        You'd be swimming after me

[BarbStAubrey]

Funny - here  you are seeing the man/woman relationship in a poem and I am all about the food - well my harvest mind continues with Pablo Neruda.

Ode To The Onion
          by Pablo Neruda

Onion,
luminous flask,
your beauty formed
petal by petal,
crystal scales expanded you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden,
the earth heaped up her power
showing your naked transparency,
and as the remote sea
in lifting the breasts of Aphrodite
duplicating the magnolia,
so did the earth
make you,
onion
clear as a planet
and destined
to shine,
constant constellation,
round rose of water,
upon
the table
of the poor.

You make us cry without hurting us.
I have praised everything that exists,
but to me, onion, you are
more beautiful than a bird
of dazzling feathers,
heavenly globe, platinum goblet,
unmoving dance
of the snowy anemone

and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.

[BarbStAubrey]

Sweet Potato
           by Shinkichi Takahashi

Of all things living
I'd be a sweet potato,
fresh dug up.


Squash in Blossom
          ~ Robert Francis

How lush, how loose, the uninhibited squash is.
If ever hearts (and these immoderate leaves
Are vegetable hearts) were worn on sleeves,
The squash's are. In green the squash vine gushes.

The flowers are cornucopias of summer,
Briefly exuberant and cheaply golden.
And if they make a show of being hidden,
Are open promiscuously to every comer.

Let the squash be what it was doomed to be
By the old Gardener with the shrewd green thumb.
Let it expand and sprawl, defenceless, dumb.
But let me be the fiber-disciplined tree

Whose leaf (with something to say in wind) is small,
Reduced to the ingenuity of a green splinter
Sharp to defy or fraternize with winter,
Or if not that, prepared in fall to fall.


~William Shakespeare
O Lord that lends me life,
Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness.

[BarbStAubrey]

~William Blake

If the doors of perception were cleansed
every thing would appear
to man as it is, infinite.
For man has closed himself up, till
he sees all things through
narrow chinks of his cavern.


~Leonard Cohen

Ring the bells that still can ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything.
That's how the light gets in.

[roshanarose]

William Blake is a legend, but no less Leonard Cohen.  Thanks Barbara - sincerely hope your eyes are mending.

[roshanarose]

Inspired by Barb and Leonard I can't resist adding the last verse of one of LC's songs. 

The Tower of Song

Now I bid you farewell, I don't know when I'll be back
There moving us tomorrow to that tower down the track
But you'll be hearing from me baby, long after I'm gone
I'll be speaking to you sweetly
From a window in the Tower of Song
Yeah my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on
I'm just paying my rent every day
Oh in the Tower of Song

[roshanarose]

LC is wonderful, of course, and I love his mournful voice.  

However, I thought I would just share these few lines from a very good friend who had to flee the Taliban.  His father was shot in the foot and his supporters sent him off to UK.  Rohullah was sent from Ghazni in Afghanistan to Quetta in Pakistan.  No less dangerous.  Rohullah was forced into carrying out menial tasks in order to support his step-mother and three siblings.  Rohullah is a member of the Hazara tribe.  If the word Hazara seems familiar you probably remember it from "The Kite Runner" which was a load of ****in its representation of Hazaras.  They are very proud people and were mortified as an ethnic group in being "used" in such a humiliating manner, to sell a book   Anyway, Roh's word sum up a lifetime, albeit short, of struggle in order to achieve a life of comparative normalcy in Wolverhampton, UK.  If you want to learn more about Rohullah you can find him on Facebook or to acquaint yourselves with Hazaras, merely do a search.  You will find their story fascinating, I promise you. Thank you.

This is Me Rohullah Yakobi.. Born in War , Raised in Disaster and Living in peace.....

[BarbStAubrey]

Yes, I did not like that book at all - don't know that much about the various tribes but the whole thing reminded me of a writer finding the most distasteful aspects of a people - rolling them up in some description of exotic scenery just to titillate the reader.

LOST DELIGHT AFTER THE HAZARA WAR
          ~ translated into English by: Laurence Hope (1865-1904)

LIE alone, beneath the Almond blossoms,
Where we two lay together in the spring,
And now, as then, the mountain snows are melting,
This year, as last, the water-courses sing.

That was another spring, and other flowers,
Hung, pink and fragile, on the leafless tree,
The land rejoiced in other running water,
And I rejoiced, because you were with me.

