Poetry Page

[bellemere]

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

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

Winter

and the waves
gush pearls
from their snowy throats
As they come
leaping
over the moss-green
black-green
glass=green roughage
as they crumble
on the incline
scattering whatever they carry
in their invisible
and motherly hands
stones,
seaweed,
mussels,
icy and plump
with waled shells
waiting
for the gatherers,
who come flying
on their long white wings
who come walking,
who come muttering
thank you
old dainties,
dark wreckage
coins of the sea,
in my pockets
and plenty for the gulls.,
and the wind still pounding,
and the sea still streaming in,
like a mother wild with gifts.
In this world I am as rich
As I need to be.
                        Mary
Can't reproduce Mary's arrangement, but here is a great winter image/

[bellemere]

That's Mary Oliver, of Cape cod, Massachusetts!

[BarbStAubrey]

ah and did you see her new book of poetry was voted best in Poetry for 2012

Here is another of her winter poems but since there is a great photo that highlights the poem I think I will post it as its own post.

[BarbStAubrey]

Starlings in Winter
~ Mary Oliver ~
 
Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly
 
they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,
 
dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,
 
then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine
 
how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,
 
this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.
 
Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
 
I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard.  I want
 
to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbably beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

[Babi]

 Love the Mary Oliver poem.  Here's an oldie...

    Minstrels, a Christmas Poem by William Wordsworth

The minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check, the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened?--till was paid
Respect to every inmate's claim,
The greeting given, the music played
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And "Merry Christmas" wished to all.

[BarbStAubrey]

Oh I love these lines...

While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,

[JoanK]

I love the poem to starlings: so noisy and pesky on the ground, so beautiful when they flock in the air.

https://mycotopia.net/forums/attachments/trash-talk/174710d1276730757-starling-flocks-flying-avalanches-starlings.jpg&imgrefurl

[BarbStAubrey]

What a sight - thanks JoanK - I am going to shorten your link by using TinyURL

OH my I tired and it will not shorten so that we can view it - this day and age to not be able to short such a long URL seems unreal - there is one other site I am going to try and see if it will work.

Did it - actually it was not by using the Tiny but by printing out the long URL and breaking it up there were 3 links involved and the one now in your post is the second of the three links in the original address - rheHa - it is a reasonable size trala.

[JoanK]

Trala! Thank you.

[Babi]

Those swirling dark clouds look actually menacing, JOAN. Perhaps that's why the
link calls them 'flying avalanches'. Amazing, tho', how closely packed they can
fly and swirl with no collisions.

[JoanK]

Right. As Mary Oliver says:

but you simply can’t imagine
 
how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,

[BarbStAubrey]

  While Walking (V)
          ~ by David Lee

Luke 18:16

Do you think the rocks are listening to us?
I don't know. Do rocks hear?
The ones that are alive do.

[Babi]

   Well, no, rocks aren't alive, and it's perfectly safe to talk to them.  If you
really want to, that is. People may look at you a bit strangely.

[BarbStAubrey]

ah yes  but Babi how often have you tried to converse with someone who acts as if they are a rock - no brain or thinking movement forward or backward nor any attempt to understand the issue or you and often with an opinion that can only be described as having rocks in their head. 

How about this bit of fun...

A Rock Makes an Excellent Puppy
          --Kenn Nesbitt

A rock makes an excellent puppy.
They're practically almost the same.
Except that a puppy's rambunctious;
a rock is a little more tame.

It's true that a rock's not as hyper.
It may not chase after a ball.
And, often as not, when you call it,
it won't even hear you at all.

And maybe it doesn't roll over,
and isn't excited to play,
but rocks always sit when you tell them,
and rocks really know how to stay.

It may sleep a little bit longer.
It probably eats a bit less.
But rocks never pee on the carpet.
You won't have to pick up their mess.

So go ask your folks for a puppy,
and possibly that's what you'll get.
But, still, if you can't have a puppy,
a rock is a pretty good pet.

It doesn't annoy you with barking;
it quietly sits on a shelf.
A rock makes an excellent puppy.
That's what I keep telling myself.

[BarbStAubrey]

here is another excerpt - this time translated from Aditya Bhaskara "i planted into sky's soil"

The Search

once a long time back
i planted into sky's soil
a small fleck of hope,
a fading wish of luck

since then i've been
looking among the stars
for some sign of the lost
seed of my tender dream

once someone told me
that plant blossomed
while i was asleep
in some deep slumber

by the time i woke up
it had withered away
sending its bright colors
down to the earth

riding on sun rays
those colors broke
through the window
onto someone's face

and since then,
i have been searching
for that smile that has luck
preserved in its curve

i am looking for the eyes
that have my soul shining
floating in retinal divide
like diamonds cut in elegance

i am waiting for the voice
that has my keen whispers
touching the roots of spine
like enchanted chilling wind

days pass by in stupor
invisibility playing at me
time and again .

[JoanK]

I like those poems a lot.

