Author Topic: Poetry Page  (Read 755519 times)

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2280 on: February 01, 2011, 04:01:22 PM »


A Winter Myth

Join Us! It's the Season for Winter Poetry

Discussion Leaders: Barb & fairanna


The Miracle

~ Barbara Winkler

Every gardener knows
     that under the cloak of winter
     lies a miracle ...
A seed waiting to sprout,
A bulb opening to the light,
A bud straining to unfurl.  
And the anticipation
 Nurtures our dream.


“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2281 on: February 01, 2011, 04:40:50 PM »
Flowers In Winter
          ~ John Greenleaf Whittier

How strange to greet, this frosty morn,
In graceful counterfeit of flower,
These children of the meadows, born
Of sunshine and of showers!


How well the conscious wood retains
The pictures of its flower-sown home,
The lights and shades, the purple stains,
And golden hues of bloom!


It was a happy thought to bring
To the dark season's frost and rime
This painted memory of spring,
This dream of summertime.


Our hearts are lighter for its sake,
Our fancy's age renews its youth,
And dim-remembered fictions take
The guise of present truth.


A wizard of the Merrimac, -
So old ancestral legends say, -
Could call green leaf and blossom back
To frosted stem and spray.


The dry logs of the cottage wall,
Beneath his touch, put out their leaves;
The clay-bound swallow, at his call,
Played round the icy eaves.


The settler saw his oaken flail
Take bud, and bloom before his eyes;
From frozen pools he saw the pale
Sweet summer lilies rise.


To their old homes, by man profaned
Came the sad dryads, exiled long,
And through their leafy tongues complained
Of household use and wrong.


The beechen platter sprouted wild,
The pipkin wore its old-time green,
The cradle o'er the sleeping child
Became a leafy screen.


Haply our gentle friend hath met,
While wandering in her sylvan quest,
Haunting his native woodlands yet,
That Druid of the West;


And while the dew on leaf and flower
Glistened in the moonlight clear and still,
Learned the dusk wizard's spell of power,
And caught his trick of skill.


But welcome, be it new or old,
The gift which makes the day more bright,
And paints, upon the ground of cold
And darkness, warmth and light!


Without is neither gold nor green;
Within, for birds, the birch-logs sing;
Yet, summer-like, we sit between
The autumn and the spring.


The one, with bridal blush of rose,
And sweetest breath of woodland balm,
And one whose matron lips unclose
In smiles of saintly calm.


Fill soft and deep, O winter snow!
The sweet azalea's oaken dells,
And hide the banks where roses blow
And swing the azure bells!


O'erlay the amber violet's leaves,
The purple aster's brookside home,
Guard all the flowers her pencil gives
A live beyond their bloom
.


And she, when spring comes round again,
By greening slope and singing flood
Shall wander, seeking, not in vain
Her darlings of the wood.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2282 on: February 01, 2011, 04:44:39 PM »
Eye of the Cyclone
          ~ by Elga

Seeking shelter
I hid from the storm
To take refuge from raging winds
And rain that felt so bitterly cold

My eyes blinded by the elements
And a mind blank and devoid
I stepped without thought
Into the dungeon of distress

I walked further in darkness
Experiencing more cold and gloom
Felt more alone than before
Like a lost soul in purgatory

What I’d thought would ease
My emotional emptiness
Only led me deeper
Into the eye of the cyclone

Tossed in the midst
Of this inclement outbreak
The aftermath and destruction
So dolorously painful

Can I rebuild anew
And walk in the sunshine
Remembering in future
To watch where I’m going!
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2283 on: February 01, 2011, 04:48:14 PM »
The Terrific Cyclone of 1893
          ~ William Topaz McGonagall 

'Twas in the year of 1893, and on the 17th and 18th of November,
Which the people of Dundee and elsewhere will long remember,
The terrific cyclone that blew down trees,
And wrecked many vessels on the high seas.

All along the coast the Storm Fiend did loudly roar,
Whereby many ships were wrecked along the shore,
And many seamen lost their lives,
Which caused their children to mourn and their wives.

