Poetry Page

[Babi]

Let's Celebrate Summer
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words
that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known
about the poems we share - Please join us.

Summer time fills our mind-pictures with long, lazy picnics by the river, old-fashioned ice cream socials, a day at the seaside, parades, flags, fireworks and burgers hot off the grill.   Poetry can be part of life rather than a thing apart. Share with us your: Warm weather poems, Summer recipes and entertainment that Celebrate poets and poems, Summer craft idea using poetry. Promise to follow through using poetry in a weekly outdoor happening and make this summer the best it can be!

A few Summer Poetry Links:

• Famous Poets and Poems about Summer
• Summer Poems
• Flower Poems for Gardeners

Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey & Fairanna

 I suppose it happens, ALF, that sometimes people only find one time of
happiness in their lives.  In retrospect, I imagine that they would have
preferred to stay there.   If that's not true of my life, I can only be
grateful.

[ALF43]

Yes Babi

[Babi]

This evokes such familiar images of summer.

Summer Colours
  by Fenny Sterenborg

Long curls
lightest blond
like silver and gold
in the saffron sun

Summer dresses
cool white
show lots of skin
golden brown

Painted toenails
fierce red
in summer shoes
walk by

and catch eyes
green and blue
behind black shades
against the gleam

[MarjV]

My exact same sentiment, Babi & Alf.

This is kind of nice:

Summer Stars by Carl Sandburg

BEND low again, night of summer stars.
So near you are, sky of summer stars,
So near, a long arm man can pick off stars,
Pick off what he wants in the sky bowl,
So near you are, summer stars,
So near, strumming, strumming,
So lazy and hum-strumming.

I can remember summers at the beach and we'd be out at night
and the stars felt so close - especially when I would lay flat
down on the sand;  like I was part of the universe.
Don't get that kind of sky at all in the city.  However, I have the memory AND can bring back the image.   

[Babi]

 Alas, one has to drive well out into the countryside, away from even small town lights, to see the stars again.  I can't recall when I last saw a night sky full of stars, and that makes me sad.

[MarjV]

Me, also, Babi.  Didn't realize how much til after I wrote that post.

[fairanna]

I  post this poem every 4th of July since I wrote it

Come ye heroes Rise Up

From your graves, wherever they may be.
Some honored, some unmarked, some beneath the sea.
Today we need to celebrate each of you,
Who fought ,though ill supplied, against enemies
On every side. We need to honor you .
Do not let US forget the price you paid.
The debt we owe, and less we forget
Amidst the picnics and parades
To honor you. Let us kneel down and PRAY!
To thank you for your sacrifice, for your family
Left alone to face the future. They too were brave,
To kiss you and say goodbye and never know
If you would die and left behind in an unmarked spot,
Or maimed and crippled return to say,
I am glad and have no remorse for the gift I fought
To save. Freedom, Oh use it well for it can tarnish
Without your help. I beg of you don't let anyone take it away.
Ring your bells, wave the flags, cheer the living
And bless the dead. AND Thank God with heart and soul
Or come and lie with me.

anna alexander
July 3, 2003©





 
 

[Babi]

Thank you, ANNA, for this most appropriate and timely poem.

[MarjV]

Thanks, ANNA

For some weird reason I woke up this morning with this song in my head so I sang it for the kittys as we started our 4th of July morning.........

Pattie Page singing Mockingbird Hill- appropriate for summer morn.   I don't have mockingbirds around here.(Detroit area)

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

[MarjV]

This is quite prayer-like, psalm-like,  by Mary Oliver

The Summer Day
Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

[BarbStAubrey]

Wow -  you found a winner Marj

Wonderful to ponder on these lines ---

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

[bellemere]

I can't believe I am just discovering Mary Oliver, after years and years of visiting, and loving,  Provincetown at the tip of Cape Cod, where she lives.  Off to Barnes and Noble to but a paperback of her poems.  In the fall She is giving a reading at one of the colleges here, must try to get to that. 
It is finally summer here.  I loved "Summer Stars" only see that many stars in February from our little vacation island off the Yucatan.  Always surprises me!

[Babi]

I love it, MARJ. can one really entice a grasshopper to eat out of
 one's hand?  I would love that. I used to love to lie in the grass
in the shade of a tree, and alternate between reading and watching the
play of light and shadow through the leaves.  I still do, ..except for the
getting down on the ground part.  Too hard to get up again. 

[MarjV]

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"


These lines really make me take pause every single day.

I too wonder about the grasshopper.   Maybe if one is quite still.

 I try to get the butterflies in my flowers to sit on my hand;  they don't but the other day my hand was touched by a wing as it went by - what a thrill!   I talk to them when I'm looking at my flowers.

bellemere - her poems are so real, so right in our face.

[JoanK]

I never got a wild bird to eat out of my hand, but if I sat very still on my feeding deck, they will walk over me.