[Babi]

 Oh, BARB, how timely! My son and DIL brought their new puppy with them when they came for Christmas. A mini-schnauzer, beautiful little thing and loves everybody. Well-trained, BUT, so energetic, so happy to see you, that 'rambunctious' scarcely covers it.  I needed to sit down quickly when she
ran my way. 
  "The Search" is a lovely fantasy. Am I correct in supposing the poet is Indian,
and Hindu, do you know?

[BarbStAubrey]

Do not know much about him Babi except he is from New Delhi  - could be Hindu or Buddhist - does not sound like Islamic thinking - all religions in this vibrant area of the world.

[Babi]

 So this poet is a man?  How interesting.  The whole poem was so romantic, even wistful, that  I assumed it was a woman.

[bellemere]

this is not a poem worthy of reproducing here, but maybe you can tell me why my three-year old grandson thinks it is hioarious,he shaked with laughter when I sing it:
 My hat, it has three corners.
Three corners has my hat.
If it has not three corners
Well, then it's not my hat.

[Babi]

  Who knows, BELLE.  But while we're smiling over your grandson's laughter, here
is another such poem, by Alfred Noyes.

   Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.
We had nothing to do and nothing to say.
We were nearing the end of a dismal day,
And then there seemed to be nothing beyond,
Then
Daddy fell into the pond!

And everyone's face grew merry and bright,
And Timothy danced for sheer delight.
"Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!
He's crawling out of the duckweed!" Click!

Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,
And doubled up, shaking silently,
And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,
And it sounded as if the old drake laughed.
Oh, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond
When Daddy Fell into the pond!

[BarbStAubrey]

OH Babi what a delight - I laughed out loud - hope the Daddy was the kind who laughed with everyone else.  

Bellemere - interesting you bring up the 3 cornered hat - the Vienna Symphony only played the tune during their New Year's concert.

[bellemere]

Yes, they Did.  but my father used to sing it to me, and in German it was even sillier.  Wish I could remember it. but then, everything sounds funnier in Grman. Bagpipe: doodlsak.

[bellemere]

Loved Daddy falling into pond.  Must try that on Georgie.
The library book sale yielded up Irish Verst from the Sixth Century to the Present.
Ireland alone had women poets,, even during the Dark Ages. Here is one by Llandan, mourning the lover she dismissed on religious grounds.  I guess he was a pagan.

Lladan Mourns for Cuithin

Joyless
What I have done
To torment my darling one.

But for fear
of the Lord of Heaven
He would lie with me here.

Not vain
It seemed our choice,
to seek Paradise through Pain.

I am Lladan,I loved Cuirthin
As truly as they say.

The short time
I passed with him
How swet his company.


The forest trees
Sighed music or us
And the flaring blue of the seas.

What folly!
To turn him against me
Whom I had treated most gently.

No whim
Or scruple of mine
Should have come between

Us, for above
All others, without shame
I declare him my hearts love.

A roaring flame has consumed my heart.
Iwill not live without him.

 ninthe century,  translated from the Irish by  John Montagu.

[Babi]

Let me know how Georgie likes it, BELLE. I can well imagine a child that age giggling
over the image of Daddy falling in the water.
  Poor Lladan. I hope she was very young, and will recover in time, marry and be
happy.

[BarbStAubrey]

I became curious if there are other Ancient Irish Poems translated from the Celtic to English - found a couple online - this one from the 8th century

The Blackbird by Belfast Lough

What little throat
Has framed that note?
What gold beak shot
  It far away?
A blackbird on
His leafy throne
Tossed it alone
  Across the bay.

[BarbStAubrey]

From the 10th century

The Good Man
This is the song the Devil sang to Saint Moling.

Pure gold, bright sky about the sun,
A silver goblet filled with wine,
An angel wise is everyone
That still hath done God's will divine.

A caught bird fluttering in the snare,
A leaky ship that wild winds shake,
A wineglass drained, a rotten tree --
Even such they be that God's law break.

A breathing branch that flowers in spring,
A vessel brimmed with honey sweet,
A precious ruby beyond price --
Such he that follows Christ's own feet.

A hollow nut that none desire,
A savour foul, a rotten wood,
A flowerless crabtree growing wild,
Are those defiled that Christ withstood.

The man that does Christ's heavenly will,
He is the sun that warms the year,
God's image through his heart doth pass,
He is a glass of crystal clear.

A racehorse straining for the goal,
Heaven is the mark for which he tries;
That chariot driven by a king,
A precious thing shall be his prize.

A sun that warms all Heaven round,
God loves him more than things of price:
A noble temple and divine,
A golden shrine of sacrifice.

An altar with the wine outpoured
Where sweet choirs sing in linen stoled,
A chalice with God's blood therein
Of findruine or precious gold.

[BarbStAubrey]

I like this one in that I can easily substitute other occupations like - Above my shovel oiled for work...here I dig A Gardener bright in great woods now. -

The occupation or job would have to have two syllabubs and a once syllabub word describing the occupation - I just like the image of doing work with thoughts of birds singing that I seldom notice when I am focused on a job.

The Scribe

Over my head the woodland wall
Rises; the ousel sings to me.
Above my booklet lined for words
The woodland birds shake out their glee.

There's the blithe cuckoo chanting clear
In mantle gre from bouth to bough!
God keep me still! for here I write
A scripture bright in great woods now.