Alas! they wiil never see their husbands again,
And to weep for them 'tis all in vain,
Because sorrow never could revive the dead,
Therefore they must weep, knowing all hope is fled.

The people's hearts in Dundee were full of dread
For fear of chimney-cans falling on their heads,
And the roofs of several houses were hurled to the ground,
And the tenants were affrighted, and their sorrow was profound,

And scores of wooden sheds were levelled to the ground,
And chimney stalks fell with a crashing rebound :
The gale swept everything before it in its way;
No less than 250 trees and 37 tombstones were blown down at Balgay.

Oh! it was a pitiful and a terrible sight
To see the fallen trees lying left and right,
Scattered about in the beautiful Hill of Balgay,
Also the tombstones that were swept away.

At Broughty Ferry the gale made a noise like thunder,
Which made the inhabitants shake with fear and wonder
If their dwellings would be blown to the ground,
While the slates and chimney-cans were falling all around.

Early on the 18th a disaster occurred on the Tay :
The wreck of the steamer "Union,"- Oh! horror and dismay!
Whereby four lives have been taken away,
Which will make their friends mourn for many a day.

The steamer left Newburgh for Dundee with a cargo of sand,
And the crew expected they would safely land,
But by the time the steamer was opposite Dundee,
Alas! stronger blew the gale, and heavier grew the sea.

And in order to prevent stranding the anchor was let go,
And with the cold the hearts of the crew were full of woe,
While the merciless Storm .Fiend loudly did roar,
As the vessel was driven towards the Fife shore.

Then the crew took shelter in the stokehole,
From the cold wind they could no longer thole,
But the high seas broke over her, one finding its way
Right into the stokehole, which filled the crew's hearts with dismay.

Then one of the crew, observing that the steamer had broached to,
Immediately went on deck to see what he could do,
And he tried hard to keep her head to the sea,
But the big waves dashed over her furiously.

Then Strachan shouted that the "Union" was sinking fast,
Which caused his companions to stand aghast,
And Strachan tried to lower the small boat,
But alas! the vessel sunk, and the boat wouldn't float,

And before he could recover himself he was struggling in the sea,
And battling with the big waves right manfully,
But his companions sank with the "Union" in the Tay,
Which filled Strachan's heart with sorrow and dismay,

And after a great struggle he reached the beach,
Fortunately so, which he never expected to reach,
For often he was drawn back by the back-wash,
As the big waves against his body did dash.

But, when nearly exhausted, and near to the land,
A piece of wreckage was near him, which he grasped with his hand,
Which providentially came within his reach,
And bruised, and battered, he was thrown on the beach.

He was so exhausted, he was unable to stand upright,
He felt so weakly, he was in such a plight,
Because the big waves had done him bodily harm,
Yet on hands and knees he crept to a house at Northfield farm.

He arrived there at ten minutes past four o'clock,
And when he awakened the inmates, their nerves got a shock,
But under their kind treatment he recovered speedily,
And was able to recount the disaster correctly.

Oh! it was a fearful, and a destructive storm!
I never mind the like since I was born,
Only the Tay Bridge storm of 1879,
And both these storms will be remembered for a very long time.

“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

roshanarose

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2284 on: February 01, 2011, 08:17:29 PM »
bellemere - beautiful poem.  ....a university to a daughter...made it real for me.  Thank you.

Barb - I enjoyed your cyclone poems - a bit too close to home at the moment, though. 
How can you prove whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another in the waking state?  - Plato

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2285 on: February 01, 2011, 08:19:27 PM »
Yes, intended as close to home - I always try to find poems that address what I think those of  you who are regulars are experiencing in real life with the hope that a poet saying it outloud will give feelings another voice. It is my way of saying I am thinking of  you...
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

roshanarose

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2286 on: February 01, 2011, 08:28:57 PM »
barb - i appreciate your sensitivity, thank you. We all wait anxiously for the outcome, knowing we have no control.

btw I loved the colourful art in which you dressed "Flowers in Winter".  I also thought that the name of the poet seemed particularly suited to the poem.
How can you prove whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another in the waking state?  - Plato

bellemere

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2287 on: February 01, 2011, 10:40:59 PM »
I spend a few weeks each year in Isla Mujeres, a tiny island off the coast of the Yucatan. Over theyears, Hortensia has become a friend. Her daughter is now a lawyer.
Thanks for the kind words. 

