Poetry Page

[BarbStAubrey]

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!

Winter Afternoon ~ John Nash

“What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why” By Edna St. Vincent Millay What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.

A Few Winter Poems

• 10 Great Winter Poems Everyone Should Read
• Winter Poems from the Poetry Foundation
• The Winter Wind by Keats

Discussion Leader: BarbStAubrey

[BarbStAubrey]

[hats]

The Edna St. Vincent Millay poem is beautiful. Lately or for the last couple of years I have thought often of "ghosts." I don't think "ghosts" follow us in our early years. Well, maybe... It's just the fact that now so many family and friends are gone for one reason or another reason. Some people believe ghosts should go behind a locked door in the basement. I can't decide whether to befriend them or go away from them. 

[BarbStAubrey]

the wood between: Rostislav Popsky

The Roof By Cathal McCabe s     n     o     w     s     n     o     w     s     n     o     w n     o     w     s     n     o     w     s     n     o     w o     w     s     n     o     w     s     n     o     w w     s     n     o     w     s     n     o     w s     n     o     w     s     n     o     w n     o     w     s     n     o     w o     w     s     n     o     w w     s     n     o     w s     n     o     w n     o     w o     w w

[BarbStAubrey]

Moon Winter Woolies ~ Lisa Graa Jensen

winter moon Descending December the sun fades to its last burning ember distant days of August we vaguely remember with food running low from the harvests in September can we hunt enough to feed each and every member how many will we lose within our little commune and to think there's still two months until the Hunger Moon Magnificent May I ask for you and begin to pray bring to us your warmth and lengthen the day for I fear we can no longer survive in this way we've already lost great numbers leaving my people in dismay The howls roll in from the hills and I feel like a complete buffoon did I truly believe this prayer could hold off the Wolf's Moon

[BarbStAubrey]

. Learn from the Pine ! .        by Matsuo Basho To do that you must leave behind you all subjective prejudice. Otherwise you will force your own self onto the object and can learn nothing from it. Your poem will well-up of its own accord when you and the object become one, when you dive deep enough into the object, to discover something of its hidden glimmer.

[PatH]

Barb, who is the artist of the picture accompanying Winter Moon?  I really like it.

And Basho is a favorite of mine.  I mostly know his haiku, and Learn from the Pine perfectly says the way he surely must construct them.

[BarbStAubrey]

Whoops thanks for asking Pat, the last two I put a space where there should not have been one and neither artist showed - fixed now. 

[hats]

To become one with an object means you completely understand its properties and feel you are similar with it in many ways, right? I've never experienced such closeness with a piece of driftwood, a Japanese fan or a rolling pin in the kitchen. Of all the times my family and I have visited beaches, I didn't take time to just sway with the ocean, sit on the sand and admire it. Instead, I walked quickly down the beach. Looked at other people on their beach towels and admired sand castles. Time wasted. There is a definite desire within me to experience what Basho experienced time after time in his life and spoke about in this poem. How did he do it? If you have done it, how did you do it? How long does it take to get to that change, back and forth identity with a Christmas Cactus?

[BarbStAubrey]

Hats it is interesting isn't it what grabs our attention - your post had me thinking - on my desk is an empty cup, or mug but, it is a pretty mug so, not sure that the word 'mug' fits - I looked at it and thought of how I am similar - some observations came up - I realized it is made of clay, a mud, that was formed by someone with intelligence, who purposefully molded with their hands a container to hold liquid that would benefit us. Regardless it was made into a mold so that many could be produced, the original was hand made.

More - the cup/mug was decorated to please the eye - it is a Christmas mug with gold on the rim and a stripe of gold on the handle - it was painted or had a decal applied that was originally hand painted of a Santa with his finger to his lips, a decorated pine tree behind him and a sack of toys slung over his shoulder - on the other side of the cup painted are two candy canes tied with a red ribbon to more decorated pine.

How do I forget this is a cup made for my benefit but rather, think how the cup and I are similar - My first reaction was that I am made of atoms just as the cup is made of atoms and the gold is a precious metal that came to earth by a meteor shower during or right after the formation of the earth - metals are electrons that i had to look up and did learn the electrons are like an outer casing of an atom and so the gold trim, the paint the mud the glaze are all atoms as I am atoms -

A quick thought had me aware that all this beauty was applied to please and even the cup itself has a use - I thought, am I like the cup that holds abilities and my reason for being is to please? It felt too singular for me - I thought I am more than the cup - the cup needed someone to decorate it while I decorate myself and make the choice how I will decorate myself.

