Poetry Page

[nlhome]

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 ~ by Rowland Frederick Hilder

“The Snow Storm” Ralph Waldo Emerson “Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of Storm. Come see the north wind’s masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion...”

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

Thanks for sharing your "cruise," Frybabe - it's so good to be reminded of the variety available to us.

[PatH]

     A tethered horse,
snow
     In both stirrups.


Buson

[BarbStAubrey]

much said and unsaid in those few words - I'm thinking for snow to be on stirrups the horse must not have a rider and is standing still so the snow will collect - that says quiet to me - snow falling quietly and a horse standing still maybe waiting or possibly walking very very slowly - maybe even rider is holding its lead and they are both walking slowly as the snow falls heavy enough to stick and pile up on stirrups. Or maybe the rider is squatting down also waiting - certainly not near a fire that would have melted the snow so it would not cover stirrups - I can see a lonely landscape where snow falls without tree limbs to shelter horse or man. Goodness we could write a short story using just those 3 short lines... thanks Pat

[hats]

I have run around the internet. Have wrapped myself back around this tree. Your words above are poetry, Barb. Wanted to spend the last weeks of winter here. Then, greet spring here too. My Dad use to call God the Great Architect. In this poem, I assume God is the fierce artificer. Had to look up the definition of artificer.

[BarbStAubrey]

Remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see and wonder about what makes the universe exist. Be curious. And however difficult life may seem,      there is always something you can do and succeed at. It matters that you don’t just give up. Stephen Hawking

[BarbStAubrey]

The Song of Wandering Aengus       By William Butler Yeats I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

[bellamarie]

Good morning..... had to share these pics with you, shot them this morning.

If you happen to catch a sunrise
At the beginning of your day.
Thank the Lord above
For yet another day.

[nlhome]

I like the second picture -  a neighborhood starting out the day with the sun.

[BarbStAubrey]

Iris By Night by Robert Frost One misty evening, one another's guide, We two were groping down a Malvern side The last wet fields and dripping hedges home. There came a moment of confusing lights, Such as according to belief in Rome Were seen of old at Memphis on the heights Before the fragments of a former sun Could concentrate anew and rise as one. Light was a paste of pigment in our eyes. And then there was a moon and then a scene So watery as to seem submarine; In which we two stood saturated, drowned. The clover-mingled rowan on the ground Had taken all the water it could as dew, And still the air was saturated too, Its airy pressure turned to water weight. Then a small rainbow like a trellis gate, A very small moon-made prismatic bow, Stood closely over us through which to go. And then we were vouchsafed a miracle That never yet to other two befell And I alone of us have lived to tell. A wonder! Bow and rainbow as it bent, Instead of moving with us as we went (To keep the pots of gold from being found), It lifted from its dewy pediment Its two mote-swimming many-colored ends And gathered them together in a ring. And we stood in it softly circled round From all division time or foe can bring In a relation of elected friends.

[BarbStAubrey]

Whenever I am tempted, whenever clouds arise, When songs give place to sighing, when hope within me dies, I draw the closer to Him, from care He sets me free; His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me; His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me. Sparrow I sing because I'm happy, I sing because I'm free, For His eye is on the sparrow, And I know He watches me.

[BarbStAubrey]

English-idylls:
From The Seasons by Bion of Smyrna (100 B.C.).

[Frybabe]

Project Gutenber again came up with something of interest to Women's Suffrage historians: Suffrage Songs and Verses by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56931 

[BarbStAubrey]

Thanks Frybabe - interesting poetry - so fueled by women whose only purpose was to be a housewife and mother. Although I thought the poem Boys will be Boys was as appropriate today and then.

[Frybabe]

Barb, found this on Gutenberg this morning. http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/57068

Jeláleddín Rúmí (A.D. 1207-1273) was considered by some to be the greatest of the Persian Mystical Poets.