Gumtree

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2288 on: February 02, 2011, 04:41:47 AM »
Thanks for those cyclone poems Barbara, nature can be very destructive every part of the planet. I appreciate that you think of us in Oz - even though I live far from this current cyclone area. However only a few days ago we were tracking a smaller one along the West Aust coastline which caused damage in some rural areas and at least one death - a teenaged girl unwittingly stepped on a blown down power line - her two companions were also severely burned trying to help her.

The McGonagall poem reminded me of this one of his about the Tay Bridge storm of 1879 which he mentions in the last couple of lines of the  you posted.  As bridges go - the Tay was considered one of the engineering feats of its day (until it fell down  :D) At the time it was the longest bridge in the world - the disaster ruined the reputation of its designer, Sir Thomas Bouch who had made no particular allowance for wind pressure on the structure. The story of it is legendary.


The Tay Bridge Disaster

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

'Twas about seven o'clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem'd to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-
"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."

When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say-
"I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."

But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers' hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov'd most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.

So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o'er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the tale
How the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.
Reading is an art and the reader an artist. Holbrook Jackson

Gumtree

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2289 on: February 02, 2011, 04:49:41 AM »
Here's a link to pic of the Tay Bridge: You can easily note the 'central girders' referenced in the poem.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Taybridge_from_law_02SEP05.jpg

Trivia:  "Tay Bridge" was used as the codename for the funeral plans for Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother who died in 2002 at the ripe old age of 101.
Reading is an art and the reader an artist. Holbrook Jackson

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2290 on: February 02, 2011, 08:50:13 AM »
BELLEMERE, I really like that "Homage to a Costatura". Such great
images, and such a sympathetic close.

 Brr!, BARB. These poems have me shivering again. The cold has
returned with a vengeance, and our heating system does not
entirely warm the house. With the temperatures at 40 or lower,
I am prepared to be grateful for 60.



 
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2291 on: February 02, 2011, 12:18:00 PM »
Babi I know -  we were 15 last night - as of now we are only 23 - I have a meeting I am supposed to attend that has me leaving here a little after 1: and it still will not even be 30 - it only gets to 32 at the hottest part of the day at 4: - I've hung blankets on curtain rods on all the door openings to the open area of Den, Breakfast, Kitchen - I've closed the doors to the bedrooms except for mine at the back of the house. Under my quilts I was fine.

I did a dumb thing yesterday - I have an electric heater in the ceiling of the bathrooms - the house was built in 1966  before heat was put in the bathrooms -  well I wanted to warm up the one bathroom and turned on the heater - of course closed the door and forgot it - that thing was on chewing up electricity for over 4 hours till I heard the sound and could not figure out what it was and then like a brick it hit. What a bill I will have to pay this month.

As I covered up the plants with more blankets - found blankets at WalMart a few years ago for $4 a piece and picked up 3 that I keep in the garage. I have some wire cage like temporary plant protectors that I stick in the ground and drape the blankets over them using clothespins to secure them from the wind - well the Rosemary was all in bloom and not enough  blankets or even beach towels to near cover them - so we shall see just  how much cold they will take - I did cut off a few branches and have been cooking them with cloves in a  huge 6 gallon pot of water. The  house gets so dry with all  this hot air heat.

I looked and it is colder here than where my daughter is in the Appalachian mountain area of NC and it is even colder than NYC. and so this front must have come straight down the plains and swung over to the Mississippi Valley.

I am tempted not to go to my meeting but I need a few things from the store to tie me over - they are talking snow on Thursday and this town closes down if it snows - no one knows how to drive in it and those who think they do always are crashed into by those who know they don't but attempt it anyhow.