You, with your soft eyes, darkly lashed and shaded,
Your red lips like a living, laughing rose,
Your restless, amber limbs so lithe and slender
Now lost to me. Gone whither no man knows.

You lay beside me singing in the sunshine;
The rough, white fur, unloosened at the neck,
Showed the smooth skin, fair as the Almond blossoms,
On which the sun could find no flaw or fleck.

I lie alone, beneath the Almond flowers,
I hated them to touch you as they fell.
And now, who killed you? worse, Ah, worse, who loves you?
(My soul is burning as men burn in Hell.)

How I have sought you in the crowded cities!
I have been mad, they say, for many days.
I know not how I came here, to the valley,
What fate has led me, through what doubtful ways.

Somewhere I see my sword has done good service,
Some one I killed, who, smiling, used your name,
But in what country? Nay, I have forgotten,
All thought is shrivelled in my heart's hot flame.

Where are you now, Delight, and where your beauty,
Your subtle curls, and laughing, changeful face?
Bound, bruised and naked (dear God, grant me patience),
And sold in Cabul in the market-place.

I asked of you of all men. Who could tell me?
Among so many captured, sold, or slain,
What fate was yours? (Ah, dear God, grant me patience,
My heart is burnt, is burnt, with fire and pain.)

Oh, lost Delight! my heart is almost breaking,
My sword is broken and my feet are sore,
The people look at me and say in passing,
"He will not leave the village any more."

For as the evening falls, the fever rises,
With frantic thoughts careering through the brain,
Wild thoughts of you. (Ah, dear God, grant me patience,
My soul is hurt beyond all men call pain.)

I lie alone, beneath the Almond blossoms,
And see the white snow melting on the hills
Till Khorassan is gay with water-courses,
Glad with the tinkling sound of running rills,

And well I know that when the fragile petals
Fall softly, ere the first green leaves appear,
(Ah, for these last few days, God grant me patience,)
Since Delight is not, I shall not be, here!

[Babi]

 Blake does give us something to think about, doesn't he? 

This is Me Rohullah Yakobi.. Born in War , Raised in Disaster and Living in peace

...
 That's a great opening line, ROSE. Like Barb, I wasn't too pleased with 'The Kite
Runner', either.  It made me uncomfortable, for reasons I couldn't quite identify.

  The poem by the unknown Hazzara writer is so moving and tragic, so full of pain.
I wish it was known who wrote it.

[roshanarose]

That Hazara poem is more like a song to me, and almond trees grow wild in Afghanistan.  Thanks Barb.  All we need is Love.  

BabiYour instincts served you well regarding that book.  He exploited other people's tragedy while safely writing from his American study.  The impression he gives me is utter contempt for those he depicts.  Makes me very angry..

If you appreciate excellent photography take a look at Barat Batoor's work, especially of the buzkashi.  I was chatting with Barat online two nights ago, he lives in Kabul, and he told me that in Quetta, Pakistan, Hazaras are being kidnapped by the Taliban, and held to ransom that they know the Hazara families can't afford, and then murdered when no money is forthcoming.  This is the reality of Afghanistan and Pakistan.

[Babi]

  I found a lot of links on Batoor, but only one that showed any photos.  I copied the link , but
then lost it trying to get back here.  For some reason my computer is not doing it's usual thing
in that respect.
  I found one Hazzara poem, but it was in the original language. No translation.  A number of
sites about different poets, but not their poems.

[BarbStAubrey]

Babi you are right - there is very little Hazara poetry translated into English on the Internet. I found another - long and I am not sure what it is saying but the phrases sound beautiful and the images seem exotic. I do not get the feelings of the poet in this one as I did the other poem.

A BRONZED FACE AND TINY PURPLE VEINS
          ~ Kamran Mir Hazar

A bronzed face and tiny purple veins,
A smooth face of Mayan mould,
The colors of saffron and pasture,
Hunched in a bright overcoat
And woolen hat,
The long coat’s tassels wary of the slashing winds of mountain land,
On the invisible flag: whiteness and the antlers of a stag
With a heart dispersed and diffused;
Ferried by a gramophone’s sound waves,
Sensation is channelled in the air,
The command, the book and the empire of catapults, and way before
A sensation is in the air, expanding
In the arm, and the disintegrating arm,
In the solitude of darkness
And when someone’s death is announced in the hour of divination,
Hiding from life,
And escaping between the clear and the blurred faces,
A desire for the pulse to drop,
In the cleft of a ruby; the fruit of Badakhshan ; and a crying face;
In the birth of eyelashes and the soft fabric of shivering dew,
To appear and to nestle between tresses,
The burning of intense fever, lubricious more than ever, magnetic more than ever;
Swinging in the direction of in-opportunity, the wheel of fortune, turning
And standing;

