Poetry Page

[BarbStAubrey]

A Winter Myth Join Us! It's the Season for Winter Poetry Famous Poets and Poems about Winter Link to: Winter Poems Discussion Leaders: Barb & fairanna

High From The Earth I Heard A Bird ~ Emily Dickinson ~   High from the earth I heard a bird; He trod upon the trees As he esteemed them trifles, And then he spied a breeze, And situated softly Upon a pile of wind Which in a perturbation Nature had left behind. A joyous-going fellow I gathered from his talk, Which both of benediction And badinage partook, Without apparent burden, I learned, in leafy wood He was the faithful father Of a dependent brood; And this untoward transport His remedy for care, -- A contrast to our respites. How different we are!

[BarbStAubrey]

Hurray - Did it!!!

We are into our new season with holidays blowing at our door...enjoy!

[Babi]

 I had that Murray poem, also, as I thought it reflected a Texas December better than
the frost and ice poems. But there it is, already.
  The December heading is gorgeous, BARB.  Thanks for finding it
for us.

[roshanarose]

Barbara - That soupcon of poetry was sublime.  (Me trying to be poetic but not being able to find the enclitic for soupcon).  I was singing along to the Holly and the Ivy - I remember it from school in the year 350BCE.  Thanks for the Australian flavoured poem.  Actually, it is not hot yet.  Has been nice and cool and drizzly.  The heat will be upon us all too soon, and Gum and I will be dancing under the hose at midnight.  Not together I must stress.

I don't think that that thingimummy under the "c" is an enclitic.  I am happy to be corrected.

[Gumtree]

Thanks for the Australian flavoured poem.  Actually, it is not hot yet.  Has been nice and cool and drizzly

It may be like that where you are Roshanarose but Perth has been sizzling up around 37 -38C for the past week - happily it has cooled today and the coming week looks OK. We've also had bushfire driven by high winds on the outskirts of the metro area - housing threatened and people and livestock evacuated - and summer is only a day or two old....

Barbara Love the poems you post - I don't post much but often come in to read and appreciate. Thanks for all you do.  

[roshanarose]

Gum Time to get the hose out.  Just tell the neighbours it is an ancient Wiccan ceremony.  They won't know any different.  

Bushfires are such terrifying things - they do total damage and people and wildlife lose their homes.  One problem is the Australian love of the bush.  It is very desirable for us to have big trees all around us.  They are great for shade and a feeling of general well-being.  Come bushfire time your life may be at risk.  It's all a gamble.  Similar to living beachside - I have visited beaches that go from having yards and yards of sand to walk across to the surf, to being only as wide as 1.5 metres.  It is not unusual for houses to lose their land to the sea.  Nature is unpredictable, of course, but you would think that we should have learned a thing or two over the generations.

[BarbStAubrey]

Bushfire (The Australian Spirit)
          ~ by Paul Buttigieg

My last saucepan
Amid the ashes
A last possession
Bent
But never enough to stop me
Boiling the water
Whilst
I lost everything
We’re not losing our cup of tea
We’re not giving up
Still
There is hope
Even if my house has gone
Others
Are hanging on
And I must help
I’ll build again
There is no time for feeling sorry
Only for pouring the tea
For heroes

[BarbStAubrey]

Early Australian bush poem

SUMMER
           ~ Louis Lavater 1867 - 1953

I am weary,
Weary of bracing myself against the sun’s hot hand;
I am weary, and I dream of cool places . . . .

I see a grassy couch
Under a canopy of leaves;
A reedy river murmers by,
Crooning an old, old melody
Tuned to a long-forgotten scale,
Made when the world was young.

Rolled to the river’s edge the hills lie fast asleep;
Pale stars slip o’er their ledge and sink into the deep:
Down in the deep they sink to slumbrous peace,
Down in the deep they drink the water of peace;
In the quiet deep they quench their fires in sleep
And drown in a cool green dream.

The sun insists his burning hand upon my head;
I am weary, and I dream of cool places. 

[BarbStAubrey]

The Darkling Thrush
          ~ by Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
    The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
    Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
    Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
    The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
    The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
    Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
    Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
    The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
    Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
    In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
    Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
    Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
    Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
    His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
    And I was unaware.

[Babi]

Some find poetry there.  It's nice to find a Hardy that closes on a more hopeful note.  And those
of us who live in Texas can empathize with Mr. Lavater.  Even now, when others are writing of
cold weather, we have days when we must open the windows and turn on the fans.