Good grief - the bug man is here - of all days - well I am just having him do the outside and the garage and check the bait boxes for the roof rats that have invaded this area a few years ago...toodles...
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2292 on: February 03, 2011, 08:01:36 AM »
Quote
snows - no one knows how to drive in it and those who think they do always are crashed into by those who know they don't but attempt it anyhow.
  ::)
  Our biggest fear here is icing.  We keep salt on hand for the porch
stairs; otherwise we can't get out of the house.  Valerie slipped on
those icy steps one year and cracked her tailbone.
  "Snow, beautiful snow".   Well, in reasonable quantities, okay.  Why
is it these freezes won't kill the 'take-over' ivy I've been trying to
control for years?
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2293 on: February 08, 2011, 12:07:46 AM »
With Valentine's Day a week away and so many love poems it is time to start - I recently became aware of the poetry of Petrarch a medieval man of letters- who lived from 1304 to 1374 and whose love poems are beautiful - the sonnet form he used so often is named for him as the Italian form of the Sonnet - the Petrarchan sonnet.

I find no peace, and have no arms for war,
and fear and hope, and burn and yet I freeze,
and fly to heaven, lying on earth's floor,
and nothing hold, and all the world I seize.

My jailer opens not, nor locks the door,
nor binds me to hear, nor will loose my ties;
Love kills me not, nor breaks the chains I wear,
nor wants me living, nor will grant me ease.

I have no tongue, and shout; eyeless, I see;
I long to perish, and I beg for aid;
I love another, and myself I hate.

Weeping I laugh, I feed on misery,
by death and life so equally dismayed:
for you, my lady, am I in this state.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2294 on: February 08, 2011, 01:09:26 AM »
After reading this poem I will never again look upon cupid's bow and arrow with the same benign sweet play.

To  make a graceful one his sweet vendetta,
redress a thousand slights in one quick swoop,
Love stealthily picked up his bow, much as
a man who schemes a time and palace to hunt.

My vital power was buttressed in my heart
and well defended, there and in my eyes,
until the harsh stroke landed, where before
all arrows that had come had glanced away.

That sudden onslaught and its fell success
left my poor power bewildered and in pain.
It had not time for weapons; it grew weak,

it couldn't help me climb the weary mountain,  (mountain means reason)
it couldn't whisk me from that scene of slaughter.
It meant to help, would like to now, but can't.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2295 on: February 08, 2011, 08:38:25 AM »
I love Petrarch's style, but oh my, he is in sad shape, isn't he?
I do hope the lady took pity on him.

  Since I've been reading a book about Indians for one of our discussions, I went looking for an Indian love poem. They are quite rare.
Most native American poems seem to be prayers.  But I did find this
one, and heartily approve.

           Shoshone Love Song
Fair is the white star of twilight,
and the sky clearer at the day's end;
But she is fairer, and she is dearer.
She, my heart's friend!

Far stars and fair in the skies bending,
Low stars of hearth fires and wood smoke ascending,
The meadow-lark's nested,
The night hawk is winging;
Home through the star-shine the hunter comes singing.

Fair is the white star of twilight,
And the moon roving
To the sky's end;
But she is fairer, better worth loving,
She, my heart's friend
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

Gumtree

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2296 on: February 08, 2011, 10:51:36 AM »
Alas, Babi, Petrarch loved his Laura from afar. The story goes that he saw her in church and fell for her hook, line and sinker. His love was unrequited - possibly unknown - she was married and later had several children. She died young whereupon Petrarch was broken hearted. To express his love for Laura he perfected the art of the Petrarchan (or Italian) sonnet which differs noticeably from the English. Sir Thomas Wyatt is credited with introducing the sonnet into English literature by adapting the Petrarchan model to better suit the English language.   
Reading is an art and the reader an artist. Holbrook Jackson

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2297 on: February 08, 2011, 11:39:48 AM »
Thanks Gum for filling out his story -  I see his poem to Laura all over the Internet - and I am trying to figure out his status so to speak - he was  ordained however, he is not a monastic as his brother and he does not seem to be attached or assigned to any particular church and so I am trying to figure all this out -

I had not put it together that he was the famous poet till just a week or so ago because I am reading one of the only two books he wrote - Petrarch on Religious Leisure which he writes after visiting his brother for a month or maybe it was two months. Anyhow he decides the monastic life although, filled with praise for what it offers, is not for  him.