From the Gazels of Jeláleddín:

Invocation

Soul of mine, thou dawning Light: Be not far, O be not far!
Love of mine, thou Vision bright: Be not far, O be not far!
Life is where thou smilest sweetly; Death is in thy parting look;
Here mid Death and Life's fierce fight: Be not far, O be not far!
I am East when thou art rising; I am West when thou dost set;
Bring Heaven's own radiant hues to sight: Be not far, O be not far!
See how well my Turban fitteth, yet the Parsee Girdle binds me;
Cord and Wallet I bear light: Be not far, O be not far!
True Parsee and true Brahman, a Christian, yet a Mussulman;
Thee I trust, Supreme by Right: Be not far, O be not far!
In all Mosques, Pagodas, Churches, I do find One Shrine alone;
Thy Face is there my sole delight: Be not far, O be not far!
Thine the World's all-loving Heart; and for it I yearn and pray;
O take not from my Heart thy flight: Be not far, O be not far!
Thee, the World's Eternal Centre, here I circle round in prayer;
Thy absence is last judgment quite: Be not far, O be not far!
Thine, Judgment Day and Blessedness: Mine is Bliss when Thou art nigh;
Keep me circling in thy Might: Be not far, O be not far!
Fair World Rose, O blossom forth; sweet Heart-buds unfold in Love;
Put on the longing Soul's pure White: Be not far, O be not far!
O Rose, hear through Night's silence, how he thrills—thy Nightingale;
As if I did his Notes indite: Be not far, O be not far!
Jeláleddín, all loving, let Love's Heart resist no more:
Hear him chaunting, Day and Night: Be not far, O be not far!

[BarbStAubrey]

Oh my - you need to read that one over and over and each time there is something more isn't there - great - thanks for posting.

[Frybabe]

A Golden Chain
 
Friendship is a Golden Chain,
The links are friends so dear,
And like a rare and precious jewel
It's treasured more each year...

It's clasped together firmly
With a love that's deep and true,
And it's rich with happy memories
and fond recollections, too...

Time can't destroy its beauty
For, as long as memory lives,
Years can't erase the pleasure
That the joy of friendship gives...

For friendship is a priceless gift
That can't be bought or sold,
But to have an understanding friend
Is worth far more than gold...

And the Golden Chain of Friendship
Is a strong and blessed tie
Binding kindred hearts together
As the years go passing by.

Helen Steiner Rice

I used to love buying and sending cards with her poems on them.

[BarbStAubrey]

Talking about time reminded me of this poem by Yeats.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,     And nodding by the fire, take down this book,     And slowly read, and dream of the soft look     Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;     How many loved your moments of glad grace,     And loved your beauty with love false or true,     But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,     And loved the sorrows of your changing face;     And bending down beside the glowing bars,     Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled     And paced upon the mountains overhead     And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

[BarbStAubrey]

The Song of the Wandering Aengus W.E. Yeats I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

[BarbStAubrey]

Old South Meeting House                      January Gill O’Neil We draw breath from brick           step on stones, weather-worn,                     cobbled and carved  with the story of this church,           this meeting house,                     where Ben Franklin was baptized and Phillis Wheatley prayed—a mouth-house           where colonists gathered                     to plot against the crown. This structure, with elegant curves           and round-topped windows, was the heart                     of Boston, the body of the people, survived occupation for preservation,           foregoing decoration                     for conversation. Let us gather in the box pews           once numbered and rented                     by generations of families held together like ribs           in the body politic. Let us gaze upon                     the upper galleries to the free seats where the poor and the town slaves           listened and waited and pondered                     and prayed for revolution.           Let us testify to the plight                     of the well-meaning at the pulpit with its sounding board high above,           congregations raising heads and hands to the sky.                     We, the people—the tourists        and townies—one nation under           this vaulted roof, exalted voices                     speaking poetry out loud, in praise and dissent.           We draw breath from brick. Ignite the fire in us.                     Speak to us:      the language is hope.

[hats]

Hi Barb, I've missed the Poetry Corner. I'm excited about reading the ones I've missed. Have a Happy Fourth and keep safe. My heart is moved by the naming of  Phillis Wheatley. It's not often you hear her name. Maybe my one celebration today will become reading one of her poems. Of course, I'm always glad to read Ben Franklin's name as well. It seems strange. I can see a portrait of both these people in my mind so clearly. Did they ever meet one another?

[BarbStAubrey]

I'd have to compare dates of when Phillis Wheatley was in London compared to when Ben Franklin was in Europe - I thought he was only in France since we were trying to free ourselves from the English crown.