[bellemere]

I was nine or ten, and my best friend Beth and I had a treehouse, (boards laid across branches of an old apple tree)and that was where we sat and read our books in the summer.  In the winter, it was under the cellar stairs in my house, with a (forbidden) candle and pillows.  It was a miracle we didn't set a fire.  We were absolute soulmates for books.
I wonder if we still would be.  Beth died at 15 in an auto accident.  She was in a sense my childhood and that died with her.

[MarjV]

What a fantastic memory, bellemere.   And what a tragedy for a life to end so young - and with your times together that would always stay in your mind.

That's neat Joan.   My cardinals and chicadees come real close to "holler" at me for more food in the feeders.

[MarjV]

Bellemere - your post instantly reminded me of this song/poem:

Say, say, oh playmate,
Come out and play with me
And bring your dollies three
Climb up my apple tree

Shout down my rain barrel
Slide down my cellar door
And we'll be jolly friends
Forever more more more more more

Say, say, oh playmate
I cannot play with you
My dolly's got the flu
Boo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo

Ain't got no rain barrel
Ain't got no cellar door
But we'll be jolly friends
Forever more more more more more

[Babi]

 I used to sing that when I was a kid, MARJ.  Only my version didn't repeat
the word more, it just stretched it out a bit. 

  Since we are currently enjoying a bit of rain to relieve the heat, I offer
this poem.

Summer Rain
  by Raymond A. Foss

A break in the heat
away from the front
no thunder, no lightning,
just rain, warm rain
falling near dusk
falling on eager ground
steaming blacktop
hungry plants
thirsty
turning toward the clouds
cooling, soothing rain
splashing in sudden puddles
catching in open screens
that certain smell
of summer rain

[bellemere]

The Summer Rain poem was lovely.  I can almost smell it.  I would just add one last line:
Enough already.

[JoanK]

That was lovely! The weather here in Southern California is almost perfect -- especially today, it was glorious. But greedy me, I miss the rain!!

[Babi]

 I lived in Southern California for a couple of years, and of course the weather
is lovely.  Nevertheless, I could not get over my surprise at the fact that the
flowers growing there seemed to have no scent.  Big, gorgeous blossoms with
no scent!  For me, it made them appear almost artificial.

[BarbStAubrey]

well for those of  you who live back east here is an event -

A Sunken Garden Poetry Festival ~ http://ctweekender.com/2009/06/sunken-garden-poetry-festival/comment-page-1/

OH and look there is a Poetry program for teachers in Asheville NC
http://www.poetryalive.com/educators/residencyinfo.html

Interesting one of the topics is 'Using poetry across the curriculum' wouldn't  you like to be a fly on the wall during this workshop...?

Wow and look at here - a poetry in residency for the average person
http://www.ncwriters.org/programs-and-services/courses/404-2009-summer-residency

And here it looks like we have Suzanne for Washington planning a neighborhood summer poetry party
http://4real.thenetsmith.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=29111&get=last

Hmmm maybe I should not worry about 'if' folks would be interested in  poetry and just act as if it is normal and plan a few poetry gatherings.

[BarbStAubrey]

Pablo Garcia Casado
—translated from the Spanish by Chris Michalski

DINNER

They stuff their mouths with food when they talk about
the house. When they talk about money and what it
takes to earn it. She walks through the rooms like a
queen. Points out the tablecloths, the plates, the
fabric on the kitchen furniture. He offers us a beer,
the moisture on the glass is the sweat of his brow.
Get down on your knees and put your head there, he’ll
say much later. But for now they thank God that they
are what they are, that they have what they have.
Fresh pasta, soft cheese, a discreet Spanish wine that
we drink with delight.

[Babi]

That is interesting, BARB.  Thanks to TV, we seem to have images of poetry
gatherings as dim bars where unshaven,..and apparently unwashed...recite
their less than memorable sagas,..heavy on the angst.
  Actually, in searching out summer poetry on-line, I found more than one
site which consisted of contributions from today's hopeful poets. It would
appear that there are more people out there who feel the desire to express
themselves poetically than one might guess.

  Would you say it is now midsummer?  I found this, and wonder what 'hussar
caps' would look like, translated to millet.

Midsummer

I see the millet combing gold
From summer sun,
In hussar caps, all day;
And brown quails run
Far down the dusty way,
Fly up and whistle from the wold;

Sweet delusions on the mountains,
Of hounds in chase,
Beguiling every care
Of life apace,
Though only fevered air
That trembles, and dies in mounting.

Alexander Lawrence Posey

[MarjV]

I've always loved summer rains - so that poem is just right - today we expect rains here in SE Michigan.


 -  the Casado poem is fascinating.

Here's "Blackberry picking" by Seamus Heaney

And you can listen to it here onNPR:   http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4818965

Blackberry Picking

 
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
for a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
sent us out with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
we trekked and picked until the cans were full,
until the tinkling bottom had been covered
with green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
with thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
that all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

"Blackberry-Picking," from OPENED GROUND: SELECTED POEMS 1966 -1996 by Seamus Heaney. Copyright © 1998 by Seamus Heaney. Used by Permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.