He and his brother born in Padua, lived together in Avignon as wild and well healed young blades after receiving a very large inheritance when their father died, that they were swindled out of by they believe those who managed their financial estate.

From what I am gathering at this time in history the only way to receive an education of merit is to be sent to a monastery - at least that seems to be what was going on in both Italy and Southern France.

Babi what a lovely love poem you found - I love the concept and phrase 
She, my heart's friend!

And not only is this line beautifully written but the concept and the comparison to fire sparks with stars - just wonderful!
Low stars of hearth fires and wood smoke ascending,
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2298 on: February 09, 2011, 08:31:32 AM »
 Ah, yes, I had forgotten about Petrarch's Laura. I am never quite
sure whether I find that story romantic or pathetic. A bit of both,
I guess.  And of course the story of the two brothers playing gay young
blades with their inheritance...until it was stolen from them...doesn't
say much for his good sense, either.  :-\
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

Gumtree

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2299 on: February 09, 2011, 09:49:23 AM »
I've often wondered what would have happened had Laura not been so chaste and perfect and had responded to Petrarch - he would probably have died of fright or run for cover.

Although Petrarch wrote much of his work in Latin he was one of the early Italian writers who also wrote in their own vernacular - he had the examples of Dante (who was the first) and Boccaccio who followed Dante and in some instances Petrarch rewrote stories Boccaccio had written earlier -Griselda is one. This is an extract from Petrarch on the subject....

 To be sure, the Latin, in both prose and poetry, is undoubtedly the nobler language, but for that very reason it has been so thoroughly developed by earlier writers that neither we nor anyone else may expect to add very much to it. The vernacular, on the other hand, has but recently been discovered, and, though it has been ravaged by many, it still remains uncultivated, in spite of a few earnest labourers, and still shows itself capable of much improvement and enrichment. Stimulated by this thought, and by the enterprise of youth, I began an extensive work in that language. I laid the foundations of the structure, and got together my lime and stones and wood.


Reading is an art and the reader an artist. Holbrook Jackson

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2300 on: February 10, 2011, 08:30:22 AM »
 I like that quote from Petrarch, GUM.  In fact, I think I liked it better than his poem.

  Here's one that seems timely:
 
"Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the withered air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, and housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm."
-   Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2301 on: February 11, 2011, 03:43:49 PM »
A wonderful Emerson -  I am hoping our snow and cold is over as the weather man is suggesting but the poem you shared is wonderful - trumpets of the sky, -- And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveler stopped, the currier's feet Delayed, - the radiant fireplace, - the tumultuous privacy of storm pure wonderment...!

OK, here is a bit of Yeats...

When You are Old    
          ~  by W. B. Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2302 on: February 11, 2011, 03:48:01 PM »
oh and we need a bit of Marlowe...

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love    
         ~ by Christopher Marlowe

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2303 on: February 11, 2011, 03:51:30 PM »
I've been promising myself for years to read more of Robert Penn Warren and never do - so here is one of  his love poems...

True Love    
          ~ by Robert Penn Warren

In silence the heart raves.  It utters words
Meaningless, that never had
A meaning.  I was ten, skinny, red-headed,

Freckled.  In a big black Buick,
Driven by a big grown boy, with a necktie, she sat
In front of the drugstore, sipping something

Through a straw. There is nothing like
Beauty. It stops your heart.  It
Thickens your blood.  It stops your breath.  It

Makes you feel dirty.  You need a hot bath. 
I leaned against a telephone pole, and watched.
I thought I would die if she saw me.