In a curling clock destined to melt,
Slippery on the cheeks, the annihilator of the restless cloak, endlessly turning;
You stand,
You watch,
You drink tea;
Like a rainbow, you slip on the chair;
You pick up a cigarette,
And light it;

The flickering lantern awakens,
Swirls around the cloak,
Rising from the margins, coloured blue,
And stands on your heart,
Evaporates through your eyes;
Creeping to a corner is an emerald ring stone,
The slippery past of a faraway destiny,
And you reach the curved line,
Entering a geography of latitudes and longitudes,
The composition quickens;
In the middle of the open field, again and again,
A church turns into ruins,
Recomposing in the breaking of light and the unique path of your voice,
And passes through latitudes and longitudes;
The heat lifts the cloak,
Settling on the crucifix of your ribcage,
On the chair, shivering,
With the fluttering fabric of dew
You drink tea,
You light up the rainbow lamp,
You drown,
And the pen turns round and round,
And you write your own death;
It moves up your fingers,
Pursuing the path to your mouth,
You collapse within your pulse,
You write this,
And you disintegrate between the seconds;
You go to the post office,
You ask for a letter of the perished,
Searching for an omen;
You take the by-way,
You look for an epiphany,
In a rainbow shawl,
And shake crimson-coloured medals,
You say hello, peace be upon you,
And then goodbye;
You are dispersed between the sound waves of a gramophone,
Your heart diffused and ferried by the sound waves of a gramophone,
You stay at home
And seek prophecy,
Searching for an omen in the hours;
The bronzed face heats up,
You wrap yourself around my body;
Looking for where the breaths join up,
You’re released in my throat;
You move up,
Become tears
And flow down my cheeks;
You go to the post office,
Seeking a letter from the dead;

A longing to let go,
A date with the unsung heroes of time,
And empires beyond the age when writing was invented;
The ones that were never put in ink,
Embarking on the saddle, taming the lines,
Abandoning time, leaving the five senses behind;
That bronzed face, a prototype found when iron was discovered
A one that never, ever found reflection in ink.

Photos from Badakhshan Province -    http://tinyurl.com/2g3a4o8

[roshanarose]

What a feast for the senses!  Thanks Barbara, I am referring to the poetry and images.  One line of the poem struck a chord for me, you probably noticed it too.  "In a curling clock destined to melt" may be a reference to Dali's "Persistence of Memory".  The poem seems to be fairly recent.  The Hazaras have a most fascinating history and are said to be the offspring of Genghis Khan's whose soldiers had a garrison in Bamiyan.  Bamiyan is Hazara territory.  It is possible, though hard to prove, that they were Buddhists before being converted to Islam by the Persians, hence the huge Buddha statues of Bamiyan.  The Hazaras are very artistic and love poetry, music and painting and they are descended from the best horse riders in the world.  Now a talent for photography is also prevalent.  Having been forced out of their homeland, Afghanistan, they now reside all over the world.

Perhaps, with Barbara's approval, I may be allowed to post a true story of just one young Hazara man and his adventures (and misadventures) getting from Afghanistan to the UK.  The story is not very long.  I just put it together from a phone call I had from Ali, when his English was good enough to tell me his story.

I have included a link of Barat Batoor's depicting life in Hazarijat.  Right in the centre of Afghanistan and I noticed that there are also photos of Bamiyan included in the slide show.  Enjoy!

http://www.lightstalkers.org/batoor

[BarbStAubrey]

Go for it - off the subject but sometimes subjects dear to our heart are more important - - we will just follow you up with lots and lots of poetry   

[roshanarose]

Thanks Barbara - Ali is worth it.  Reading the poems you post is a delight rather than a punishment.

[roshanarose]

This is Ali's story.  I haven't dramatised it or attempted to make it lyrical.  The events speak for themselves.

ALI’S STORY

Ali’s father had been killed by the Taliban in Afghanistan.  Ali is of the Hazara tribe.

Ali, his mother, his older brother, two young sisters and one younger brother all moved to Quetta, Pakistan.