Then I realized I am still seeing the cup as separate from myself - as a useful object and so next I imagined the cup could talk -

Talking it had more to share than how it came to be and how it was decorated - it shared who used the cup and who admired the cup and how the cup fit into my home and then, how the cup fit my hand and what I liked about the feel of the cup and how I took care of the cup, never putting it in the dishwasher. I hand washed the cup to preserve the gold - then thought, if I care for my own container, my body, with the same care as the cup - did the cup have a lesson for me?

Was I reaching too far thinking I should be more than a container to please - granted, an active container that could please with my actions - Does pleasing mean making other's happy or does pleasing mean doing what I do best, just as the cup was designed out of mud to do a job different than a bowl or a plate or a lamp base. In doing what I do best I am not only happy but I bring others happiness not just by my sharing my skills but they feel the warmth of my happiness.

On and on I go - the suggestion about meditation is to mediate for at least an hour and those who are experienced, meditate for a full day and night - who knows how long the mediation on anything will take to bring up the essence of the 'thing/event' that can be put into a few words - It also strikes me that Basho was practiced mediating and may have found more quickly the essence and similarities between himself and the world around him.

I also think we all apply different questions and different understanding of the world to our thinking/meditaing on an object and so I am now thinking we could look at the same cup and each find a different essence that would take in the similarity between the cup and ourselves since we are all different. We each have had different life experiences and so we will see something another may not see and thus, the difference in our poetry, our words, our viewpoint, our choice of decorating and caring for ourselves.

Thanks hats - your thoughts and questioning opened up my looking at what surrounds me - once looking that closely at an object it is easier to realize why Japanese homes are so simple to stark - there are too many things to look at in my home - this new phase of simplifying makes sense in a way I never thought about till now.

If things are useful, then the more convenience or the more beauty we can surround ourselves with, the better. Where as, if things are objects to learn from and find their hidden glimmer, we have to limit our surroundings because it takes time to become one with an object. The tea ceremony now makes sense - become one with tea being poured into cups - wow that could take days and days and still there would be nuances to learn. Wow... thanks again hats - your post opened my eyes to a deeper understanding of what Basho was saying.     

[hats]

Well Barb,you've done it again. You've written a fully beautiful and useful post. Plus, you answered my question with no sidestepping. Certainly today, I will look at objects or an object with the use of meditation. My husband has agreed to putting up our Christmas tree. If I do, I will handle the ornaments more slowly and think about my memories: memories about a sled, a pup or snow flakes. This is such a special place.

[Frybabe]

I know that on occasion I have looked at objects and tried to take everything in, to remember every bit I saw, but I don't think I ever strived to become one with the object. The closest I come to that is when I am out on a beautiful day and just absorb the sight and sound and sometimes touch, breathing the crisp air and just being without analyzing any of it. I then feel a part of a whole greater than me - a wondrous and joyful oneness. SWWWWWWEz  Oops! Shan typing again.

[BarbStAubrey]

Song, On Parachutes Of Crystal Snowflakes                Transl.(Rus.) - Poem by Lyudmila Purgina On parachutes of crystal snowflakes The Winter flied from sky to earth. And if the life has turned for other way, If the life has gone the other way, Don't ask and search your inner fault, Don't ask and search your inner fault. The trees were shaking branches slightly In frosty and fantastic haze. And if we all the way were silent If we all the way were silent, Then had we anything to say? But had we anything to say? Among the snowpiles sank the town, The snowdrift was trimming lace, And if I loved, alas, the other, If I loved, alas, the other one, Then Love choose everything itself. The Love choose everything itself. On parachutes of crystal snowflakes The Winter flied from sky to earth. And if the life had turned for other way, If the life had gone the other way, Was my decision, and not your's, Was my decision, but not Your's.

[hats]

The photograph of the icy, frosty branches is beautiful. I've never heard of the poet. Is he/she from a very icy climate? This morning the poem woke me up. I could hear an echo of lines in my head. There is a repetition of questions, sentences in the poem. There is a need to go to self and analyze inner feelings and deeds. Winter is a good time for analysis. We're closed up in homes or other buildings. We walk alone with our coats and scarves tightly hugged against the brutal air. Suddenly, spring enters my thoughts. It is a time of release, coming out, a time to open the doors.