How could I exist in the same world with that brightness?
Two years later she smiled at me.  She
Named my name. I thought I would wake up dead.

Her grown brothers walked with the bent-knee
Swagger of horsemen.  They were slick-faced.
Told jokes in the barbershop. Did no work.

Their father was what is called a drunkard.
Whatever he was he stayed on the third floor
Of the big white farmhouse under the maples for twenty-five years.

He never came down.  They brought everything up to him.
I did not know what a mortgage was.
His wife was a good, Christian woman, and prayed.

When the daughter got married, the old man came down wearing
An old tail coat, the pleated shirt yellowing.
The sons propped him.  I saw the wedding.  There were

Engraved invitations, it was so fashionable.  I thought
I would cry.  I lay in bed that night
And wondered if she would cry when something was done to her.

The mortgage was foreclosed. That last word was whispered.
She never came back.  The family
Sort of drifted off.  Nobody wears shiny boots like that now.

But I know she is beautiful forever, and lives
In a beautiful house, far away.
She called my name once.  I didn't even know she knew it.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

roshanarose

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2304 on: February 11, 2011, 09:06:57 PM »
You ladies are making me want to cry.  These poems are magnificent, but so poignant.

I am inspired by Yeats.  Here is a poem in a similar vein by Cavafy.

CANDLES

The days of our future stand before us
like a row of little lighted candles -
golden, warm and lively little candles.

The days gone by remain behind us,
a mournful line of burnt-out candles;
the nearest ones are still smoking,
cold candles, melted and bent.

I do not want to look at them; their form saddens me,
and it saddens me to recall their first light.
I look ahead at my lighted candles.

I do not want to look back, lest I see and shudder -
how quickly the somber line lengthens,
how quickly the burnt-out candles multiply.

C. Cavafy


How can you prove whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another in the waking state?  - Plato

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2305 on: February 12, 2011, 08:37:46 AM »
Ah, the Yeats and Marlowe I know. Robert Penn Warren I know only
from his book, "All The Kings' Men".
  I'm afraid I found the Cavafy poem depressing.  I'd hate to see all
my past as darkened, melted candles.  Remembering some of the good
parts is one of my comforts now.
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

roshanarose

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2306 on: February 12, 2011, 11:21:44 PM »
Babi - It's strange that you should say that.  Although I adore Cavafy I thought this was one of his "darkest" poems.  I can see him writing this poem in a small dark room, punishing himself for his "forbidden" loves.  He is surrounded by candles and their imagery make a deep impression upon him.  Despite this I have always loved this poem.  Since I have been dicussing Cavafy with you and others on this board, I often wondered if I should introduce it.  I did, with some trepidation, and sure enough you proved my instincts were correct.  

I guess it introduces the notion of whether poets write for an audience, or for themselves.  The majority of Cavafy's poems indicate the latter.  I can't say that his poems make me happy, or even sad, they make me think of HIM.
How can you prove whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another in the waking state?  - Plato

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2307 on: February 13, 2011, 12:39:26 AM »
Interesting his concept of time - sad or not - today February 12 is my Mother's Birthday - growing up it was a national holiday when we celebrated special President's Birthdays on their Birthdate - now it is all made into a long weekend shoving the Birthday as the excuse to have Monday off and the two President's Birthdays we celebrated in February, Lincoln and Washington are shoved together and called President's Day - as children we thought the day off for Lincoln's Birthday was really celebrating our Mother's Birthday.

Both my sisters were filled with memories of Mom and emailed me separately, followed by one email that went to all three of us that all three of us responded to - what made it so interesting for me is - I have been into Native American literature and poetry for at least 20 years and you have to know how to read time to understand - Native American's concept of time is, there is no past and no future as we westerners know it - so everything is spoken about in the present tense.

After receiving the emails from my sisters I was sorting my books and picked up a new book by Scott Momaday, Kiowa and a Pulitzer Prize winner - he had a chapter describing for westerners the concept of native time - the explanation - if we go to a movie we do not leave after every frame - repay to enter for the next frame - we pay once and see the entire movie, the entire sequence of frames as one story - and so the Native American's concept of time is like a movie rather than time broken up in years as if frames in a movie.