[BarbStAubrey]

December 
          ~ John Clare

While snow the window-panes bedim,
The fire curls up a sunny charm,
Where, creaming o'er the pitcher's rim,
The flowering ale is set to warm;
Mirth, full of joy as summer bees,
Sits there, its pleasures to impart,
And children, 'tween their parent's knees,
Sing scraps of carols o'er by heart.

And some, to view the winter weathers,
Climb up the window-seat with glee,
Likening the snow to falling feathers,
In fancy infant ecstasy;
Laughing, with superstitious love,
O'er visions wild that youth supplies,
Of people pulling geese above,
And keeping Christmas in the skies.

As tho' the homestead trees were drest,
In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves,
As tho' the sun-dried martin's nest,
Instead of ickles, hung the eaves,
The children hail the happy day -
As if the snow were April's grass,
And pleas'd, as 'neath the warmth of May,
Sport o'er the water froze as glass.

[Babi]

 Remember Don Blanding and "Vagabond House"?  Here is a section of that poem that's one of
my favorites.

   
Pictures . . . I think I’ll have but three:
One, in oil, of a windswept sea
With the flying scud and the waves whipped white . . .
(I know the chap who can paint it right)
In lapis blue and deep jade green . . .
A great big smashing fine marine
That’ll make you feel the spray in your face.
I’ll hang it over my fireplace.

The second picture . . . a freakish thing . . .
Is gaudy and bright as a macaw’s wing,
An impressionist smear called “Sin”,
A nude on a striped zebra skin
By a Danish girl I knew in France.
My respectable friends will look askance
At the purple eyes and the scarlet hair,
At the pallid face and the evil stare
Of the sinister, beautiful vampire face.
I shouldn’t have it about the place,
But I like . . . while I loathe . . . the beastly thing,
And that’s the way that one feels about sin.

The picture I love the best of all
Will hang alone on my study wall
Where the sunset’s glow and the moon’s cold gleam
Will fall on the face, and make it seem
That the eyes in the picture are meeting mine,
That the lips are curved in the fine sweet line
Of that wistful, tender, provocative smile
That has stirred my heart for a wondrous while.
It’s a sketch of the girl who loved too well
To tie me down to that bit of Hell
That a drifter knows when he know’s he’s held
By the soft, strong chains that passions weld.

It was best for her and for me, I know,
That she measured my love and bade me go _
For we both have our great illusion yet
Unsoiled, unspoiled by vain regret.

[BarbStAubrey]

Cannot believe!!??!! I lost my whole post - and now it is too late to start over - shoot...catch  y'all tomorrow

[BarbStAubrey]

Tomorrow is, as Franklin Delano Roosevelt said, December 7, "the day that will live in infamy..." here is a tribute...

My generation roughly is those whose fathers fought in that war. The poet, James Tate, makes emotion about World War II personal and specific in his poem, �The Lost Pilot,� about a father who did not return from war to his child.
   
The Lost Pilot
              ~ by James Tate - For my Father, 1992-1994.

    Your face did not rot
    like the others-- the co-pilot,
    for example, I saw him

    yesterday. His face is corn-
    mush: his wife and daughter,
    the poor ignorant people, stare

    as if you will compose soon.
    He was more wronged than Job.
    But your face did not rot

    like the others--it grew dark,
    and hard like ebony;
    the features progressed in their

    distinction. If I could cajole
    you to come back for an evening,
    down from your compulsive

    orbiting, I would touch you,
    read your face as Dallas,
    your hoodlum gunner, now

    with the blistered eyes, reads
    his braille editions. I would
    touch your face as a disinterested

    scholar touches an original page.
    However frightening, I would
    discover you, and I would not

    turn you in; I would not make
    you face your wife, or Dallas,
    or the co-pilot, Jim. You

    could return to your crazy
    orbiting, and I would not try
    to fully understand what

    it means to you. All I know
    is this: when I see you,
    as I have seen you at least

    once every year of my life,
    spin across the wilds of the sky
    like a tiny, African god,

    I feel dead. I feel as if I were
    the residue of a stranger's life,
    that I should pursue you.

