Poetry Page

[Babi]

J.W. Waterhouse Famous Poets and Poems about Spring Link to: Spring Poems Discussion Leaders: Barb & fairanna

Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry A Prayer in Spring ~ Robert Frost        Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simply in the springing of the year. Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; And make us happy in the happy bees, The swarm dilating round the perfect trees. And make us happy in the darting bird That suddenly above the bees is heard, The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill, And off a blossom in mid air stands still. For this is love and nothing else is love, The which it is reserved for God above To sanctify to what far ends He will, But which it only needs that we fulfil.

Here's a pleasant little tidbit...

     "'Tis like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume:
There's crimson buds, and white and blue,
The very rainbow showers
Have turned to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers."-  Thomas Hood

[BarbStAubrey]

  Looks like you are in the heading Babi -  I cannot believe I did that - posted several poems so I could start the new page and then completely forgot to upload the heading for the new page -  however the green font you chose is so pretty in the heading it looks like it belongs. And I love the idea of the 'Birthday of the World' what a neat turn of phrase that brings up the most pleasant of images.

It is so easy for us to forget Babi that north of here coats are still required and spring tulips are only now opening to the sun. Here we are many days already with the AC on and tulips in the rear view mirror of the year. Having lived so many  years in Kentucky which is where my children were born I am remembering the Kentucky Derby, which is next Saturday as being a day that could be hot with many attending bringing their coolers along with their picnic blankets but many more times it is cool enough for a coat and a mint julep was fun but a shot of Bourbon was warming.

Here is the Bard himself with words about Spring.

Spring
          ~ by William Shakespeare

When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
'Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!' O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
'Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!' O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.

[Octavia]

Just a quick visit. My mum had a bad fall at her nursing home, smashing her head on the end of her bed.My sister and I have spent days up there. She's battered and bruised and has regressed so much. Not long ago, she had a lovely period when she was bright and with it, and delighted in our visits.
I've always thought life was to be cherished whatever it's form, but to see your loved one stripped of dignity and all that made them 'them', I'm changing my mind.
Thanks Gum, for your hint .
So sorry for all the tornado victims in America.

[BarbStAubrey]

Oh Octavia - heartbreaking - end of life is not easy for anyone is it...

Contemplating Our Point of Existence in My Slippers
          ~ by Weeping Wolf

I wander through reality
And don't watch the news
I forget the days...and remember the years.
That remind me of who I am,
And I make sure to teach myself, and to not become
What I was conditioned, who I was taught to be.
And maybe that leads me into making more mistakes,
That I may end up repeating, but I still learn all the same,
Because I'm yearning to be stronger, but dreading of being older.
And I think of when I was a swinging 17,
But my friends still say I'm a dancing queen,
And men still say I'm beautiful, but do I believe any of them?
And who will still love me once I've lost my graces?
And how long will I have to wait till I'm in your arms,
Who are you anyways? Who will choose me in the end?
When I try so hard to make them all love me, for a while,
Till I search out some new adventure, then come back to you.
Over and over and over again.

So I sit outside in our makeshift garden and look up at the canopy
That hides the fact that we can no longer see the stars
I contemplate the point of our existence, and how
The element that which we run on is our demise,
We are creating our own suicide.
And I think of you, God, my love of all time.
How you love me even though every day, I sin.
And how I feel closer to you when I do wrong,
How I plead with you and shy away from you and love you,
And cannot wait to finally see you.
I ponder upon how I will turn back to dust when you take me,
How much longer I will stay to watch this city change,
These relationships begin and end, and the world's last breath.
And who will really come into our minds at the end of it all?

Looking up, I see a spaceship fly by our window,
Think of how much I miss you, and who I want hold hands with
At the end of the world, or at least our lives.

I don't know who you are. But I hope you come for me so I know.
Because my heart is in love too many times over to know.

