Poetry Page

[Frybabe]

Welcome to our Poetry Page.

Our haven for those who listen to words that open our heart, imagination, and our feelings about the poems we share - This is our continuing tradition. Please join us!

Birds and Wind

Bird on the Wind / Wind on the Bird

The aim of Symbolism in art is to capture more absolute truths which could only be accessed by indirect methods. It is what a thing means or symbolizes for us that is often what we are judging. Rising and soaring through the skies, birds in myth and legend are the symbols of power and freedom. Throughout the ages, birds link the human world to the divine, to forces beyond the normal world; magical or miraculous realms that lie beyond ordinary experience. The wind is stronger then all, but is blind and lost. It's sad and in pain, but it doesn't know why. It carries thousands of years with it, countless knowledge and wisdom fly with it, but it has nowhere and nobody to bring it to. The wind comes and goes, it is soft and strong, it represents freedom but also misdirection, it defines a sense of self and purpose but with no confirmation aside from what you leave in your wake. A key with no hole. The wind as a god is a power that is capable of communicating a larger-than-life language to those who would hear it

A few Links about Birds and Wind...

• Windy Morning in the Garden (YouTube)
• Birds as a Symbol
• Poems with the Theme of Birds
• The Big Wind by Theodore Roethke
• A Poem for the Wind

Discussion Leader: BarbStAubrey

I'm going to look up Elizabeth Maua Taylor. I am hoping she did one for each month, this one is really lovely. It is short but says a lot.

[Frybabe]

Huh. The only thing I can find on Ms. Taylor, besides plenty of repeats of her poem, is a page on The Steampunk Writers & Artists Guild.

Oh, and there is a link on Google to the Poetry Page already.

[Frybabe]

I just found this interesting book called Pre-Raphaelite and Other Poets which are lectures given by Lafcadio (what a name) Hearn to his Japanese students of English Literature between 1896 and 1902. John Erskine edited and wrote the introduction. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/55377/55377-h/55377-h.htm The intro is sufficient for me to read further into the book.

Hearn himself was not a poet, but a writer, teacher, and translator whose life was rather eventful. He spent 10 years in New Orleans before moving on to Japan. Humanaties magazine published this interesting article about his life there. https://www.neh.gov/humanities/2012/mayjune/feature/lafcadio-hearn-in-new-orleans He was, however, best known for his books about Japan.

[BarbStAubrey]

Interesting stuff Frybabe - in the book there is the fable, Shaving of Shagpat and the end of the essay he says,

"Men think that because the world has made one step forward in their time, all illusions are presently going to fade away. This is the greatest of social mistakes that a human being can possibly make. The great sea of error immediately closes again behind the forms that find strength to break out of it. It is just the same as before. One illusion may indeed be eventually destroyed, but another illusion quickly forms behind it. The real truth is that wisdom will be reached when human individuals as well as human society shall have become infinitely more perfect than they now are; and such perfection can scarcely be brought about before another million of years at least."

That is something to contemplate that one illusion destroyed will be replaced by another... hmmm

[BarbStAubrey]

[BarbStAubrey]

After Apple-Picking By Robert Frost My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.

[Frybabe]

That is not a Frost poem I've read before, Barb. The photos that go with it are gorgeous.

[BarbStAubrey]

here it is Frybabe in his book of Rural Life... https://tinyurl.com/y9awobcd

[Frybabe]

I found it, Barb. I have it in The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem. It is in the Chapter titled "North of Boston".

Here is another apple related poem I found in his volume Mountain Interval (also published in the above with a chapter of the same name) which was published in 1931.

THE COW IN APPLE TIME

Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.

Well, picture that one in your mind's eye.

Project Gutenberg has several of his volumes listed, three of which are on audio.

[BarbStAubrey]

ohhh audio - need to find it - this one has some humor - so looking forward this year to autumn - we really do not get a proper autumn as folks living north or even the upper south but there are more northers (weather that cools and comes down from the north) and for us football takes over an entire community with band practice and tailgate suppers before the game and moms baking treats for after the game and the girls wearing the most outrageous corsages that some moms go into high production to make and others are purchased at the local florist - and then later Halloween which always brings in the day before or after a big rain storm that is the start of cool weather.

In the fall the lantana is blooming that reminds you of chrysanthemums - the deer do not eat lantana where as, chrysanthemums are candy for them. There are lots of concerts in churches as well as the new symphony events - all that before Thanksgiving - tra la. Waiting with baited breath this year. Too much vitriol on TV on Facebook and among those in my own family all over politics - grrrr.

I want to feel joy and grateful for life and do the things that make me feel good and say the things that are uplifting and hope against hope others will respond in kind. Haha my rant for the day...     