Ali was threatened by the Taliban in Quetta and had to flee.

With a large group of people (on foot) Ali moved first into Iran.  It was necessary for them to walk across the snow capped mountains to get into Turkey.  Another student I had here, in Australia, told me a similar story.  She told me that she had not expected to live through the journey.  She said that the events and trip across the mountains of Iran still haunt her.  

Many people died in the snow.  The group was also shot at by bandits who wanted to rob them.  The group had very little food and water.

The group arrived in Turkey and then travelled to Greece.

(Ali needs to fill in this part about his travels between Greece and France).  At Ali's requestI sent this story to his ESL teacher in the UK.

Ali was forced to live on the streets in Paris.  He was very unhappy.  I spoke to him during this time.  Even though he had no money he still managed to ‘phone me.  I offered to call him, but he refused.  He had no food, no clothes, and no money.  Ali only had a sleeping bag to protect him from the elements. He told me that it rained a lot and he was always cold and hungry.

Ali then went to “The Jungle” in Calais, a kind of camp for other Hazaras like himself who wished to get to England for a better life.

Ali told me today that one day he and some friends were walking along the waterfront in Calais.  They noticed that there was a traffic jam and the traffic had stopped.  Ali decided to risk getting into the spare tyre compartment of a lorry, which I think is actually under the lorry, hoping he could finally get across to England.  He had tried several times before but had always been caught.  When the lorry finally got to the checking gate at Calais the officers there were trying very hard to clear the traffic and did not have time to search the lorries, as they usually did, for refugees.  

The trip from Calais to Dover took about 45 minutes.  At Dover the lorry stopped for a while and then drove off.  The driver stopped again to fill up with petrol and Ali left his hiding place.  Ali told me that he was covered in dirt and oil.  He went to a police station where they helped him find a family to accommodate him organised through various charities.  Ali stayed with them until he got a job and then got his own flat.  

Ali lives alone now in Southampton.  His English is much improved from when I last spoke to him in France.  This is the reason he was able to give me more detail about what had happened this time.  He was so happy to hear my voice that despite my concerns for the cost he spoke to me for an hour and a half.  He seems very happy, and is working seven days a week.  He supports his family back in Quetta. Ali has maturity well beyond his years.  He is just 22.

 I can honestly say that Ali is one of the most remarkable people I have ever met.

A picture of Ali

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=16772&id=100000320854458#!/photo.php?fbid=105603996126962&set=a.148730931814268.21113.100000320854458

[BarbStAubrey]

Thanks for sharing Ali's story - here are the poems of others with a story that has a different twist or ending but  the poems are all about desperate people who had to leave all they knew. In the states tomorrow Thursday, November 25, always the 4th Thursday of November is our day of Thanksgiving - a story like Ali's reminds us how much we have to be thankful for and it also reminds some of us of our own family's history running in desperation from horrific events. Our prayers are with him and his family.

Immigrant
          ~ unknown author

I am blessed, with eternal life,
I have lived through war and strife,
Every month i drink the potion,
The God-given gift, that sets in motion,
The process that, keeps me young,
Keeps age halted, like a jar by a bung,
My wife and i have lived forever,
All family ties we had to sever,
And so we travel, travel the world,
We have seen nations, civilisation unfurled,
We have lived for many years,
Over dead friends, shed many tears,
In a way it is a curse,
For every year it just gets worse.


ORIGINS
          ~ by James B. Johnston

I go back to the place of my birth,
To the one who conceived me.
As the casket is opened, one last time,
I look on the face of infinite love,
I experience the pain of parting.
I know you are ready to go.
You told me so, four years ago,
When pain first marked the fragility of time,
And, with words crafted on labored breath,
You longed for the breath of God
To push away the clouds
And reveal the Son.

I wish I had spent more time with you,
Building memories, capturing and cultivating
Your gentleness and strength;
The tolerance that built bridges,
The warmth that made our friends your friends,
The courage to let your children grow,
The simplicity of your faith.
It is too late to talk about how you met Dad,
Having children in your forties,
Your successful business venture,
So I close the casket.  The sun has set.
There are no clouds

[BarbStAubrey]

"Exile"
           ~ by James B. Johnston

When advancing years slow my steps
And my mind turns increasingly
To the contemplation of past years,
Will I, in exile, fondly remember
The land of my birth?  The land
I left when fear shrouded
The serenity of family life;
 When bullets and bombs
 Overshadowed the beauty of the mountains
 And the music of the streams, and
 My search for true freedom found fulfillment
 In a new life in a strange land.