    My head cocked toward the sky,
    I cannot get off the ground,
    and you, passing over again,

    fast, perfect, and unwilling
    to tell me that you are doing
    well, or that it was a mistake

    that placed you in that world,
    and me in this; or that misfortune
    placed these worlds in us.

As James Tate says in those last lines of "The Lost Pilot," the worlds of the past do live in us -- sometimes in their unknown effects and sometimes in memory.

[roshanarose]

Brilliant poem!  So easy to visualise; so painful yet poignant to experience.  I was thinking about the universality of poetry as I read "The Lost Pilot".  Sometimes I read poetry by American poets and there is no recognition there for me.  "The Lost Pilot" could be Pakistani, English, Indian.  Only the English names Dallas and Jim give an idea of its origin.  Therein lies it appeal and, unfortunately, the horror of war.

[Babi]

 So many of the films of that time tended to be very patriotic, intended
to encourage people in supporting the war.  I think it was the last war that
we, as Americans, felt to be a necessary and righteous battle.  Hitler had
to be stopped. We were not so certain of our motives and purposes in many of the later conflicts.  Looking at the poems written at that time,
tho', it seems most of them are mourning those lost in the battle.

  Here's one, by Willam Butler Yeats, that shows a different viewpoint.

    AN IRISH AIRMAN FORESEES HIS DEATH


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My county is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.    

[JoanK]

Oh my!

[BarbStAubrey]

A Christmas Hymn
 ~ by Richard Wilber

A stable-lamp is lighted
Whose glow shall wake the sky;
The stars shall bend their voices,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
And straw like gold shall shine;
A barn shall harbor heaven,
A stall become a shrine.

This child through David's city
Shall ride in triumph by;
The palm shall strew its branches,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
Though heavy, dull, and dumb,
And lie within the roadway
To pave his kingdom come.

Yet he shall be forsaken,
And yielded up to die;
The sky shall groan and darken,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry
For stony hearts of men:
God's blood upon the spearhead,
God's love refused again.

But now, as at the ending,
The low is lifted high;
The stars shall bend their voices,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
In praises of the child,
By whose descent among us,
The worlds are reconciled.

[Babi]

 A lovely hymn, BARB.  It's not one I've every heard sung.  One of my favorites is "Do You Hear
What I Hear?" 
                           

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see?
'Way up in the sky, little lamb
Do you see what I see?

A star, a star
Dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite
With a tail as big as a kite

Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing thru the sky, shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?

A song, a song
High above the tree
With a voice as big as the sea
With a voice as big as the sea

Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king
Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king
Do you know what I know?

A Child, a Child
Shivers in the cold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Let us bring Him silver and gold

Said the king to the people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say! 

The Child, the Child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
He will bring us goodness and light.

[BarbStAubrey]

 Oh yes, I can hear it in my head as I read -

[BarbStAubrey]

Don't know if I should bring this to our poetry page or over to the Christmas discussion but I found this youtube of A Visit from St. Nick that is a copy of a 1883 illustrated book - just wonderful - and the carol with it is one of my favorites that I remember sung as the last hymn of Midnight Mass - about 20 or 25 years ago the last hymn was changed and I seldom here Gesu Bambino sung any longer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TodxK2SJ8Tk

I didn't know that Clement Moore was a professor of Oriental and Greek Lit at Columbia University.

[Babi]

 News to me, too.  I would never have expected a professor or Greek and
Oriental literature to be so playful.  I'm sure he never expected his fanciful
Christmas poem to be the most famous thing he ever wrote.
  Did you already post Wordsworth's  "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day"?  I started to post it but then thought you already had.

[BarbStAubrey]

Babi I did  not post the Wadsworth Christmas Bell Carol - go for it - I will leave  you to do the honors - and Babi never worry if something is posted twice - it is such a treat to say even in our heads the sounds of poems that saying them more than once is also a treat.

Here is another poignant poem about Christmas bells -

Ring out, Wild Bells - A Christmas Poem
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Make it Snow !

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

 

[Babi]

 Oops!  I typed 'Wordswrth' instead of Longfellow, but here it is.

Christmas Bells
    By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The Carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
‘For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!’

[fairanna]

Just to let you know I have enjoyed the posts and I sang along with the songs...remembered all my life from the days when we all were young,,,,,Here in Virginia we have had some VERY cold days , cold rains and each morning when I let my dog out I note the sky and here is what I wrote just a few minutes ago..