The poem transport right to the place.

[MarjV]

Midsummer (from Wikipedia)

 Midsummer may simply refer to the period of time centered upon the summer solstice, but more often refers to specific European celebrations that accompany the actual solstice, or that take place around the 24th of June and the preceding evening. The exact dates vary between cultures. The 24th of June is a throwback to the old Julian calendar when the summer solstice usually fell on that day.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Midsummer

[fairanna]

Barb a few years ago I read that poetry classes are being FILLED and more Colleges and Universities are offering them as well as local schools  I know my grandchildren have been in poetry classes ..when my groups , members of The Poetry Society of VA read at various places we often have a child of one of members sharing thier poems...and some of the people who read thier poems are so good ,. .excellent One young man often memorizes at least one poem and what a special treat that is ...I have a whole slew of friends on line who are in poetry groups ...from very young to one man well into his 90's   it cheers me ..be back later love to all ...anna

[BarbStAubrey]

Incense for the heart to hear that poetry is not dying but is being embraced by the young - thanks Anna

Marj you picked a good one - he has such the ability to put us back into our memories regardless we live thousands of miles from each other. You know what I realize I am not seeing - all the ink berries as we called them on bushes along the roadsides - I see a few sumac all red leaves in autumn but few to no ink berries - remembering squishing them and trying to write using our old stick pens with metal nibs we could buy for a penny. I am remembering Blackberry picking in Kentucky and one of the favorites was Woodford Pudding over ham made with blackberry jam.

Babi a hussar is a light cavalryman and their caps were often those woolly looking things often with a plume - some had a hard high top hat with lots of gold trim - in parade they would look like an advancing field of millet - I know Alexander Lawrence Posey was well educated in our western body of learning but I wonder did he ever visit Europe to have seen a hussar or maybe he knew just from reading.

[Babi]

"The poem transport right to the place."
 Indeed it does, MARJ. What a pity, tho', to go to all that trouble
to pick the berries and then let them spoil.  From what I remember,
harvested fruit was baked and/or preserved promptly. Fruits like apples
could be stored, but most produce needed fairly quick attention.

BARB, I love that image of 'an advancing field of millet'. I had a fair
idea of what a hussar cap looked like, but as far as I know I'd never
seen a field of millet. I went looking and finally found this beauty.


http://www.durhamtownship.com/blog-archives/003415.html

[MarjV]

Great pic, Babi - millet is in my birdseed but I never knew it looked like that in it's growing and harvest time.

[MarjV]

Here's another summery poem of Seamus Heaney ;  has a good bit of humor.      His use of language is so remarkable - makes me excited.

DEATH OF A NATURALIST

All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
   Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.
 

[BarbStAubrey]

Yikes - that is some frog pond - talk about a spot of natural decay that breeds - whew

What a picture he conjures up with these words...

The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.

Babi - great photo - we do not see much Millet here in Texas because it is an invading weed to cotton fields - we see more Sorghum which looks about the same - darker in color - there are some areas where Texas Millet is planted [ a special strain different then European or the Millet that grows in the north] but more and more Texas Millet is planted in the south since there is a decreasing number of cotton fields in the south. Texas cotton may also be decreasing - Last time I drove up to Lubbock I noticed many cotton fields are now filled with oil rigs.

When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

[JoanK]

How beautiful the millet field is! No wonder it inspired a poem.

[Babi]

warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water

Ugh! I think I MUCH prefer Barb's Longfellow poem, MARJ.

 Yeah, BARB. That's why I went looking for a picture. I'm from Texas, too,
and had no idea what millet looked like.

[MarjV]

the waves coming in--
my sandcastle
floating away

Abbey Berry
 

more here:    http://www.brooksbookshaiku.com/wlhaiku/summerhaiku.html

[Babi]

MARJ, I was surprised at how many different things those brief three lines
made me think about.  First, I thought about how much the waves had
already washed away in my life.  Then I thought, 'Well, you know what they
say about houses built on sand.'

[MarjV]

I was seeing the image of my kids playing in the sand doing their castles, moats , etc.

That's so good about what has been washed away in life!   Thanks for expressing that .   Works for my starting to think.   Some things just happen just as the waves come and change the sand castle.

[BarbStAubrey]

Shoot  you can go further and further with both of your images - I am remembering Marj the sand castles on the beach and every day when we returned there would be a small hump or nothing at all left after the Tide washed over it some time after we left - then picking up on Babi's image - I thought of the flow of life and every day we have the opportunity to build a new sandcastle - sooner or later we have to learn that it is not permenant and so to build with the care and  improvement is who we are rather than believing we are only what we leave behind - it is the doing and the memory not the permenant edifice. Brings new meaning to make each day your best as if it were your only shot.

[BarbStAubrey]

The tide Rises, The Tide Falls - by Longfellow

The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveler hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveler to the shore.
And the tide rises, the tide falls.