[Frybabe]

I grew Lantana one year. It was a bit spindly. My Mom was fond of geraniums and thought she kept hers very well, that is until her first visit to Florida. She was astounded by the size and lushness of the ones growing in neighborhood gardens everywhere - made hers look a bit puny.

[BarbStAubrey]

October - Robert Frost         O hushed October morning mild,         Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;         Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,         Should waste them all.         The crows above the forest call;         Tomorrow they may form and go.         O hushed October morning mild,         Begin the hours of this day slow.         Make the day seem to us less brief.         Hearts not averse to being beguiled,         Beguile us in the way you know.         Release one leaf at break of day;         At noon release another leaf;         One from our trees, one far away.         Retard the sun with gentle mist;         Enchant the land with amethyst.         Slow, slow!         For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,         Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,         Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—         For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

[PatH]

Frost was incredibly good at capturing the feel of the New England scene.  Nice picture pairing, Barb.  You always manage to find good ones.

[PatH]

Here's a minimalist fall poem, with a nice sound effect.

Splinter - Carl Sandberg

The voice of the last cricket
across the first frost
is one kind of good-by.
It is so thin a splinter of singing.

[BarbStAubrey]

This is really nice isn't it...

[PatH]

I've had some yesterdays that really could have used that poem. 

[BarbStAubrey]

Ah yes, Pat it seems to be the stuff of life - I'm thinking the idea of a fairyland life just does not happen so that half of our reaction is based on the idea is should not be this way...

[Frybabe]

I found this rather intriguing poem in a book called Death the Knight and the Lady: A Ghost Story, by H. De Vere Stacpoole

BALLAD OF THE ARRAS
Lo! where are now these armoured hosts
Mailed for the tourney câp-a-pie,
These dames and damozelles whose ghosts
Make of the past this pagentry?

O sanguine book of History!
Romance with perfume cloaks thy must,
But he who shakes the page may see
—Dust.

Stiff hangs the arras in the gloom;
I turn my head awhile to gaze:
Here lordly stallions fret and fume,
Here streams o'er briar and brake the chase.

Here sounds a horn, here turns a face,
How filled with fires of life and lust!
Wind shakes the arras and betrays
—Dust.

Ephemeral hand inditing this
Great hound that lolls against my knee,
Lips pursed in thought as if to kiss
Regret—full soon the time must be.

When one shall search, but find not ye,
For that dim moth whose labours rust
All forms in time or tapestry
—Dust.

Forth offspring to the perch and then
Clap wings—or fall, if find you must
This saddest fate of books or men
—Dust.


Arras is a rich tapestry designed to hang on a wall. It is also a town in France which was known for its textile arts. The term eventually became rather widely applied to tapestries even though they may not have been loomed there.

The author's name deceives; he was Irish, not Dutch, Belgian or French as I supposed. He was also the author of the popular Blue Lagoon. I believe this is the movie that made Brooke Shields a star.  "Knight/Lady" was one of his early books.

[hats]

Don't want to feel like an intruder. I know you have topics started here already. What happened is I began reading "The Shadowy Horses" by Susanna Kearsley. There is a poem by Yeats written after the dedication. The title is "He Bids His Beloved Be At Peace." The words are beautiful. However, I lack an understanding of the poem. If there is any time would some one explain this poem which might not have any thing to do with the season, autumn? I have listened to the poem on a poetry site. Here is a link. I am only interested in he first eight lines. https://www.poemhunter.com/poems/peace/page-1/13831/

[BarbStAubrey]

Hats is this the poem you are referring

I HEAR the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,
Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;
The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,
The East her hidden joy before the morning break,
The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,
The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:
O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,
The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:
Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat
Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,
Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,
And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet.

Hats I have not read the book although I have read this author - often an author sees something in a poem that will enlarge the story being told - like all poems, there are layers and depths therefore, many can see other explanations within the poem.

To me there are two words in the poem that is the crux of the poem  - tumult and vanity -
The second meaning for Vanity says it all

tu-mult
    confusion or disorder.
                        "the whole neighborhood was in a state of fear and tumult"
     synonyms:   turmoil, confusion, disorder, disarray, unrest, chaos, turbulence, mayhem, maelstrom, havoc, upheaval, ferment, agitation, trouble
                        "years of political tumult"

Van-i-ty
     2    The quality of being worthless or futile.
                         "the vanity of human wishes"
      synonyms:   futility, uselessness, pointlessness, worthlessness, fruitlessness
                         "the vanity of all desires of the will"

The poem suggests to me that the lovers are escaping their futile attempts to acquire Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire, by making love.
 