[Babi]

I find it hard to imagine the devil singing such a song. It is exhorting the
wisdom of those who obey God and the ruin of those who do not. That isn't exactly
his role.
 
  Wouldn't we all love such a pleasant place to work? 
 

[BarbStAubrey]

according to history Babi the Devil is saying what comes from your mouth stays on your lips and if St. Moling said aloud the things that showed the Devil for who and what he is then that behavior would be part of St. Moling and so the Devil gives him credit so to tamper the self destruction of St. Moling

here is another version of the scene
http://tinyurl.com/a5xplxm

[Babi]

 Thanks, BARB.  That link did clear things up a bit.  And St. Moling is totally new to me;
never heard of him before.  But I imagine that's true of most of the official saints.

[bellemere]

these early Irish poems are called "Epigrams' but don't some of them sound a little like haiku?

1.
I know him;
He'll give no horse for a poem.
He'll give what his kind allows.
Cows.

2.
He is my love
My sweet nutgrove.
A boy he is.
For him, a kiss. 

3.
CuChuememne in youth
Read his way through half the truth.
He let the other half lie
while he gave women a try.

Well for him in old age,
He became a holy sage.
He gave women the laugh:
he read the other half.

[JoanK]

Those are lovely!

[BarbStAubrey]

  I laughed and laughed at the last poem about CuChuememne

You prompted me to go in search of another Irish ditty type poem - could not find an Epigram but found this.

How to Ask and Have
          ~ by Samuel Lover

"Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother,
Sweet Mary," says I;
"Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary,
Beginning to cry,
"For my mother says men are deceivers,
And never, I know, will consent;
She says all girls in a hurry to marry
At leisure repent."

"Then, suppose I would talk to your father,
Sweet Mary," says I;
"Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary,
Beginning to cry,
"For my father, he loves me so dearly
He'll never consent I should go -
If you talk to my father," says Mary,
"He'll surely say 'no'."

"Then how shall I get you, my jewel?
Sweet Mary," says I;
"If your father and mother so cruel,
Most surely I'll die!"
"Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary;
"A way now to save you, I see;
Since my parents are both so contrary -
You'd better ask me."

[JoanK]

These are great!

[Babi]

 These small 'poems' strike me quite differently. I see the resemblance to haiku, but these
are so simple, they're almost childlike, esp. the first two. The one by Samuel Lover (how
apt a name) was fun to read.

 What do you think of this medieval Irish poem..translated, of course.
 
 I invoke the land of Eire:  
much coursed by the fertile sea.  
Fertile is the fruit-strewn mountain  
fruit strewn by the showery wood
showery is the river of waterfalls  
of waterfalls by the lake of deep pools
deep is the hill-top well  
a well of tribes is the assembly  
an assembly of the kings is Tara  
Tara of the hill of the tribes  
the tribes of the sons of Mil  
of Mil of the ships -  
Like a lofty ship is the land of Eire  
lofty land of Eire darkly sung  
dark Eber’s incantation  
an incantation of great cunning  
the great cunning of the wives of Bres  
the wives of Bres of Buaigne  
but the great Eire -  
Eremon has conquered her.  
I, Amairgen, have invoked for her.  
I invoke the land of Eire.  
 

[bellemere]

two things strike me about the early Irish poets; the deep mystical connection to the land and the sea, and the frankness of expression about sexuality.  Seems they were doing more in the Dark Ages than copying scripture in the monasteries.  Here is a prime example:

     Cathleen

Lovely whore though,
Lovely, lovely whore.
And choosy---
Sle    pt with Conn,
Slept with Niall,
Slept with Brian,
Slept with Rory.

Slide then,
The long slide.

Of course it shows.
 

[BarbStAubrey]

I think during this time in history we still had married priests called Friars - seems to me I vaguely remember it was during the middle ages before the church was concerned about the distribution of half the land to the eldest sons and so to stop that celibacy became the answer. Don't you find many of the poets before the 15th century were bawdy - I am thinking of Donne - they seem so frank even to our current liberal attitudes. I still wince though when I have to read this stuff. Ah so just not a 21st century woman I guess. So no I do not plan on reading the current whoha book something about Gray - on the cover is a closeup of a man in his shirt and tie in Gray.

Babi the poem you shared reminded me how I was always going to read the myths of Ireland and where I touched on a few and read children's short versions of several I never did read the stories - golly so many books I want to read but then there is life that must be lived. All to say I must look up to learn who are the wives of Bres of Buaigne

We have had so much rain - deep heavy rain - that the grass is as green as a picture from the Irish countryside.

[Babi]

  Ah, the fate of most whores, poor things. They attract the top men until
they begin to age,..then the long slide downhill.

 That bit about the origins of celibacy in the church was new to me.  I always thought the
church attributed it to St. Paul and his example and advice.  Didn't  priests take vows of
poverty?  If the land the church was concerned about was church land, the priests couldn't
pass on title to it in any case. A bit confusing.  
  In view of the fact that sex and the priesthood are still a severe problem, it would suggest
the decision may have been unwise.  

[JoanK]

BABI: I like that poem:

"lofty land of Eire darkly sung"