"Not Just A Refugee"
          ~  by Bri Mark

I had to leave my homeland, my children and my wife,
to find a safer place to live and to save my life.
This wasn't taken lightly, so try to be aware,
I only want security and you to show you care.

What you take for granted, we are not allowed,
we must say things quietly, while you can shout out loud.
You can walk for miles on end, without the need for fear,
I just want to do the same and to bring my family here.

I miss my wife and children, I know you'd be the same,
humans need their families, they're worth much more than fame.
I want to work and pay my way, to be the same as you,
all I ask for in return, is respect from just a few.

I don't want your handouts, I need to be employed,
that way I'll feel valued, my life can be enjoyed.
You can choose where you go,I've never had that choice,
all I want is liberty and to have a voice.

You all have a dream in life, to be really wealthy,
where I come from our only dream,is just remaining healthy.
So please don't treat me differently, I do not ask for favors,
I only seek acceptance, that's what a human savors.

If you were beaten every day, you'd say, ''that can't be right'',
that is why I had to move, I'd lost the will to fight.
If you were told, '' your life is ours and you don't have a say'',
would you not do the same as me, get up and run away.

I did what any human would, I want to stay alive,
while I'm still here there's hope, my family will survive.
Until you get to know me, don't make a song and dance,
try to learn who I am, just give me a chance.

Before you make a judgment, try to understand,
I come for your democracy, not to steal your land.
You've always fought injustice, a cause you're fighting still,
I was doing just the same, I'd really had my fill.

That is why I moved here, on freedom you're renowned,
help me through to be as you and equality we'll have found.
I do not ask for sympathy, just a friendly ear,
to listen to my troubles and help bring me some cheer.

If you think for just a moment, I really could be you,
would you accept brutality, if not, what would you do.
If you've listened to all I've told you, you should now clearly see,
First I am a human being , ''Not Just A Refugee''

[BarbStAubrey]

Here we are with more poetry - however today is Thanksgiving Day - most of us start the day by turning on the TV and watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade - schools from all over the nation  perform on the streets of New York - this year I  understand they march with sleet and cold rain - the end of the parade is always a glorious float with Santa arriving - there are a few other Cities with their parades featured on TV now but it is this old and traditional Macy parade that most folks watch while Mom continues filling the house with wonderful scents of food cooking in the kitchen.

Guests and Family arrive late morning and some who stay over arrived the night before - Some areas have the big rival high school or collage football game that the young attend and are back for afternoon dinner - most folks sit down to eat early afternoon around make-shift tables to accommodate everyone - a snooze in the chair after dinner is usual for the older folks - the women start the clean-up - some of the little ones take a nap -  we always went to a special movie at about 5: but that was because we only went to a movie about 5 times a year. The evening is usually turkey sandwiches with more of the pie and watching football -

As the Turkey is brought to the table for carving usually each family has its way of  calling a blessing - some a formal prayer - some a round the table telling the best thing that happened this year - some simply a raise of the glass to a better life or a good year.

Not very frosty around here - the temp has been in the high 80s all week - but this evening we are promised a norther and we will feel late Autumn and Winter cold - it would  have been nice if it arrived earlier to take some of the heat out of the  house with all the cooking - but at least a change is coming and I can shut off my AC.

Well here we go with some Thanksgiving day poems...

[BarbStAubrey]

          ~ Emily Dickinson

One Day is there of the Series
Termed Thanksgiving Day.
Celebrated part at Table
Part in Memory.

Neither Patriarch nor Pussy
I dissect the Play
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Reflex Holiday.

Had there been no sharp Subtraction
From the early Sum —
Not an Acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room —

Not a Mention, whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto Such, were such Assembly
’Twere Thanksgiving Day.


Thanksgiving
           ~  by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1896)
 
We walk on starry fields of white
   And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
   We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
   To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
   Of pleasures sweet and tender.

Our cares are bold and push their way
   Upon our thought and feeling.
They hang about us all the day,
   Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
   We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives
   And conquers if we let it.

There’s not a day in all the year
   But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
   To brim the past’s wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold,
   Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
   While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise
   Of worry or of trouble.
Farseeing is the soul and wise
   Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
   To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
   To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes
   Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
   Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
   As weeks and months pass o’er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
   A grand Thanksgiving chorus.