Well with our memories floating over the internet about our mother it was as if she was here with us - we realized we could see ourselves in our heads as children with her and later when she and we looked older - on and on, so that we realized we were each our own movie and in our heads there was no past - we could see our mind pictures as if they were alive in the room with us.

And so Cavafy may see burnt candle wicks in a darkened space only lit by one current candle while some in the world simply see lines of candles still glowing - still giving light - still alive in our hearts and minds - a women still enjoying a glass of Root Beer with ice cream, still cooking the best oxtail stew, still bending over a scrub board and hanging clothes on the line, still sewing all our clothes and surprising us with new doll clothes for all our dolls at Christmas and still welcoming Spring by picking Lily of the Valley from under the giant pine that grows in the side yard.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2308 on: February 13, 2011, 08:32:28 AM »
 ROSE, I've always heard that poets are driven to write poetry. I
firmly believe they are writing for themselves, and it's the sincerity
of those poems that makes them resonate with the readers.

  What lovely memories of your Mother, BARB.  It was a pleasure to
read them, as if reading a poem.
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2309 on: February 13, 2011, 01:23:57 PM »
Lingering Joys

The tide recedes, but leaves behind bright seashells on the sand.
The sun goes down, but gentle warmth still lingers in the land,
The music stops, and yet it echoes on in sweet refrains...
For every joy that passes, something beautiful remains.



Heirlooms
         ~ Amy Grant

Up in the attic
Down on my knees
Lifetimes of boxes
Timeless to me.
Letter and photographs
Yellowed with years
Some bringing laughter
Some bringing tears.

Time never changes
The memories, the faces
Of loved ones, who bring to me
All that I come from
And all that I live for
And all that I'm going to be.
My precious family
Is more than an heirloom to me.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2310 on: February 13, 2011, 01:24:56 PM »
The Old Family Album
          ~ Ethel K. Gosney

The old family album
Once was prominently displayed
With its cover of red velvet
Trimmed in gleaming silken braid.

Every parlor had a table
Filled with shells and a paperweight,
And the album of your ancestors
Anchored like a ship of state.

There were old tin types of Grandma,
Aunts and uncles and cousins too...
And Grandpa with his cane and derby,
Fancy vest and button shoes.

Yes, the old family album
Once held its rightful place
In an old-fashioned parlor
Amid souvenirs and lace.

So if you're tired of travel
And your world seems closing in...
Bring out the family album
With the tin types of your kin.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2311 on: February 13, 2011, 01:27:53 PM »
The Clothesline Said So Much

A clothesline was a news forecast
To neighbors passing by.
There were no secrets you could keep
When clothes were hung to dry.

It also was a friendly link
For neighbors always knew
If company had stopped on by
To spend a night or two.

For then you'd see the fancy sheets
and towels on the line;
You'd see the comp'ny table clothes
With intricate design.

The line announced a baby's birth
To folks who lived inside
As brand new infant clothes were hung
So carefully with pride.

The ages of the children could
So readily be known
By watching how the sizes changed
You'd know how much they'd grown.
   
It also told when illness struck,
As extra sheets were hung;
Then nightclothes, and a bathrobe, too,
Haphazardly were strung.

It said, "Gone on vacation now"
When lines hung limp and bare.
It told, "We're back!" when full lines sagged
With not an inch to spare.

New folks in town were scorned upon
If wash was dingy gray,
As neighbors raised their brows, and looked
Disgustedly away.

But clotheslines now are of the past
For dryers make work less.
Now what goes on inside a home
Is anybody's guess

I really miss that way of life.
It was a friendly sign
When neighbors knew each other best
By what hung on the line!
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2312 on: February 14, 2011, 09:05:57 AM »
 Ah, we have nostalgic poems, today.  Since I'm feeling my age, I
appreciate those from time to time.  But here's another side.