[PatH]

Hats, it's always good to see you.  There's no such thing as being an intruder here.  The seasonal topics are helpful to spark discussions and set a mood or theme, but you will notice that we all share stuff that has nothing to do with the current topic.

Yeats is always a tough poet for me, and I'm sure this one has several layers.  I agree with Barb, and also think the four horses are important, and maybe mean more than one thing.  They could be the Four Horses of the Apocalypse from Revelation--Pestilence, Famine, War, and Death.  That doesn't fit the four directions, though.  I think there are other mythical horses, but don't know that much about them.

[hats]

Thank you Barb and PatH. I love the seasons also. I'm glad all four are covered here during their special time. Thanks for helping with the poem by Yeats. Your thoughts are always very helpful. Neither do I know about Mythical horses.

[BarbStAubrey]

Perhaps the World Ends Here Joy Harjo, 1951 The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

[hats]

Throughout the year, the table is very important. By giving the Joy Harjo poem, I am reminded to never forget the past spent with family and friends. My wish is that I could remember every word spoken there: the angry words, the apologies and the loving words. Hope you Barb and all of those who enjoy the Poetry Page will have a safe and memorable Thanksgiving this year.

[BarbStAubrey]

living alone now Hats it is easy to forget the table was the center of our family - Jo Harjo writes a good thought, a reminder to help get back to the basics that so easily get lost in this technological world replacing family with faceless folks on the internet. Thank goodness for Senior Learn - it is about the only site where I can depend on civility and a willingness to explore new ideas.

Now I need to get back into the habit of eating my meals at the kitchen table and rather than banishing my memories think of the folks no longer with me, my memories and my dreams as drinking coffee with me.

[BarbStAubrey]

Sailing On A Sea Of Stars On this night, I am sailing on a sea of stars to lands that are far the moon smiles brightly and every darkness is forgotten yes, though the troubles brew strong I see God’s hand and I know they are long enough to destroy everything that is wrong tonight, for one moment I will forget every single torment raise my voice in song and forget the noise on this night, I am sailing on a sea of stars to lands that are far the moon smiles brightly and every darkness is forgotten

[BarbStAubrey]

The Fox - by Faith Shearin It was an ordinary morning: November, thin light, and we paused over our pancakes to watch something red move outside. Our house is on an untamed patch of land and, across the lagoon, another house surrounded by trees. On the banks of their shore, facing us: a fox. We thought he might be a dog at first for he trotted and sniffed like a dog but when he turned to us we knew he was nobody's pet. His face was arranged like a child's face — playful, dainty — and his eyes were liquid and wild. He stood for awhile, looking out, as if he could see us in our pajamas, then found a patch of sand beneath a tree and turned himself into a circle of fur: his head tucked into his tail. It was awful to watch him sleep: exposed, tiny, his eyes closed. How can any animal be safe enough to rest? But while I washed our dishes he woke again, yawned, and ran away to the places only foxes know. My God I was tired of being a person. Even now his tail gestures to me across the disapproving lagoon.

[hats]

Barb, You can feel lonely with many people around a table. Cultivating the love of self is most important. I feel you would do it well. You might teach others this talent too.

[BarbStAubrey]

Yes, Hats you can feel lonely surrounded by others can't you - I'm seeing the value though in remembering those who are no longer with us - there was such satisfaction in many of those connections - I'm thinking they can be as much a part of us as drinking a cup of coffee - in fact folks have made cartoons about little old ladies talking to themselves - well maybe they are talking to their best friends who are no longer with us - I've decided not to banish their memories because it makes me sad - so a tear or two but to have their memory in my life as I would drink a cup of coffee - why not... 

[BarbStAubrey]

The First Snowfall James Russell Lowell, 1819 - 1891 The snow had begun in the gloaming,    And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway    With a silence deep and white.     Every pine and fir and hemlock    Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree    Was ridged inch deep with pearl. From sheds new-roofed with Carrara    Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow, The stiff rails were softened to swan’s-down,    And still fluttered down the snow. I stood and watched by the window    The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,    Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn    Where a little headstone stood; How the flakes were folding it gently,    As did robins the babes in the wood.     Up spoke our own little Mabel,    Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?” And I told of the good All-father    Who cares for us here below.     Again I looked at the snow-fall,    And thought of the leaden sky That arched o’er our first great sorrow,    When that mound was heaped so high.     I remembered the gradual patience    That fell from that cloud-like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding    The scar of our deep-plunged woe.     And again to the child I whispered,    “The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father    Alone can make it fall!”     Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;    And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister,    Folded close under deepening snow.

[Frybabe]

A bit of personal sorrow gently told in that poem, Barb. Mabel, mentioned in the poem, was the only surviving child of four. The others died in infancy.