I do admit for me, self analysis is painful. There is a desire to get away from the mirror's eyes. There is a desire to call back time. Then, there is a realization that as a human I am limited. You can't go back to last spring or that other winter. It's gone. Is  correct? You can't go home again. It's not there! Change takes over and spreads over the branches breaking what was.

[BarbStAubrey]

Your post hats - so beautifully said - a poem in itself - this poem, like the photo, is beautiful in its painful sadness.

It was the second stanza - about having anything to say that touched me - the two branches with all of the loose connecting twigs, looking like wires, reminds me of the connection we have with another - I have a couple of close family members that the 'winter frost has trimmed' and yes, I did end up thinking 'what have I done' and did not know how to respond.

For my own preservation and keeping the peace, because I do not want to ever be the cause of someone unleashing their anger or angry words, like the poem, I am silent not having anything to say. Actually, I do not know what to say and so it is my decision how often I do and don't make contact.

My hope is represented by the sun, in time will not only illuminate the connection, the frozen state of the connection but, will warm the air so that the frozen state of the connections between the two branches will come back to life and grow again.

To me the poem is sad but beautiful because there is hope - or maybe it is hope in the photos - Hope to me is what Christmas is all about - Hope - Hope for the new - This child was born and lived as his parents, following one way of celebrating God and then created a new way that kept some of the traditions of the old way but had its 'reason-for-being' less focused on a judgemental God and centered more in the love from a powerful God.  Dwelling on that major shift in something as intimate and powerful in our lives as religion, my hope has energy. It's then I wonder if my hope is for something I recognize which is in the old way or is it true hope - the hope in the unknown.  Does the frost, as beautiful as it is, kill the connecting twigs or simply cover them in silence.

[ANNIE]

Barbara, this is not about Poetry.
Please send this to Jane or Marcie! 
I am being allowed to post here but when I open SL, the Library doesn’t open. And there is no place to sign in on the left side. Please let me in.  I need to post in the library.

[jane]

Ann....Let's try this...DELETE whatever you're using as a bookmark to come to SeniorLearn.

Then, use this as your new bookmark:

http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php


That will take you to the full menu page of all the SL discussions.

Let's see if that helps.

jane

[PatH]

Annie, here's another possibility.  When you come in to the menu of discussions, there are some horizontal blue bars going across the page, dividing up the list of discussions.  These have titles on them.  Look at the one labeled Welcome to SeniorLearn Books.  If it doesn't have the Library and Bookstacks as subheadings, look at the right end of the blue bar.  It will have either a plus or a minus sign.  If it's plus, click on it.  That should make those two discussions reappear.

That used to drive me nuts until I figured out what was happening.

[Frybabe]

I do like these poems I found on my morning jog through Project Gutenberg, New York Nocturnes and Other Poems by Sir Charles. G. D. Roberts. Roberts is considered the Father of Canadian Poetry and wrote many novels and some non-fiction as well.

http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56418

[PatH]

The Father of  Canadian Poetry, and I never heard of him.  I like some of those poems a lot.

[BarbStAubrey]

Nice thanks Frybabe - a whole book of his poetry - like Pat I had not heard of him or his poetry - and here he is the Father not less of Canadian poetry.

Well his last name is the same as the first name of the magnificent Robby Burns - and today or tonight is Burns Night

[BarbStAubrey]

Robert Burns 258th birthday

To a Mountain Daisy ~ Robert Burns On Turning One Down with the Plow, in April, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r, Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure            Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow'r,            Thou bonie gem. Alas! it’s no thy neighbour sweet, The bonie lark, companion meet, Bending thee ‘mang the dewy weet            Wi’ spreck’d breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet            The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth            Amid the storm, Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth            Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield High shelt'ring woods an’ wa’s maun shield: But thou, beneath the random bield            O’ clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field            Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie-bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head            In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed,            And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! By love’s simplicity betray’d            And guileless trust; Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid            Low i’ the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d! Unskilful he to note the card            Of prudent lore, Till billows rage and gales blow hard,            And whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n            To mis'ry’s brink; Till, wrench’d of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,            He ruin’d sink! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy’s fate, That fate is thine—no distant date; Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives elate,            Full on thy bloom, Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight            Shall be thy doom.

[PatH]

Barb, thanks for reminding us of Burns night.  I was out eating Chinese food with friends, so didn't raise a wee dram in his honor, but I salute him now, though without haggis.  The poem reminds me of another one, written a year earlier,  about hurting creatures with plowing.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43816/to-a-mouse-56d222ab36e33

where we have the much quoted line

The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
          Gang aft agley

Anyway, happy Burns night to all.