[BarbStAubrey]

The Thanksgivings
           ~ translated from a traditional Iroquois song by Harriet Maxwell Converse (1908)
 
We who are here present thank the Great Spirit that we are here to praise Him.
We thank Him that He has created men and women, and ordered that these beings shall always be living to multiply the earth.
We thank Him for making the earth and giving these beings its products to live on.
We thank Him for the water that comes out of the earth and runs for our lands.
We thank Him for all the animals on the earth.
We thank Him for certain timbers that grow and have fluids coming from them for us all.
We thank Him for the branches of the trees that grow shadows for our shelter.
We thank Him for the beings that come from the west, the thunder and lightning that water the earth.
We thank Him for the light which we call our oldest brother, the sun that works for our good.
We thank Him for all the fruits that grow on the trees and vines.
We thank Him for his goodness in making the forests, and thank all its trees.
We thank Him for the darkness that gives us rest, and for the kind Being of the darkness that gives us light, the moon.
We thank Him for the bright spots in the skies that give us signs, the stars.
We give Him thanks for our supporters, who had charge of our harvests.
We give thanks that the voice of the Great Spirit can still be heard through the words of Ga-ne-o-di-o.
We thank the Great Spirit that we have the privilege of this pleasant occasion.
We give thanks for the persons who can sing the Great Spirit's music, and hope they will be privileged to continue in his faith.
We thank the Great Spirit for all the persons who perform the ceremonies on this occasion.
 

[BarbStAubrey]

"Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast."
          -  Sara Coleridge

 

"O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being.
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing."
          -  Percy Bysshe Shelley

[Babi]

That's a moving story, ROSE. So much for such a young man to take on, but 'needs must'.
I would have liked to see his picture, but the link just took me to a sign-in sheet
for the site. Next time you speak with Ali, do tell him he has the respect and admiration
of your friends.

  I found the poem "Origins" especially poignant.  I had another short Emily Dickinson poem, but
I lost it.  For some reason, I can no longer go searching for something and then come back here
as I used to do.  If I go to the web now, Seniorlearn is lost and I have to re-enter.

[BarbStAubrey]

Babi sorry you are having difficulties utilizing the web -  I do not know enough about how the internet works to make a suggestion - but please bring it up in a discussion where there are a few folks who know more about the process.

Ali reminds us of so many desperate people's circumstances and how often families have become a cornerstone to the success of another nation because one fleeing terror risked - hid and made it into another country. It is a very difficult subject - to hear one person's story is heart rendering - to hear of nations trying to handle the flood of humanity brings up all sorts of thoughts. We are reminded of this conflict since we live so close to the border where others fleeing from war in Central American and fleeing poverty in Mexico have been coming in for years. There is no simple answer and the confusion is easy to think of in terms of a family opening their doors and hearts to a few and then many, more than the family can care for continue to come. And yet, those looking for a small corner of safety are in as desperate situation as the first who arrived.

Well it is definitely autumn here now and bordering on winter - in the last week or so the few deciduous trees lost their leaves and the cold front promised came through yesterday  late afternoon - a bitter cold front - before I shut down and cover up the AC compressor etc. I am going to wait another week or so to see if it stays cold or goes back up into the 80s again like the week before Thanksgiving.

Nice feeling today - the sun is out - I really do not have shopping so I do not have to brave the crowds looking for a bargin and I have left overs that should last today and tomorrow - I think it is a perfect day for a long walk followed by a nap and snuggle with a book. May  not build a fire but this poem reminds me of a fire that makes a room cozy.

The Fire
           ~ by Peter Thomas

The blazing fire
Is like a conjuror, a lion
And the hole
Where the Wordsworth's kept their coal
Is dark as dark can be.

In the grinder there was coffee
Then I noticed that
The beams looked dark as if
They were toffee.

[roshanarose]

Thanks for your thoughts about Ali, Barbara and Babi.  I shall pass on your good wishes to him.  I will continue trying to post a pic of him.  He is on Facebook as Ali Jan.  It is not good to be ashamed of your countrymen and women but since the influx of refugees from countries in turmoil I have had many occasions to feel shame. 