A Winter Morn

Funny how different
winter morns are --
no golden rays at dawn-
just a faint light
against a silver grey sky...
trees vibrant just weeks ago--
shiver in pale morning light--
huddle together
sharing whatever warmth
they can produce--
squirrels ,hidden in summers
bountiful leafy bowers--
are now exposed --
racing up the dark bark---
seeking shelter in nests
hidden in summer's growth--
now exposed to winters cold.
for me---like the squirrels
I seek shelter in the covers of my bed--
sleep and dream-of Spring--
it's warmth and charm!

anna alexander
this morning 12/12/2010

GOD BLESS ALL

[BarbStAubrey]

Oh yes, Anna to sleep and dream of Spring on a day like this - it turned cold after some lovely warm days - it is hard to get going and accomplish anything  when the  cold seeps under your shirt.

Great Babi - a wonderful addition to the month - those early American poets are so satisfying to read aren't they.

Pressed for time today - tons to do and drinking too much coffee - I need to get some music going to get in the mood - I have all this packing - what I am sending ahead to my daughters as well as Christmas and Christams for my son who I am visiting tomorrow -

Found this poem - a bit long but filled with magic

Elf Poem
          ~ Tony Wraight

As I walked soft, in Ravenswood,
through light and dappled shade.
A tall old oak, in sunlight stood,
within this forest glade.

And taking time, to sit and watch,
beside the rattling stream.
A sight so wondrous did I catch,
I feared it was a dream.

For there within the clearing round,
beneath the guardian tree,
danced Elfin children o’er the ground,
in laughter, wild and free.

In awe and wonder, did I stay,
transfixed upon this sight,
till sunlight slowly ebbed away,
fading into night.

Then at once the laughter stopped,
and in the children’s ring.
In moonlight bathed, with crown atop.
There sat the Elfin King.

His robes of silk, were spider-spun,
his crown was burnished gold.
His emerald eyes, so clear and young,
at once so wise and old.

As the children pranced around.
He watched them at their play,
their laughter as a wind-bell sound,
as though heard far away.

My time had come to leave this place,
and quiet did I rise,
but Elfin ears had heard my pace.
I was caught by Elfin eyes.

Again at once the laughter ceased.
The glade in silence, fell.
My guilt, unbound was now released,
in shame, I’d broke this spell.

The King in silence held my stare,
and fixed me where I stood.
His eyes, with anger, did not glare.
In sadness, now leaked tears of blood.

He rose, I fell down to the ground.
At his feet to kneel.
He came to me without a sound.
His wrath I knew I’d feel.

My hands he took, and had me rise,
to look into his face.
He smiled at me with his emerald eyes,
as tears of blood ran down apace.

A single tear fell to my palm.
My hand then, he did fold,
and from his finger gave me a charm,
a ring of purest gold.

He pointed then, the path to take,
to leave this forest dell.
I promised him a vow I’d make,
about this place I’d never tell.

My hand I opened, I stared in awe,
my heart began to sing.
For there upon my palm I saw,
a Gold and Ruby ring

[Babi]

  Is there more to the elfin poem, BARB.  It seems to end unfinished.

   I was delighted the other day to leaf through, in my library, a selection
of Emily Dickinson poems for children.  I hadn't thought about it, but so
many of her poems are perfect for children, aren't they?  Light and whimsical; they can't help but give children a perfect introduction to the
love of poetry.

[BarbStAubrey]

Yes, Babi I agree Emily is a delight - her poetry is magical with a lightness that I cannot think of a poet from another nations that writes with such sparkle combined with clarity and noble thoughts.

That last line of the Elfin poem is so full of symbolic meaning that there really is not much that could top it -

The Ruby is the symbol for zeal, power, love, beauty, dignity and longevity -

Gold symbolizes the incorruptible, nobility, honor, truth, wealth, immortality, a life-giving force, the purity of human nature.

The ring is symbolic of eternity, divinity, the transfer of power, to plight a troth, to join into completeness, the cosmic  cycle of creation and destruction.

All that in the palm of his hand is powerful stuff - The hand is considered the most symbolically expressive part of our body. Aristotle said the hand is 'the tool of tools' - an open hand represents benediction, hospitality, truth, the helping  hand of compassion  - this hand holds the symbols of creation to destruction - from God to human nature - along with the powers of our better nature as humans.