And Time...
Time...always on my mind...
The times I didn't say everything I wanted to,
And the times I had to say goodbye.
I see the image of her beauty in my mind,
Never diminishing,
How lovely she is,
Oh how I want her to be loved.
But Time...
Keeps me from her
But Love,
Sustains her memory.
So I simply go on...distant from her.

And I crave to go to distant lands,
And share kisses and hold hands
With those I may never see again...
Oh, but tis' a shame, in the world of communication
How we have distorted what we really feel
Or what we really want to do with our lives
And now all that's left is to consume everything
Until there is nothing left. It is too late for us.

So I will pray for those who are to come to save us.

[Babi]

remember the years.
That remind me of who I am,
   We do do that, don't we?

[roshanarose]

That's lovely, Babi.  Barb, I don't know where you found that beautiful poem, but it holds so much.

Octavia - So sorry to hear about your Mum's fall.  Maybe for her we can rework those lovely words posted by Babi.

remember the years.
That remind you of who she is,

I wish I didn't cry so easily.

[BarbStAubrey]

Here is an old friend who we spent a month with a few years back

"Remember"
          ~ by Joy Harjo

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star's stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is. I met her
in a bar once in Iowa City.
Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother's, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe. I heard her singing Kiowa war
dance songs at the corner of Fourth and Central once.
Remember that you are all people and that all people are you.
Remember that you are this universe and that this universe is you.
Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember that language comes from this.
Remember the dance that language is, that life is.
Remember.

[BarbStAubrey]

"Poetry, is a dream filled with language."
Jo Harjo
Born: May 9, 1951, in Tulsa, Oklahoma, a member of the Muscogee Creek Tribe.

IN PRAISE OF EARTH

We kept on dancing last summer though the dancing had been called subversive.
We weren't alone at the end of this particular world and knew
it wouldn't be the last world, though wars
had broken out on all sides.

We kept on dancing and with us were the insects who had gathered at the grounds
in the grasses and the trees. And with us were the stars and
a few lone planets who had been friends
with the earth for generations.

And with us were the spirits who wished to honor this beloved earth in any beautiful manner. And with us at dawn was the Sun who took the lead
and then we broke for camp, for stickball
and breakfast.

We all needed praise made of the heart's tattoo as it inspired our feet or wings, someone to admire us despite our tendency to war, to terrible
stumbles. So does the red cliff who is the heart
broken to the sky.

So do the stones who were the first to speak when we arrived. So does the flaming mountain who harbors the guardian spirits who refuse to abandon
us. And this Earth keeps faithfully to her journey, carrying us
around the Sun,

All of us in our rags and riches, our rages and promises, small talk and suffering. As we go to the store to buy our food and forget to plant, sing so
that we will be nourished in turn. As we walk out
into the dawn,

With our lists of desires that her gifts will fulfill, as she turns our tears
into rivers of sweet water, we spiral between dusking and
dawn, wake up and sleep in this lush palace of creation,
rooted by blood, dreams, and history.

We are linked by leaf, fin, and root. When we climb through the sky to each
new day our thoughts are clouds shifting weather within us.
When we step out of our minds into ceremonial
language we are humbled and amazed,

at the sacrifice. Those who forget become the people of stone who guard
the entrance to remembering. And the Earth keeps up her
dancing and she is neither perfect nor exactly in time.
She is one of us.

And she loves the dance for what it is. So does the Sun who calls the Earth
beloved. And praises her with light.

[Babi]

 Amazing.

When we climb through the sky to each
new day our thoughts are clouds shifting weather within us.

I had to stop again and again to re-read something. This woman is a wonder.

[BarbStAubrey]

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
          ~ Christopher Marlowe (1598)

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 th 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.

[BarbStAubrey]

A Love Song from the North
          ~ Sarojini Naidu (1879 - 1949)

Tell me no more of thy love, papeeha*,
Wouldst thou recall to my heart, papeeha,
Dreams of delight that are gone,
When swift to my side came the feet of my lover
With stars of the dusk and the dawn?
I see the soft wings of the clouds on the river,
And jewelled with raindrops the mango-leaves quiver,
And tender boughs flower on the plain.....
But what is their beauty to me, papeeha,
Beauty of blossom and shower, papeeha,
That brings not my lover again?
Tell me no more of thy love, papeeha,
Wouldst thou revive in my heart, papeeha
Grief for the joy that is gone?
I hear the bright peacock in glimmering woodlands
Cry to its mate in the dawn;
I hear the black koel's slow, tremulous wooing,
And sweet in the gardens the calling and cooing
Of passionate bulbul and dove....
But what is their music to me, papeeha
Songs of their laughter and love, papeeha,
To me, forsaken of love?

* The papeeha is a bird that wings into the northern plains of India in the mango season, and calls " 'Pi-kahan, Pi-kahan' - Where is my love?"

[Babi]

 Ah, BARB, I see that May has indeed turned you mind to thouhts of love. 

  "The young May moon is beaming, love.
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love.
How sweet to rove,
Through Morna's grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake! -- the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!"-
 Thomas Moore, The Young May Moon 

[BarbStAubrey]

ahhh -  I have never read The Young May Moon -  lovely Babi just lovely,   even the title - reminds me of how in May we often have our windows open to catch the night breeze - I can just see the sheer curtains stirring in the quiet breeze with the moon shining as if a very low lamp was turned on. .

      ~ By William Hamilton Hayne
 
MOONLIGHT SONG OF THE MOCKING-BIRD

EACH golden note of music greets   
The listening leaves, divinely stirred,   
As if the vanished soul of Keats   
Had found its new birth in a bird.   
 
NIGHT MISTS

SOMETIMES, when Nature falls asleep,           
  Around her woods and streams   
The mists of night serenely creep—   
  For they are Nature’s dreams.

[Tomereader1]

So many lovely poems here of late!  Last night our Library Friends, face to face book group held our annual Poetry Night.  It was to have been in February, for Valentine Day, but we got "bad weathered" out (snow, etc.)  So we switched it to May, as our March, April books and moderators had already been chosen. We can bring poems by Poets, and/or poems we have written.  Usually, we have each person read one each.  We had some lovely readings.  The husband of one of our regular members brought two of his originals, and although "very long" they were beautiful!  We had partial reading of Poe's "The Raven", "Invictus", "St. Peter at the Golden Gate", "A Remedy for Insomnia" by Vera Pavlova; "Mirror" by Mark Strand; several by e.e.cummings, one by Billy Collins (love his work!) and a couple more originals.  There was laughter, ( the librarian came and shut the door to the room we were in!) there were tears.  We enjoy this night so very much.  We had more people last year, but it was February last year, and I suspect a lot of folks are already in trip/vacation mode and couldn't be there!  If any of you are in a f2f group, this of this as a suggestion.  I believe it will be a success!

[Babi]

 That sounds like a really lovely evening, TOME.  (I'm so glad the 'very long' poems were also
very good poems.)  I have no idea what kind of turn-out a poetry night would get around here.

 Small gems, those two poems, BARB.  I do think our mockingbird isn't appreciated enough. He
is such a merry, resourceful fellow.

[Octavia]

Thanks Barb and Roshanarose, for your kind thoughts.
Rose, since I've got older I cry at the drop of a hat. Just looking into a dog's eyes will bring a lump to my throat.
We're all sharing a virus in my family, I'm the lucky last, to be coughing and sniffling.
I just realised I've never seen a picture of a mocking bird, so I'll look it up.
The koel is our storm bird, a harbinger of the 'Wet', or rainy season.
I love Thomas Moore's idea of stealing time. I was up at 5:00 am, and went outside to enjoy the cool, quiet dawn.
It's been 20 years, but I'm still coming to terms with living in a town .

[BarbStAubrey]

In honor of Octavia with her sniffles and cough. Hope you soon feel better!
When you get the Flu

When you get the Flu
What should you do?
Go to the Doctor?

I would rather stay in bed
For the tickle in my throat
Is now in my Head!
I have this travelling ache
Through My Body
Oh- my hands have gone numb-
I'm cold all over
My temperature is 103.1!!

All I can do is SLEEP
Besides the cough,
and sniffle
I am unable to sing a peep.
Everyone I came in
contact with
Had a sniffle or a sneeze.
I did not prepare for
The worst-
My stomach got queasy-
Then I developed a thirst.

Acetaminophen please,
Ginger Ale, too,
And later I'll sip some
Lemony tasting "Thera-Flu".

Then by eleven pm, my temp
Went down to 99.6
But I started to cough
Still contagious with this!

"Cover your mouth with the
Crook of the sleeved arm",
The Health Department states,
Will cut down transference
Of germs (with charm).

I made sure I ate healthy
when my fever did break
I ate a fresh green salad
And then pasta with ground steak!
I drank plenty of fluids,
Probably a liter,
Which has Flushed down the
Pipes!

NOW I DO FEEL MUCH BETTER!!

[BarbStAubrey]

    I Went to the Doctor
          ~ Karen Nesbitt

Child:

    I went to the doctor,
    all covered in bumps.
    He said,

Doctor:

    You’ve got whooping cough,
    tetanus, rubella,
    digestive dysfunction
    from green salmonella.

    You’re covered with head lice,
    mosquitoes, and fleas.
    You’ve even got pinkeye
    and mad cow disease.

    What’s more, you’ve got cooties,
    a cold, and the flu,
    but don’t be upset;
    I know just what to do.

Child:

    He told me,

Doctor:

    I promise
    this won’t hurt a bit.

Child:

    Then grabbed a syringe
    like a barbecue spit.

    He made me bend over
    the seat of my chair,
    then plunged that big needle
    in my you-know-where.

    So now I’m all cured
    of my cooties and fleas,
    my whooping cough, measles,
    and mad cow disease.

    He cured me of every last
    sniffle and bump,
    and now I’m all better—
    except for my rump.

THE END!

[BarbStAubrey]

The Mocking-Bird
          ~ by Sidney Lanier

Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray
That o'er the general leafage boldly grew,
He summ'd the woods in song; or typic drew
The watch of hungry hawks, the lone dismay
Of languid doves when long their lovers stray,
And all birds' passion-plays that sprinkle dew
At morn in brake or bosky avenue.
Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say.
Then down he shot, bounced airily along
The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made song
Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again.
Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain:
How may the death of that dull insect be
The life of yon trim Shakespeare on the tree?

[BarbStAubrey]

Street Cries
          ~ Sidney Lanier

Oft seems the Time a market-town
Where many merchant-spirits meet
Who up and down and up and down
Cry out along the street

Their needs, as wares; one THUS, one SO:
Till all the ways are full of sound:
-- But still come rain, and sun, and snow,
And still the world goes round.

[BarbStAubrey]

Tomereader this is what Dylan would add to your group poetry reading...

Notes on the Art of Poetry
by Dylan Thomas

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,,,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,, ,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

[roshanarose]

Barb - What's a cootie?

[BarbStAubrey]

When I was a kid it referred to bed bugs - for some, all the tiny nasties like bed bug bites, lice, fleas - later, when my children were young, few children had bugs bouncing off them and their clothes so the word took on a broader meaning as a nickname for any infectious disease especially, if someone looked ragged and not a part of the community as in a homeless person that then were few and did a lot of illegal train hopping - the expression was used as a warning or as a statement why you did not want to get near or shake someone's hand because you might catch the cooties - meaning their germs if only social germs or 'poverty germs'.

[Babi]

 There is a mournful old folk song called "Listen to the Mockingbird".  I can
remember my Dad singing it.  It was written by someone named Septimus
Winner, under the pseudonym of Alice Hawthorne.

  Listen to the Mockingird

I'm dreaming now of Hally, sweet Hally, sweet Hally;
I'm dreaming now of Hally,
For the thought of her is one that never dies:
Shes sleeping in the valley, the valley, the valley
She's sleeping in the valley,
And the mocking bird is singing where she lies.

[Chorus]
Listen to the mocking bird,
Listen to the mocking bird,
The mocking bird still singing o'er her grave;
Listen to the mocking bird,
Listen to the mocking bird,
Still singing where the weeping willows wave.

Ah! well I yet remember, remember, remember
Ah! well I yet remember,
When we gather'd in the cotton side by side;
'Twas in the mild September, September, September,
'Twas in the mild September,
And the mocking bird was singing far and wide.

[Chorus]

When the charms of spring awaken, awaken, awaken,
When the charms of spring awaken,
And the mocking bird is singing on the bough.
I feel like one forsaken, forsaken, forsaken.
I feel like one forsaken,
Since my Hally is no longer with me now.

[Chorus] <
 

[roshanarose]

Thanks Barb - My education regarding US vernacular grows apace.

[Octavia]

Me too, Roshanarose. I always thought cooties were nits! Live and learn.
Thanks Barb, that's exactly how I felt. I set off to do some food shopping yesterday, but halfway there I abandoned the trip, bought 3 or 4 packets of throat lozenges at FoodWorks and came home again.
That's a lovely poem by Thomas. He's really captured the joy of reading.
I was reading Gerard Manly Hopkins yesterday, I was going to post The Windhover poem for it's sheer over the top exuberance, but I had a feeling it's been done.
Reading his lesser known work(to me anyway) I was impressed by his environmental awareness, especially at a time when preserving beauty wasn't really a priority.
Not a side of him I remembered from High School English.
 

[BarbStAubrey]

Yes nits too - the word just has a broader meaning and according to where in the country you live there is a colloquial definition - can be various bugs that we associate with unclean habits or as I say it can be the invisible disease of the great unwashed - that today, we agree are those living in poverty.  

Please, do not hesitate to post a poem even if  you suspect we read it in the past - poetry says something to us everytime we read it - for that matter I have been reading the same poem several times a day for a month now and with each reading a new insight reaches my mind and heart.

And so here is the Hopkins...

The Windhover
          ~ By Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844–1889

To Christ our Lord

I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

[Babi]

 Oh, my, such lovely phrases. "blue bleak embers"  "dappling-drawn-dawn".[/i]

But so many old terms that I don't recognize.  I'd have to haunt my computer to dig out all the meanings of this poem.  "wimpling"  "plod"  "sillion"   I'll
definitely have to come back to this one again.

[Babi]

 Okay, here we go...

 wimpling..rippling  (rippling wings, I can see that. )

  Sillion: The thick, voluminous, and shiny soil turned over by a plow 

 I couldn't find a definition for plod that seems to fit the poem, but  with that
marking over the 'o', I wonder if was simply a shortened version of plowed?

[bellemere]

When I was the director of a Head Start center years ago, cooties were definitely head lice. The note we sent home said, "It's no shame to have them but it's a shame to keep them' along with the instruction sheet and the name of the drugstore remedy, which was called A-200. it usually did the job.

[roshanarose]

plod (pld)
v. plod·ded, plod·ding, plods
v.intr.
1. To move or walk heavily or laboriously; trudge: "donkeys that plodded wearily in a circle round a gin" (D.H. Lawrence).
2. To work or act perseveringly or monotonously; drudge: plodding through a mountain of paperwork.
v.tr.
To trudge along or over.
n.
1. The act of moving or walking heavily and slowly.
2. The sound made by a heavy step.

[BarbStAubrey]

see the marks above these two words - shéer plód - that is a key to realize they are not English words - possibly Old French - knowing Hopkins most likely words used during the middle Ages.

Like his father, Hopkins was steeped in the lore and language of the Middle Ages as well as in the Welsh language - they were both strong silent supporters of the dauphin, Charles -  there is a lot going on in this poem - not only is it religious but it has touchstones of subterfuge against a English Protestant Monarchy to a Catholic Monarchy that Charles would wage war on Edward, the Black Prince.  

I did not attend a Jesuit school - Hopkins was a Jesuit - I attended a Carmelite High School however, we discussed, studied - take your pick - Hopkins along with many other 'Catholic' poets - Hopkins wrote this poem in or near a Tavern called the Buckle and Crump and the Kestrel was the image on the Tavern sign. The Kestrel in parts of Britain is called a Windhover. Regardless the image that may have started the poem - many of the words in this poem are straight out of a Middle Age dictionary and the poem is written with more than one meaning behind each phrase.

For instance the word rung- has to do with falconry where a bird circles, going higher and higher floating in tight winding circles on the thermals - And then in the poem the bird swings off this appearing ecstasy of effortless flight toward the heavens to hurl itself taking the wind, as is its nature, with full force.

shéer plód we were given to understand was like the very earliest part of a creation or a bringing to life - so that as the plowing of the field turns over the first layer of soil that has a black slick shine (thanks Babi, yes, sillion) as well, you can still see the shine on the plough since it has not dug as deeply in this first turn of the earth - that process and what it allows or prepares for is the earliest part of creation - the word embryo was not used when I was in High School but that would be the closest to expressing the meaning of shéer plód.  

There are many interpretations for this poem - those with a background in Welsh, the history of the Middle Ages and the 'English Language' of the Middle Ages, an understanding of the Victorian and the Medieval Catholic Church are going to be closer to a good interpretation.

And Yes, Bellemere -  cooties can mean head lice - there are various meanings for the word according to where you live and what the popular use of the word is in your area. My old 1950s Britannica Dictionary says, Body louse - and a small wooden bowl used in the kitchen. Now that is a new one to me.

Babi the words are magical aren't they - I always feel transported to another time and space when words not used in everyday speech are part of a poem. And you picked up the alliteration - dappling-drawn-dawn - I love it how some folks simply and naturally have the ability to speak their mind using alliteration - they draw me in like ants on honey.

[BarbStAubrey]

Spring Plowing
          ~ Ted Kooser

West of Omaha the freshly plowed fields
steam in the night like lakes.
The smell of the earth floods over the roads.
The field mice are moving their nests
to the higher ground of fence rows,
the old among them crying out to the owls
to take them all. The paths in the grass
are loud with the squeak of their carts.
They keep their lanterns covered.

[BarbStAubrey]

Grandpa's Plow
          ~  Terry Sledge

When Grandpa put his hands to the plow he walked a country mile,
Sometimes I ran alongside or sat under a shade tree to watch,
I would listen to Grandpa’s words about life he told with a smile,
To plow a straight furrow, focus up ahead and there you watch.

He never looked behind while the plow was still in the ground,
And when plowing the same furrow he'd plow it a little deeper,
Removing all rocks in his path he taught me not to plow around.

Grandpa died, I grew up and the farm was finally sold,
The lesson's Grandpa taught me were not just how to plow,
But truth on how to live life if I used what I was told,
Although learned many years ago truth is always for the now.

If you ever hope to make your mark you must look straight ahead,
And refuse to be detoured by the many distractions in life,
Don't look back to see where you were but always look ahead.

[BarbStAubrey]

Prairie Spring
FROM: O PIONEERS
          ~ By Willa Cather

Evening and the flat land,
Rich and sombre and always silent;
The miles of fresh-plowed soil,
Heavy and black, full of strength and harshness;
The growing wheat, the growing weeds,
The toiling horses, the tired men;
The long empty roads,
Sullen fires of sunset, fading,
The eternal, unresponsive sky.
Against all this, Youth,
Flaming like the wild roses,
Singing like the larks over the plowed fields,
Flashing like a star out of the twilight;
Youth with its insupportable sweetness,
Its fierce necessity,
Its sharp desire,
Singing and singing,
Out of the lips of silence,
Out of the earthy dusk.

[BarbStAubrey]

Pied Beauty (1877)
          ~ Gerard Manley Hopkins

GLORY be to God for dappled things—   
  For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;   
    For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;   
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;   
  Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;          
    And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.   
 
All things counter, original, spare, strange;   
  Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)   
    With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;   
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:          
                  Praise him.

[Babi]

 Before Spring disappears entirely into summer, here's one I like...

  Three Spring Notations on Bipeds
      by Carl Sandburg
1THE DOWN drop of the blackbird,
The wing catch of arrested flight,
The stop midway and then off: off for triangles, circles, loops of new hieroglyphs—
This is April’s way: a woman:
“O yes, I’m here again and your heart
knows I was coming.”

2White pigeons rush at the sun,
A marathon of wing feats is on:
“Who most loves danger? Who most loves wings? Who somersaults for God’s sake in the name of wing power in the sun and blue on an April Thursday.”
So ten winged heads, ten winged feet, race their white forms over Elmhurst.
They go fast: once the ten together were a feather of foam bubble, a chrysanthemum whirl speaking to silver and azure.

3The child is on my shoulders.
In the prairie moonlight the child’s legs hang over my shoulders.
She sits on my neck and I hear her calling me a good horse.
She slides down—and into the moon silver of a prairie stream
She throws a stone and laughs at the clug-clug.

[Octavia]

Barb, you give us so much information. The story behind the story, or poem in this folder.


I must say, I get overwhelmed sometimes by the volume of poetry on here. I like to take a couple of days to savour a poem, read it at different times, and aloud, to hear how that sounds.
Mull over the meaning, look up the author, get a feel for the place and time of writing.
What the poet's circumstances, and state of mind were.
I'm always going back to re-read some poem or another. I do appreciate them, even if I don't comment much at the time.

[BarbStAubrey]

Babi what a joy you found for us in Sandburg - each of the three is more wonderful with each reading.
I love -
"Who somersaults for God’s sake in the name of wing power in the sun and blue on an April Thursday."

However, just as delightful is and moving is -
"the child’s legs hang over my shoulders.
She sits on my neck and I hear her calling me a good horse.
She slides down—and into the moon silver of a prairie stream"

Then you just have to start reading all over and that is when you realize the first line is a wonder -
"THE DOWN drop of the blackbird"

And  yes, Octavia - poems do invite us to read and ponder and read again. We have an anthology here on Senior Learn with our  years of posting poetry don't we.

Well I had poetry born in my side yard to day - for the fifteenth year and a row I had fawns born - this year there were two - twins - most often many think there are twins when it is really that one Doe early within the second day or so takes on the complete care and nursing of more than one fawn - this time it all happened in mid-morning and the second fawn had his problems - the mama rolled it and licked it and nudged it for quite awhile before it finally perked its head up and the ears were like two waving banners. The second one is smaller so that it looks almost as if it was born a week later rather than simply a half hour later.

I need to learn to use my digital camera and learn how to  upload photos and see if I can take some photos to share in the next week or so...

[BarbStAubrey]

The Fawn  Edna St. Vincent Malay There it was I saw what I shall never forget And never retrieve. Monstrous and beautiful to human eyes, hard to    believe, He lay, yet there he lay, Asleep on the moss, his head on his polished cleft    small ebony hoves, The child of the doe, the dappled child of the deer. Surely his mother had never said, "Lie here Till I return," so spotty and plain to see On the green moss lay he. His eyes had opened; he considered me. I would have given more than I care to say To thrifty ears, might I have had him for my friend One moment only of that forest day: Might I have had the acceptance, not the love Of those clear eyes; Might I have been for him in the bough above Or the root beneath his forest bed, A part of the forest, seen without surprise. Was it alarm, or was it the wind of my fear lest he    depart That jerked him to his jointy knees, And sent him crashing off, leaping and stumbling On his new legs, between the stems of the white    trees?