[Babi]

  I'm used to our Texas weather being weird, but for November this is a bit much.  The 80's one
week and down to the 40's the next.  We don't usually expect to see 40's weather until January! What it the rest of the season going to be like?
  But here's a quote that soothes and calms me:

   It is a glorious privilege to live, to know, to act, to listen,
to behold, to love.  To look up at the blue summer sky;
to see the sun sink slowly beyond the line of the horizon;
to watch the worlds come twinkling into view, first one
by one, and the myriads that no man can count, and lo!
the universe is white with them; and you and I are here.-   Marco Morrow
 

[rosemarykaye]

Roshanarose - I have been away and have only just read your story about Ali.  It is very touching and really does make one feel lucky to have a home, live in a relatively stable country, and not really want for anything much. The resilience that people like Ali have puts us all to shame.

I agree with you too, about attitudes to asylum seekers and immigrants.  Here in Aberdeen we have had a huge influx of Polish people over the past few years (as Poland joined the EU) - they work like slaves in jobs that most people here wouldn't want to do, and they speak excellent English (I can imagine that I could count on the fingers of one hand the Aberdonians who can speak Polish)  yet there are still many people who moan on about them "taking our jobs", "getting our council flats" (I believe they are only housed in flats that local people refuse to live in) - an acquaintance of mine even complained about the Polish foods section in our supermarket.

The Catholic cathedral in town has had a huge boost, as most Poles seem to be devout Catholics, and the congregation has rocketed - particularly interesting because many Poles stayed here after the Second World War, and were stalwarts of the RC church, but of course many of them have now died, and the congregations had dwindled until the new wave of immigration began.  Now the Polish mass has been reinstated, and if you are in the area on a Sunday afternoon it is amazing to see how many people come out of the building.

Rosemary

[BarbStAubrey]

A new month - the season is upon  us

"The holly and the ivy,
When they are both full grown,
Of all trees that are in the wood,
The holly bears the crown:
O, the rising of the sun,
And the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ,
Sweet singing in the choir."

-   Christmas Carol  

[BarbStAubrey]

"From December to March, there are for many of us three gardens -
the garden outdoors,
the garden of pots and bowls in the house,
and the garden of the mind's eye."

-   Katherine S. White

[BarbStAubrey]

I Heard a Bird Sing
          -   Oliver Herford

I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.

'We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,'
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.

[BarbStAubrey]

Fragment 3
          - Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1772-1834

Come, come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
Flash, like a Love-thought, thro'me, Death
And take a Life that wearies me.

[BarbStAubrey]

Stone Thoughts
          ~ -   Robert Pack

"I speak cold silent words a stone might speak
If it had words or consciousness,
Watching December moonlight on the mountain peak,
Relieved of mortal hungers, the whole mess
Of needs, desires, ambitions, wishes, hopes.
This stillness in me knows the sky's abyss,
Reflected by blank snow along bare slopes,
If it had words or consciousness,
Would echo what a thinking stone might say
To praise oblivion words can't possess
As inorganic muteness goes its way.
There's no serenity without the thought serene,
Owl-flight without spread wings, honed eyes, hooked beak,
Absence without the meaning absence means.
To rescue bleakness from the bleak,
I speak cold silent words a stone might speak."

[BarbStAubrey]

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

-  Liu Zhongyuan, River Snow

[BarbStAubrey]

"Holly and mistletoe
Candles and bells,
I know the message
That each of you tells."

-  Leland B. Jacobs

[BarbStAubrey]

A December Day

"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)

[BarbStAubrey]

"A full moon hangs high in the chilly sky,
All say it's the same everywhere, round and bright.
But how can one be sure thousands of li away
Wind and perhaps rain may not be marring the night?"

-   Li Qiao

[BarbStAubrey]

In ancient times, both Druids and Romans hung sprigs of mistletoe in their homes and places
of celebration to bring good fortune, peace and love. If mistletoe will bring  us good fortune, peace and love I will climb the trees, piling it in my car and pack my house full this year...we could all use a bit of good fortune, peace and love.

As you can tell I am trying to fill the boards so I can enter the heading for the new season on top of a new page - nearly there...

[BarbStAubrey]

This is one of our Fairanna's favorite poets and the poem is not as  wintery cold -  hoping it is more in keeping with the weather in Australia...

-  Ted Kooser, from Winter Morning Walks

"Just as a dancer, turning and turning,
may fill the dusty light with the soft swirl
of her flying skirts, our weeping willow ---
now  old and broken , creaking in the breeze ---
turns slowly, slowly in the winter sun,
sweeping the rusty roof of the barn
with the pale blue lacework of her shadow."