[BarbStAubrey]

I did not know it was more than one - thanks - when death was the silent partner for so many...

[BarbStAubrey]

Sweet little bird in russet coat,     The livery of the closing year,     I love thy lonely plaintive note     And tiny whispering song to hear,     While on the stile or garden seat     I sit to watch the falling leaves,     The song thy little joys repeat     My loneliness relieves.             John Clare ~ Autumn Robin

[hats]

Some times I surprise myself. I like the poem about the fox by Faith Shearin. The description of the fox as sly is often written about in books. This portrayal seems so negative. It's like its is waiting in the woods to catch any one and do them harm.

Because of the poet I looked at the fox differently this morning. Is it the pancakes cooking in the poem, or is it the photograph of the fox that have changed me? Not sure, I know my feelings about the fox for this moment, safely inside my little space, have become more gentle. I could like the fox. How did Aesop feel about the fox? I can't remember. Obviously, I don't know enough about the life of this creature. Maybe a tiny bit of information on the web would help me understand it.

[PatH]

Yes, it's so true, hats.  Poetry has the power to make us see things in a new way.

[BarbStAubrey]

The sentence that got to me hats and had me thinking was

It was awful to watch him sleep: exposed,
tiny, his eyes closed.

Never thought till I read the poem how all wild creatures so exposed and vulnerable will curl up and sleep - I am trying to think if I ever alone took an outdoor nap in an unprotected area - lots of naps at the beach or in the woods but always family or friends were nearby - even at home there is a cozy safe feeling napping in bed and if I do fall asleep in a chair I always wake with a start and think, if I was that tired I should have gone to my bed.

After reading this I realized I am not as brave or feel I can protect myself from the unknown compared to an outdoor animal.

I did like how the poem describes the fox as having - a child's face — playful, dainty — and his eyes
were liquid and wild.

Where as in the photo I thought his/her eyes looked quizzical as if looking into a far distant space but the dark is in the way so he/she can only see shadows and therefore, the quizzical look.  I do not know if the Fox sleeps at night but at least the Fox is safe from the dogs that chased them during the recreational hunts that were banned a few years ago.

Yes, it is the wonder isn't it Pat of how we can all get something different from the same poem and how a poem can touch us as nothing else.

[BarbStAubrey]

Milkweed By Bradford Tice I tell myself softly, this is how love begins— the air alive with something inconceivable, seeds of every imaginable possibility floating across the wet grasses, under the thin arms of ferns. It drifts like snow or old ash, settling on the dust of the roadways as you and I descend into thickets, flanked by the fragrance of honeysuckle and white primrose.   I recall how my grandmother imagined these wanderers were living beings, some tiny phylum yet to be classified as life. She would say they reminded her of maidens decked in white dresses, waltzing through air. Even after I showed her the pods from which they sprang, blossoming like tiny spiders, she refused to believe.   Now, standing beside you in the crowded autumn haze, I watch them flock, emerge from brittle stalks, bursting upon the world as young lovers do—trysting in the tall grasses, resting fingers lightly in tousled hair. Listen, and you can hear them whisper in the rushes, gazing out at us, wondering— what lives are these?

[hats]

Still thinking about the "power of poetry." <Pat H, after a few moment of thought, I remember reading two or three poems. Each poem made me look a second or third time at the objects. These objects are: books, fog and a  deer. The fog poem really excited me one day. You know the one. It's by Carl Sandburg. I ended up sending a copy in the mail to my son. Then, there is the one by Emily Dickinson about books. She likens a book to a frigate. She had an amazing mind. Then, there is a deer poem. I think Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote it. I Need to look it up again. Yes, reading poetry changes our idea of a thing and widens our perspective.

[Frybabe]

Oh Barb, that brings back memories. I once let a milkweed plant grow in my garden. What lovely, fragrant flowers, and it didn't hurt that milkweed attracts Monarch butterflies. Being in the organic living frame of mind at the time, I planned on gathering the pods for the silk "parachutes" to try my hand at making an insulated vest. I also let a big bull thistle grow just because I like the thistle flowers and it attracted many butterflies and goldfinches. I took pictures, but they got lost.   

[BarbStAubrey]

Yes, I MUST plant milkweed this year - I have been promising myself but the Spring would get away from me and then there is also the issue of the deer eating everything - although milkweed is not as high up on their list of candy plants - but I remember so many craft projects we did with the dry pods - it was all so much fun and I miss all of that... Like the idea of growing thistle although I have never seen them grow in this part of Texas - saw them along the roadside all the time in Kentucky.

Been finding so many great photos that just scream for an appropriate poem pairing.