Prayer for Senility:
God grant me the senility
to forget the people I never liked anyway,
the good fortune to run into the ones I do,
and the eyesight to tell the difference.


Don't Worry
At age 20 we worry about what others think of us;
At age 40 we don't care what they think of us;
At age 60 we realize that they haven't been thinking of us at all.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

roshanarose

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2313 on: February 14, 2011, 10:38:56 AM »
Haha Babi - Good one!
How can you prove whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another in the waking state?  - Plato

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2314 on: February 14, 2011, 11:06:48 AM »
WINTER FOG
Dark Moods

By Ariegaw LE Garcia

 
It rises from the bottom or maybe it descends from above sometimes you see
it come in from out there floating along the surface of the Bering Sea
a twist on deception in the noiseless freeze all I hear is the motion
of the water against the boat and the fog horn that shatters
the muffled effect of molecules packed tightly together
bone cold obscures my reason unable to control
the chattering of my teeth pulling the nets into
the boat I convulse the line slices into my
fingers icy rage is never planned it
just happens like this thick
winter fog that swallows
you alive leaving no
clues to which
way shore
lies
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

roshanarose

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2315 on: February 14, 2011, 09:50:07 PM »
Barb : I have never seen a Winter fog by the sea, this poem helped me to "see" it.  Such artistry by poet and poster :-)
How can you prove whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another in the waking state?  - Plato

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2316 on: February 16, 2011, 03:02:45 AM »
A Winter Dawn
          ~  Lucy Maud Montgomery
 
     Above the marge of night a star still shines,
And on the frosty hills the sombre pines
Harbor an eerie wind that crooneth low
Over the glimmering wastes of virgin snow.

Through the pale arch of orient the morn
Comes in a milk-white splendor newly-born,
A sword of crimson cuts in twain the gray
Banners of shadow hosts, and lo, the day!

“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2317 on: February 16, 2011, 03:08:26 AM »
   
Winter in the Boulevard
        ~ D. H. Lawrence (1885-1930)   
 
THE frost has settled down upon the trees
And ruthlessly strangled off the fantasies
Of leaves that have gone unnoticed, swept like old
Romantic stories now no more to be told.
 
The trees down the boulevard stand naked in thought,
Their abundant summery wordage silenced, caught
In the grim undertow; naked the trees confront
Implacable winter's long, cross-questioning brunt.
 
Has some hand balanced more leaves in the depths of the twigs?
Some dim little efforts placed in the threads of the birch?--
It is only the sparrows, like dead black leaves on the sprigs,
Sitting huddled against the cerulean, one flesh with their perch.
 
The clear, cold sky coldly bethinks itself.
Like vivid thought the air spins bright, and all
Trees, birds, and earth, arrested in the after-thought
Awaiting the sentence out from the welkin brought.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2318 on: February 16, 2011, 03:10:28 AM »
Soon Shall the Winter's Foil Be Here
        ~ Walt Whitman (1819-1892)   
 
Soon shall the winter's foil be here;
Soon shall these icy ligatures unbind and melt--A little while,
And air, soil, wave, suffused shall be in softness, bloom and
growth--a thousand forms shall rise
From these dead clods and chills as from low burial graves.
 
Thine eyes, ears--all thy best attributes--all that takes cognizance
of natural beauty,
Shall wake and fill. Thou shalt perceive the simple shows, the
delicate miracles of earth,
Dandelions, clover, the emerald grass, the early scents and flowers,
The arbutus under foot, the willow's yellow-green, the blossoming
plum and cherry;
With these the robin, lark and thrush, singing their songs--the
flitting bluebird;
For such the scenes the annual play brings on.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #2319 on: February 16, 2011, 03:13:42 AM »
Clean Winter
        ~  Louise Driscoll (1875-1957)

Winter comes grimly
And cleans house.
Blowing all the leaves away.
The field mouse
Burrows below the soil;
The wind sweeps
All waste places bare.
The snow keeps
Watch over gardens,
Lest seeds stir.
Even the grass hides
Away from her!
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe