Poetry Page

[BarbStAubrey]

You Are Part Of Me
Lloyd Carl Owle (Cherokee)

You are part of me now
You touched me,
With your kindness and love
So enchanted.
Your soft lips are kind.
Your eyes glow with life.
I'm glad you touched me,
You're part of me now.

[BarbStAubrey]

Eagle Poem
          ~ By Joy Harjo

To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can’t see, can’t hear;
Can’t know except in moments
Steadly growing, and in languages
That aren’t always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.

[Babi]

  Ah, that was just what I needed.  I could feel my body relaxing.

[BarbStAubrey]

great Babi - sometimes that is what poetry seems to do and other times it can churn up something that leaves  us on edge for awhile but yes, these are quieter - I particularly like Joy Harjo's poems - we did a month of her work back a few years ago.

[JoanK]

Someone posted pictures of Indigo buntings in the library: the little black bird that turns blue wqhen the sun strikes it:

http://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=Indigo+bunting+pictures&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8

it reminds me of a poem

I am like the Blue Bunting
that lives in my yard.
When the sun shines I am blue-
That blue!
The blue that you always wanted to be-
the blue of the jewel
that lives in your heart.
But when the sun is gone,
I turn
black.

[Babi]

 I never knew that about the Indigo Bunting.  So many fascinating things I'm still learning about.

 I remember my grandmother singing a song about a chickadee.  I finally found the lyrics, and
it is apparently the "Snow Bird Song", and she only sang the first verse, with slight alterations.
The 'two little sisters' became 'two little children'.
  THE SNOW-BIRD’S SONG
The ground was all covered with snow one day,
And two little sisters were busy at play,
When a snow-bird was sitting close by on a tree,
And merrily singing his chick-a-dee-dee,
      Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee,
And merrily singing his chick-a-dee-dee.

[hats]

Good morning,

I've been reading a few of the Native American poems. They are very beautiful.

[hats]

The Blue Buntings are very pretty.

[JoanK]

HI, HATS!

[Babi]

 What we need here is a timely poem.  How about that all-time favorite, Emily Dickinson?

 
  Emily Dickinson, A Something in a Summer's Day

"A something in a summer's Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer's noon --
A depth -- an Azure -- a perfume --
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see --
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle -- shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me --
The wizard fingers never rest --
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed --
Still rears the East her amber Flag --
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red --
So looking on -- the night -- the morn
Conclude the wonder gay --
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day!"
-

[JoanK]

Wonderful poem.

I read the "Lets" that starts line 11 as "Lest". Was I wrong?

[BarbStAubrey]

 A brief poke my head in - I'm here in Saluda where it is cool, too for me, almost cold with thick thick fog. The trees are full of leaves and they are all around - I do go to the living room windows to feel less constricted where I can look out over an open field although smack up against the side of the mountain, I can at least see some sky - oh dear - but I imagine this is probably closer to the scenery for our dear Emily rather than the wide open huge sky I am used to.

Here is a prose poem by Richard Mack

Red-tailed hawks and a great blue heron sail against a summer sky. Gray clouds of storm backdrop the slick, garnet-hughed twigs of the Arroyo willow. Campfire sparks rise and mingle with the stars against an obsidian night sky. Horses and riders silhouette along a ridgeline.

and another by Richard Mack

Fruit Cellar

it's cool here in the fruit cellar
cool and dark and quiet
slivers of outside peek through cracks in the door
aging rows of fruit and vegetable
float in silent syrups with fetal serenity
mice feet whisper like rain on roses
my skin tingles with anticipated cobwebs
and shrinks from the uncertainty of subterranean dampness
silence rushes in my ears
and my heart echoes in the empty chamber
it's cool here in the fruit cellar
cool and dark and quiet
why doesn't someone look for me

[Babi]

 Makes more sense that way, JOAN. I just copied the poem 'in situ' and transferred
it.

  Ooh, I love Richard Mack!  I want to read more of his work. Thanks for the introduction,
BARB.

[Babi]

  Remember Anna Alexander?  You 'old-timers' do ,of course.  Our resident poet.
I thought of her this morning, and brought you one of her best.

  Spring?by Anna Alexander

Spring that capricious lass
With tentative toe touched the dry brown grass.
Finding no one to stop her path
Trailing gossamer garments filled with southern breezes
She skipped North with winter still upon us.
Seducing trees in winter garb.
Confused they brought forth buds
Swollen by her siren’s touch.
Proudly displayed before their time,
In January when the earth was cold and still,
The beauty meant for May.
Alas she led them all astray!
Danced among them, teased their branches bare.
Whispered promises she could not keep.
When Winter shook his frigid fist
She shook her golden head of hair
Scampered South to hide her face.
Now when she should be here
She loiters on southern beaches.
The early buds wither and die,
Shiver in the frosted air.
Wonder what happened to that sassy lass
Whose guile their best efforts failed
To captivate, Whose smile they welcomed.
Where is she now ? That False Spring?
When March has almost gone away ?
Will April bring her back to stay
Or will Winter linger still awhile?

[BarbStAubrey]

Perfect - so glad to read Annafair's poems again and this one was the best choice.

Here is another I actually found on-line by Googling Annafair

Lilac Time

When lilacs bloom`ed and diffused the air,
Softly,faintly with fragrant perfume rare.
When early spring warmed by solar heat
Sooth`ed cold winter's leisurely retreat.
Then I would meet you beside new green hills,
Where robins nested, their song notes trilled.
We would bask upon the sun warmed fields,
I to your loving arms myself would yield.
There I would clove to you in nature's bower,
Our senses drugg`ed by the blissful flower.
My reverie, startled by a mourning dove,
My open eyes discloses a ghostly love,


Fading softly into a gentle sky.
My soul, alone and lost, without you cries...


anna alexander revised 9/7/2000 all rights reserved

[BarbStAubrey]

And this one is just right for my week here in Saluda...

THE STICK-TOGETHER FAMILIES   
          ~ by Edgar Guest  (c) 1917

The stick-together families are happier by far
Than the brothers and the sisters who take separate highways are.
The gladdest people living are the wholesome folks who make
A circle at the fireside that no power but death can break.
And the finest of conventions ever held beneath the sun
Are the little family gatherings when the busy day is done.

There are rich folk, there are poor folk, who imagine they are wise,
And they're very quick to shatter all the little family ties.
Each goes searching after pleasure in his own selected way,
Each with strangers likes to wander, and with strangers likes to play.
But it's bitterness they harvest, and it's empty joy they find,
For the children that are wisest are the stick-together kind.

There are some who seem to fancy that for gladness they must roam,
That for smiles that are the brightest they must wander far from home.
That the strange friend is the true friend, and they travel far astray
And they waste their lives in striving for a joy that's far away,
But the gladdest sort of people, when the busy day is done,
Are the brothers and the sisters who together share their fun.

It's the stick-together family that wins the joys of earth,
That hears the sweetest music and that finds the finest mirth;
It's the old home roof that shelters all the charm that life can give;
There you find the gladdest play-ground, there the happiest spot to live.
And, O weary, wandering brother, if contentment you would win,
Come you back unto the fireside and be comrade with your kin.

[Babi]

 http://www.vgreene.com/Anna/annas_archives.htm   Is this the site where you found
Anna's poem, BARB?  It appears to be part of the site of a Virginia Greene, whom I
assume is a relative or close friend.

  My family was very close when I was growing up.  All my various aunts, uncles and cousins
visited one another for holidays and vacations.  It is said, now that we are old, that we can no
longer keep up those ties. We are scattered, with some of us in poor health, the aunts and uncles
gone and even some of the cousins.

[BarbStAubrey]

No, but a lovely site - thanks for the link - I just Googled Annafair and found it - Everything is so damp here so that there is a musty smell in the air. Probably from the dampness in the fallen leaves from last year. I can also smell it in the basement which is something we do not have - I understand the water is already being rationed in Austin and we can only water on Saturdays. Here is a 'Damp' poem


Damp Rot
          ~ By John Engels

Water sheets on the old stone of the cellar walls,
trickles out over the floor into little deltas of mud,
worse every year, so that now I can see daylight
at the footings, and upstairs the floors sometimes
tremble and the clothes go damp in the closets. And sometimes   
I think the whole place is about to come down, and have begun

to dream at night of moving, unaccountably sad
to think of leaving this house which has possessed me now   
for eighteen years, in which one of us has died
and two been born, for all its elegance of detail most everything   
not right in it, or long gone bad, nothing
ever done which should have been, one hundred years   
and more of water rancid in the cellars, moldings
never finished or else mitred crookedly, all

the small and growing energies of dirt and rot   
wherever we care to look, whenever we do. And we do.   
But I dream also of the pine grove of my planting,   
which I know I love and which is the green truth   
of this place: in one day ten years ago
I dug fourteen small trees, wrapped the roots
in burlap, dragged them down from the top ridge   
of the hill, spaced them carefully, watered   
them each day for one whole season. Now

they are twenty feet high, thick roots   
already at the cellar wall, vigorous and loud   
even in little winds, only the hemlock   
mournful and reluctant to do much in the way   
of increasing itself. But it is clear   
that if I do not freely leave this place,
it will leave me—though, as Ray Reynolds says,   
digging at a powdery floor joist with his knife,   
there may be more here than I think, better   
than a two-by-six at least; and his blade slides   
two inches in and stops at what he calls
the heartwood, meaning, as I take it, at the wood   
which has not yet given way.

[JoanK]

You made me cry with Anna's poems. I miss her so much -- she would call me at night and read her poems to me.

When she died, I sent an e-mail to her family saying that if they wanted to publish her poems, I would help with the expense. But I never heard back. I'm glad they're still out there somewhere.

[Babi]

  We've gotten a number of thunder storms down here, BARB.  Too bad we haven't yet
discovered how to re-route some of this weather.  On the other hand,  if we started meddling
yet more we would likely make some disastrous mistake. 

[PatH]

This isn't spring-themed, but last week I saw an exhibit of Hokusai's 36 Views of Mount Fuji, and it reminded me of one of JoanK's favorite haiku:

    Climb Mount Fuji,
O snail,
    but slowly, slowly.

Issa

[BarbStAubrey]

Thanks Pat a good reminder of the simple beauty in a few words - here is another contemporary Mount Fuji Haiku

mount fuji photo session
she makes up her face as
the mountain hides its face

Jon Chunghoo

[BarbStAubrey]

Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold
          ~ JRR Tolkien

Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
To dungeons deep and caverns old,
We must away, ere break of day,
To seek our pale enchanted gold.

The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,
While hammers fell like ringing bells,
In places deep, where dark things sleep,
In hollow halls beneath the fells.

For ancient king and elvish lord
There many a gleaming golden hoard
They shaped and wrought, and light they caught,
To hide in gems on hilt of sword.

On silver necklaces they strung
The flowering stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, on twisted wire
They meshed the light of moon and sun.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
To dungeons deep and caverns old,
We must away, ere break of day,
To claim our long-forgotten gold.

Goblets they carved there for themselves,
And harps of gold, where no man delves
There lay they long, and many a song
Was sung unheard by men or elves.

The pines were roaring on the heights,
The wind was moaning in the night,
The fire was red, it flaming spread,
The trees like torches blazed with light.

The bells were ringing in the dale,
And men looked up with faces pale.
The dragon's ire, more fierce than fire,
Laid low their towers and houses frail.

The mountain smoked beneath the moon.
The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom.
They fled the hall to dying fall
Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.

Far over the Misty Mountains grim,
To dungeons deep and caverns dim,
We must away, ere break of day,
To win our harps and gold from him!

The wind was on the withered heath,
But in the forest stirred no leaf:
There shadows lay be night or day,
And dark things silent crept beneath.

The wind came down from mountains cold,
And like a tide it roared and rolled.
The branches groaned, the forest moaned,
And leaves were laid upon the mould.

The wind went on from West to East;
All movement in the forest ceased.
But shrill and harsh across the marsh,
Its whistling voices were released.

The grasses hissed, their tassels bent,
The reeds were rattling—on it went.
O'er shaken pool under heavens cool,
Where racing clouds were torn and rent.

It passed the Lonely Mountain bare,
And swept above the dragon's lair:
There black and dark lay boulders stark,
And flying smoke was in the air.

It left the world and took its flight
Over the wide seas of the night.
The moon set sale upon the gale,
And stars were fanned to leaping light.

Under the Mountain dark and tall,
The King has come unto his hall!
His foe is dead, the Worm of Dread,
And ever so his foes shall fall!

The sword is sharp, the spear is long,
The arrow swift, the Gate is strong.
The heart is bold that looks on gold;
The dwarves no more shall suffer wrong.

The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,
While hammers fell like ringing bells
In places deep, where dark things sleep,
In hollow halls beneath the fells.

On silver necklaces they strung
The light of stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, from twisted wire
The melody of harps they wrung.

The mountain throne once more is freed!
O! Wandering folk, the summons heed!
Come haste! Come haste! Across the waste!
The king of friend and kin has need.

Now call we over the mountains cold,
'Come back unto the caverns old!'
Here at the gates the king awaits,
His hands are rich with gems and gold.

The king has come unto his hall
Under the Mountain dark and tall.
The Worm of Dread is slain and dead,
And ever so our foes shall fall!

Farewell we call to hearth and hall!
Though wind may blow and rain may fall,
We must away, ere break of day
Far over the wood and mountain tall.

To Rivendell, where Elves yet dwell
In glades beneath the misty fell.
Through moor and waste we ride in haste,
And whither then we cannot tell.

With foes ahead, behind us dread,
Beneath the sky shall be our bed,
Until at last our toil be passed,
Our journey done, our errand sped.

We must away! We must away!
We ride before the break of day!

[PatH]

Well, Barb, you hit the right audience with that one.  I've forgotten where it appears, if I've seen it, and my Tolkien books are all in tatters, but the references are all clear.  It's The Hobbit, and nicely expressed.

[Babi]

  I've seen the poem before...and love it...but I don't remember where, either.  I've got a boxed
set of "The Lord of the Rings".  Some day I may read it all again.  It was a memorable adventure.

[BarbStAubrey]

Seasons
         ~ by J. R. R. Tolkien

In the willow-meads of Tasarinan I walked in the Spring.
Ah! The sight and smell of the Spring in Nantasarion!
And I said that was good.
I wandered in Summer in the elm-woods of Ossiriand.
Ah! The light and the music in the Summer by the Seven Rivers of Ossir!
And I thought that was best.
To the beeches of Neldoreth I came in the Autumn.
Ah! The gold and red and the sighing of leaves in the Autumn in Taur-na-neldor!
It was more than my desire.
To the pine-trees upon the highland of Dorthonion I climbed in Winter.
Ah! The wind and the whiteness and the black branches of Winter upon Orod-na-Thon!
My voice went up and sang in the sky.
And now all those lands lie under the wave,
And I walk in Ambarona, in Tauremorna, in Aldalome,
In my own land, in the country of Fangorn,
Where the roots are long,
And the years lie thicker than leaves
In Tauremornalome.

[BarbStAubrey]

Tom Bombadil's Song
          ~ by J R R Tolkien

Hey dol! merry dol! ring a dong dillo!
Ring a dong! hop along! fal lal the willow!
Tom Bom, jolly Tom, Tom Bombadillo!

Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! My darling!
Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling.
Down along under Hill, shining in the sunlight,
Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight,
There my pretty lady is, River-woman's daughter,
Slender as the willow-wand, clearer than the water.
Old Tom Bombadil water-lilies bringing
Comes hopping home again. Can you hear him singing?
Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! and merry-o,
Goldberry, Goldberry, merry yellow berry-o!
Poor old Willow-man, you tuck your roots away!
Tom's in a hurry now. Evening will follow day.
Tom's going home again water-lilies bringing.
Hey! Come derry dol! Can you hear me singing?

Hop along, my little friends, up the Withywindle!
Tom's going on ahead candles for to kindle.
Down west sinks the Sun: soon you will be groping.
When the night-shadows fall, then the door will open,
Out of the window-panes light will twinkle yellow.
Fear no alder black! Heed no hoary willow!
Fear neither root nor bough! Tom goes on before you.
Hey now! merry dol! We'll be waiting for you!

Hey! Come derry dol! Hop along, my hearties!
Hobbits! Ponies all! We are fond of parties.
Now let the fun begin! Let us sing together!

Now let the song begin! Let us sing together
Of sun, stars, moon and mist, rain and cloudy weather,
Light on the budding leaf, dew on the feather,
Wind on the open hill, bells on the heather,
Reeds by the shady pool, lilies on the water:
Old Tom Bombadil and the River-daughter!

O slender as a willow-wand! O clearer than clear water!
O reed by the living pool! Fair River-daughter!
O spring-time and summer-time, and spring again after!
O wind on the waterfall, and the leaves' laughter!

Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow;
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.

I had an errand there: gathering water lilies,
green leaves and lilies white to please my pretty lady,
the last ere the year's end to keep them from the winter,
to flower by her pretty feet till the snows are melted.
Each year at summer's end I go to find them for her,
in a wide pool, deep and clear, far down Withywindle;
there they open first in spring and there they linger latest.
By that pool long ago I found the River-daughter,
fair young Goldberry sitting in the rushes.
Sweet was her singing then, and her heart was beating!

And that proved well for you - for now I shall no longer
go down deep again along the forest-water,
not while the year is old. Nor shall I be passing
Old Man Willow's house this side of spring-time,
not till the merry spring, when the River-daughter
dances down the withy-path to bathe in the water.

Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadillo!
By water, wood and hill, by the reed and willow,
By fire, sun and moon, harken now and hear us!
Come, Tom Bombadil, for our need is near us!

Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.
None has ever caught him yet, for Tom, he is the master:
His songs are stronger songs, and his feet are faster.

Get out, you old Wight! Vanish in the sunlight!
Shrivel like the cold mist, like the winds go wailing,
Out into the barren lands far beyond the mountains!
Come never here again! Leave your barrow empty!
Lost and forgotten be, darker than the darkness,
Where gates stand for ever shut, till the world is mended.

Wake now my merry lads! Wake and hear me calling!
Warm now be heart and limb! The cold stone is fallen;
Dark door is standing wide; dead hand is broken.
Night under Night is flown, and the Gate is open!

Hey! now! Come hoy now! Whither do you wander?
Up, down, near or far, here, there or yonder?
Sharp-ears, Wise-nose, Swish-tail and Bumpkin,
White-socks my little lad, and old Fatty Lumpkin!

Tom's country ends here: he will not pass the borders.
Tom has his house to mind, and Goldberry is waiting!

[BarbStAubrey]

Bregalad's Lament
          ~ by J R R Tolkien

O Orofarne, Lassemista, Carnimirie!
O rowan fair, upon your hair how white the blossom lay!
O rowan mine, I saw you shine upon a summer's day,
Your rind so bright, your leaves so light, your voice so cool and soft!
Upon your head how golden-red the crown you bare aloft!
O rowan dead, upon your head your haif is dry and grey;
Your crown is spilled, your voice is stilled for ever and a day.
O Orofarne, Lassemista, Carnimirie!

[Babi]

 Sometimes it seems as though Tolkien lived in another world, and stayed there.  I loved the
description of his travels throughout the seasons, and felt sad that they were now 'under the
wave'.   I'm trying to think who else writes poems of a 'fantasy' type.  Might fit Blake; I can't
think of any others just now.

[BarbStAubrey]

How About...

Kubla Khan
          ~ by Samuel Taylor Coleridge,

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
    The shadow of the dome of pleasure
    Floated midway on the waves;
    Where was heard the mingled measure
    From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

    A damsel with a dulcimer
    In a vision once I saw:
    It was an Abyssinian maid,
    And on her dulcimer she played,
    Singing of Mount Abora.
    Could I revive within me
    Her symphony and song,
    To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

[BarbStAubrey]

Fairyland
          ~ by Rabindranath Tagore

If people came to know where my king's palace is, it would vanish
into the air.
The walls are of white silver and the roof of shining gold.
The queen lives in a palace with seven courtyards, and she
wears a jewel that cost all the wealth of seven kingdoms.
But let me tell you, mother, in a whisper, where my king's
palace is.
It is at the corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
The princess lies sleeping on the far-away shore of the seven
impassable seas.
There is none in the world who can find her but myself.
She has bracelets on her arms and pearl drops in her ears; her
hair sweeps down upon the floor.
She will wake when I touch her with my magic wand and jewels
will fall from her lips when she smiles.
But let me whisper in your ear, mother; she is there in the
corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi plant stands.
When it is time for you to go to the river for your bath, step
up to that terrace on the roof.
I sit in the corner where the shadow of the walls meet
together.
Only puss is allowed to come with me, for she know where the
barber in the story lives.
But let me whisper, mother, in your ear where the barber in
the story lives.
It is at the corner of the terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.

[Babi]

  Of course, "Kublai Kahn".  I once had the section beginning 'A damsel with a dulcimer' memorized.  I'm not sure I could still recite it exactly.
  The Tagore was a delight as well.  I loved that child's imagination.  You might find this bit
about the 'tulsi' plant interesting.

 http://www.organicindia.com/tulsi-facts.php

[PatH]

Thanks, Babi.  It adds to the poem to know that the tulsi plant has spiritual significance.

[Octavia]

Greetings! I almost feel like a stranger here, it's been so long. Myself, my shoulder, and my eye troubles have come to an uneasy truce. I hope it lasts, I was going stir crazy without books and poetry and discussions .
I thought I'd add a poem, a kiwi one, no less I've been thinking a lot about memory and how it works, and just listened to Penelope Lively(sorry, Dame Penelope Lively) discussing it online, as all her books are about memory and the past in some way.

Gigabyte by Mary Cresswell
The fact is that computers, like people,
have no problem remembering the messy stuff:
it's forgetting they can't do.

How much memory can you sell me? I want it all, asleep and awake, at the light
touch of a finger. I want the blood to stay liquid, the bones never to rise again, the
stink to stay undissipated in either still or moving air.

Forget bloody algorithms, archives, downloads, codices, indices, books, paper-brittle
files to fragment into contemplation, make me rest on my heels, make me wonder at
all this dust and cold coffee, ask what I am really after and is it worth it.

I have seen you watching action glowing in the dark bodies twisting, coupling, dying
out as the power dies leaving images burnt on memory ready to retrieve. We know
our passion is present; our passion is action.

You know, too, such frenzies are best gulped down fresh before some ungodly
troika variously rendered as reason, recall, reflection clatters up the driveway like
unwelcome parents coming home early because they forgot the key, when you
thought they would be out all night and leave you to it with all your mindless
friends.
Not a conventional rhyming poem, but the more I read and thought about it, the more it appealed to me.

[BarbStAubrey]

Glad you are having a rest period after dealing with so many health issues Octavia - Have one more week with my daughter who drove back with me and we are tackling closets and rooms that ended up being filled with 45 years of what at one time was so important and now is just clutter - all the decisions - should it go - could it be a gift or given to someone we know or is it for the Good Will or the dump and what is to be saved and how to store that neatly so I can easily reach it - whew - but we are getting there - one more week and then I am back.

[Octavia]

Oh boy, I don't envy you that job, Barbara! I had to do it after my husband died and the boys and I moved to Rocky. It's cleansing in some ways, but painful too.
I just had a phone call from Qantas in Sydney saying one of the boys is there, as they have his mobile phone, and would I please ask him to call in and pick it up. The owner of the phone is a FI/FO worker and would have got off in W.Australia, naive of her to think everyone goes all the way.
Never a dull moment with kids is there? Now I have to wait for the 2hr time difference and let him sort it out.
Getting very tired of rain.

[Octavia]

The Bullocky
Beside his heavy-shouldered team
 thirsty with drought and chilled with rain,
 he weathered all the striding years
 till they ran widdershins in his brain:
 
Till the long solitary tracks
 etched deeper with each lurching load
 were populous before his eyes,
 and fiends and angels used his road.
 
All the long straining journey grew
 a mad apocalyptic dream,
 and he old Moses, and the slaves
 his suffering and stubborn team.
 
Then in his evening camp beneath
 the half-light pillars of the trees
 he filled the steepled cone of night
 with shouted prayers and prophecies.
 
While past the campfire's crimson ring
 the star struck darkness cupped him round.
 and centuries of cattle-bells
 rang with their sweet uneasy sound.
 
Grass is across the wagon-tracks,
 and plough strikes bone beneath the grass,
 and vineyards cover all the slopes
 where the dead teams were used to pass.
 
O vine, grow close upon that bone
 and hold it with your rooted hand.
 The prophet Moses feeds the grape,
 and fruitful is the Promised Land.

Judith Wright

[BarbStAubrey]

What a powerful first stanza - forgot the word widdershins - we do not see it used much anymore - only a few more days and then Katha leaves - I have grown so used to her being here it is going to be hard when she leaves.

[Octavia]

I hate that period between someone leaving and gettling back into your old groove. It make's me restless and unsettled...dissatisfied.
I was bumped from the internet before I could add a few words, and I couldn't get back in. It's been like that an awful lot lately.
Widdershins means 'the wrong way, anticlockwise,, it's unlucky to walk widdershins around a church' it comes from wicca.
I was going to say before I was dropped, that the bullocky was a real person called Jack Purkiss and she's showing his descent into insanity.
It's a tribute to the courage and endurance of the early european settlers.
I can't imagine what it was like for women. All Australians would be aware of 'The Drover's Wife, and The Women Of The West.
my Mum lived in a tent for years, I learned to walk on the red dirt floor. My sister remembers spending hours up on a bed because there was a snake in the tent.
Sorry, I'm rambling.

[Babi]

 

Famous Poets and Poems - Summer Summer Poems Discussion Leaders: Barb

Sun...Sand...Surf...Wild Meadows Summer Poetry Emily Dickinson #122   A wild Blue sky abreast of Winds That threatened it — did run And crouched behind his Yellow Door Was the defiant sun — Some conflict with those upper friends So genial in the main That we deplore peculiarly Their arrogant campaign —

Very interesting and very different poems, OCTAVIA.   It's nice of you to put them out for us
while Barbara is tied up.  I've 'moved out' a number of things lately, but hardly made a dent it
the clutter.  Well, most of the knickknacks are Val's, and she is attached to every one of them!