[FlaJean]

This poem, Published by Knopf, is by a young Somali poet named Warsan Shire:

later that night
I held an atlas in my lap
and ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?

it answered
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere

Margaret Maron, the mystery writer, posted this poem on her Facebook page.  A simple but very thoughtful poem.

[BarbStAubrey]

Insightful and poignant isn't it FlaJean

[hats]

I love that Somali poem. The repetition of "everywhere" makes my mind think about location and types of pain. I'm trying to think of other poems that use the recurrence of a word and the why of it.

[Frybabe]

Here is another of her poems, read by the author. I am finding her poetry strangely compelling. Her poems are arrows that strike straight to the heart. Don't think - feel!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YaB_1cZQhRE

[BarbStAubrey]

Frybabe I do not think I have ever seen poetry expressed in movement - this is lovely

Saw this and where it is not a poem as such it was a poetic thought that seems appropriate. Of course I had to find a photo that would express a bit of the quote from Old Meg’s Cottage in A Country Diary.

Jack Frost frolics over cold and restful meadows. And everywhere, though the air nips at my nose, there is a beating, a whirring, like the pulse of a heart restarted. The birds are singing prophecies of green and growing-things.

[hats]

Barb and Frybabe, thank you.

[hats]

I have heard no "bird prophecies." How will I know its spring? Outside no cardinals or any winter birds are singing.  Perhaps, I've gone blind. So, I really needed the verse from "A Country Diary." I now have the feeling a happy spring is possible. However, I would like a little winter beauty.

[BarbStAubrey]

Your post hats reminds me of St. John of the Cross in his Dark Night of the Soul, where he speaks of hope regardless how dark the night. One aspect of his argument or thesis that I thought was an eye opener was that if we define hope as something to wish for, we are calling upon memory. Real hope is in the unknown and we need faith to accept hope within the darkness of life. And so a winter without beauty could easily be a dark night as would be a winter without birds chirping their prophecy of Spring.

On the other side of the coin Thomas Hardy at the end of the nineteenth century and the eve of the twentieth century wrote a poem expressing his typical lack of hope.

The Darkling Thrush I leant upon a coppice gate, When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land’s sharp features seemed to me The Century’s corpse outleant, Its crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind its death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead, In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited. An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small, With blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew, And I was unaware.

[hats]

Barb and Frybabe, I hate to admit it. I had no idea what a "coppice gate" looked like. So, I had to look on the internet.  There is so much information and photos too. I'm also looking for a definition of a coppice gate. What makes it different from other gates? Is a gate not just a gate?
                                                           

[BarbStAubrey]

coppice

Noun: an area of woodland in which the trees or shrubs are, or formerly were, periodically cut back to ground level to stimulate growth and provide firewood or timber.

Verb: cut back (a tree or shrub) to ground level periodically to stimulate growth.

[hats]

I am still confused about this coppice gate. I looked at only a few photos. Some gates are surrounded with bushes and other gates aren't shared with bushes. Silly me, although you've helped Barb, I'm still hungry for a better idea about this gate. Don't worry ; I haven't forgotten the Darkling Thrush and his blessed hope. It's a beautiful poem.

[BarbStAubrey]

hats a Coppice Gate is, as we see in many nineteenth century painting of folks near a wooden gate and the gate opens to or from a woodland - or one side of the Gate is the woodland with a path that leads to the gate that most often the gate swings from a garden.

Today there are gates to woodlands on private farms that in Britain hikers have a right to walk on all land and if there is no gate to the next section they build stairs up and over the fence -

The coppice gate is a simple gate that swings into a woodland regardless how tall or close the nearest bushes and trees.
Here is an illustration of the poem.

[hats]

Barb, this is splendid information. I'm going back over it again. The steps or stairs is interesting. Is that a British custom?

[BarbStAubrey]

Mostly British hats although I have seen steps over fences in New England some years ago - not sure if they are still using them.

[hats]

Amazing, you learn something new every day.

[BarbStAubrey]

Read this and I said...YES!

[Frybabe]

This morning, during my cruise through Project Gutenberg, I snapped up this volume of reverential poems called Poems from the Inner Life by Lizzie Doten, a poet unknown to me(as many are)  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56575