[BarbStAubrey]

~Christmas Elves ~

Little Elves sneak out  to play
on this snowy Christmas Day,
They worked all night on
Santa's sleigh,
Bringing lots of special toys
to all the good little girls
and boys,
Now here they are under
fluffy sky,
Building a snowman with
what ever they find,
Except for yellow who is fast
asleep,
As Redkin stops to take a peek,
Greenbean works to make it
complete,
Snowflakes falling all around
Having fun the Elfin way.

[BarbStAubrey]

here you go - have some fun and get your own elf name - http://www.slacknhash.net/elf_name_generator.php

and here is a site that shows girls names and what they would be as an elf name
http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/elvish/girlnames.html

[Babi]

  So, Tony Wraight's imagery is symbolic, BARB?  That would make a difference. Without that knowledge, it would seem a very materialistic ending, centering on a ruby and gold ring when the memory of the elfin children would be so much more wondrous.

 What fun!  I wonder who has created this 'Elfin' language.  You and I
or course share the same name.  Haeronwen, since we Americans are
so keen on shortening names, would no doubt become 'Hey'.   

[BarbStAubrey]

 hehehaha - 'Hey' - I love it - hahaha

[roshanarose]

Please, please whoever set up the Elf names, I don't want to be the exalted bride "Hallnis".  I don't want to marry again.

I prefer the Elf Girls' site.  Much truer to what I am : Caroline means beautiful woman "Vanadesse".  OK - just in my dreams!

Fun Barb!  In Australia I would be called Hallie and Vannie    Having fun the elfin way.

[fairanna]

Had fun checking my elfin names but they are on a paper I took with me today for some tests so will have to find the paper and share with you...sometimes when I am offered a chance to buy a book of poems very cheap I do ...often I find they are  poems I can relate to ...but one book has just a two line poem that for some reason spoke to me Do I know what it said I dont think so it just made me thinK---------

the poet is Robert Hass and here is the poem
   
IOWA, JANUARY

In the long winter night's , a farmer's dreams are narrow,
Over and Over, he enters the farrow.

In my winter dreams  ---over and over I step out doors and inhale the perfume emanating from  my apple tree which was not there yesterday....

[Babi]

 I don't think I could live through a Northern winter.  I've spent too much
of my life in the 'heatland'.  Even north Texas might give me pause.
 "Where the Texas norther comes sudden and soon
   In the dead of night or the heat of noon."

 Those are two lines from an old 'poem that tells a story' called "Lasca",
I believe.  I wonder if I could find it.  It was quite long, tho'; it would have
to be to tell a story, wouldn't it?

[BarbStAubrey]

OK Vanadesse -    -  I must say though that is so much better than Babi and my 'Hey' 

Anna took me a couple of reads to get it - the memory of the apple tree in particular the memory of the scent from the apple tree - ah so...

Oh Babi it would be grand if you could find the Texas Norther poem - just those two lines you shared sounds like the poet has it nailed. If the poem is excessively long just break it into a couple of posts

Must run - too much to do today - and my postponed trip to my son is tomorrow - so I may not be back in here till tomorrow night -

[fairanna]

Sorry I didnt make it clear but the apple tree was my  thought  the rest was Hass's poem  It was just inspired  I cant wait until the day in May when I step out the front door and inhale the special perfume from my apple tree...

[JoanK]

I love Robert Hass, not for his poetry, but because his book "The Essential Haiku" started me reading Japanese haiku. His are still among the best trandlations IMO.

Also, when he was poet laureate, he started a poetry column in the Washington Post. I believe he was the one who started the poetry readings in local Washington DC parks. Anyone can go there and read their poems. I know several young people, from modest backgrounds, who do so regularly.

One of the basketball players on the Washington Wizards basketball team participated regularly (he's been traded since). He would sponser days when those going to the game could read their poems before the game.

The idea is to make poetry a part of everyday life.

[Babi]

  I'll see if I can find 'Lasca'.  Meanwhile,  I found this poem that seems much more suited to
the Texas version of December.

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

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

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


 Actually, December here doesn't even exile the flowers.

[fairanna]

Joan I am not surprised  that Hass was supportive of poetry and trying to see that all who enjoy it, write it or... just listen to it woud have an opportunity to do so..reading his poetry requires the reader to be where he is ...........and for me it makes me think differently can I  explain it ? No it just means for a moment I think differently     anna