OK found it - 1757: Franklin arrives in London as agent for Pennsylvania Assembly
1759: Franklin receives honorary doctorate from the University of St. Andrews, Scotland
1762: Franklin leaves London for Philadelphia
1764: Franklin returns to London to represent colonial interests before the Crown
In 1765 he is in America opposing the Stamp Act and returns to Europe, this time France after 1776

Looks like when Franklin was in London Phyllis Wheatley was a little girl and she arrived in London in 1771 after Franklin was back in the states.

Phillis Wheatley was the first black poet in America to publish a book. She was born in 1753, in West Africa and brought to New England in 1761, where John Wheatley of Boston purchased her as a gift for his wife. Although they brought her into the household as a slave, the Wheatleys took a great interest in Phillis’s education. Many biographers have pointed to her precocity; Wheatley learned to read and write English by the age of nine, and she became familiar with Latin, Greek, the Bible, and selected classics at an early age. She began writing poetry at thirteen, modeling her work on the English poets of the time, particularly John Milton, Thomas Gray, and Alexander Pope. Her poem “On the Death of the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield” was published as a broadside in cities such as Boston, New York, and Philadelphia and garnered Wheatley national acclaim. This poem was also printed in London. Over the next few years, she would print a number of broadsides elegizing prominent English and colonial leaders.

Wheatley’s doctor suggested that a sea voyage might improve her delicate health, so in 1771 she accompanied Nathaniel Wheatley on a trip to London. She was well received in London and wrote to a friend of the “unexpected and unmerited civility and complaisance with which I was treated by all.” In 1773, thirty-nine of her poems were published in London as Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral. The book includes many elegies as well as poems on Christian themes; it also includes poems dealing with race, such as the often-anthologized “On Being Brought from Africa to America.” She returned to America in 1773.

After Mr. and Mrs. Wheatley died, Phillis was left to support herself as a seamstress and poet. It is unclear precisely when Wheatley was freed from slavery, although scholars suggest it occurred between 1774 and 1778. In 1776, Wheatley wrote a letter and poem in support of George Washington; he replied with an invitation to visit him in Cambridge, stating that he would be “happy to see a person so favored by the muses.” In 1778, she married John Peters, who kept a grocery store. They had three children together, all of whom died young. Because of the war and the poor economy, Wheatley experienced difficulty publishing her poems. She solicited subscribers for a new volume that would include thirty-three new poems and thirteen letters, but was unable to raise the funds. Phillis Wheatley, who had once been internationally celebrated, died alone in a boarding house on December 5, 1784. She was thirty-one years old. Many of the poems for her proposed second volume disappeared and have never been recovered.

[BarbStAubrey]

An Hymn To The Morning                       by Phillis Wheatley ATTEND my lays, ye ever honour’d nine,    Assist my labours, and my strains refine;    In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,    For bright Aurora now demands my song.        Aurora hail, and all the thousands dies,           Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:    The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,    On ev’ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays;    Harmonious lays the feather’d race resume,    Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.               Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display    To shield your poet from the burning day:    Calliope awake the sacred lyre,    While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire:    The bow’rs, the gales, the variegated skies           In all their pleasures in my bosom rise.        See in the east th’ illustrious king of day!    His rising radiance drives the shades away—    But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong,    And scarce begun, concludes th’ abortive song.

[hats]

I've read the first poem about the South Meeting House more than once. I like it more each time. I have more questions than you probably care to read. My first question is about this particular meeting house. What did it look like? I have read the small description: "round - topped windows" and  "elegant curves." Here is something else I'm wondering. May we visit it today as a Historical site? If so, is Phillis Wheatley's name presented on a pew or somewhere in the meeting house along with Ben Franklin's name?

[BarbStAubrey]

Hats after reading the short Biography about Phillis Wheatley I doubt she ever visited the South Meeting house and it does not appear there is any possibility she and Ben Franklin could have met since he was an old man by the time she wrote her poetry - he was born in 1706 and she was born in 1757 which means he was 51 years older than she was. She started to write her poetry in her teens making Ben Franklin in his 70s.

Here is a photo of the South Meeting House today surrounded by tall buildings just as the Trinity Church in New York City is surrounded today by the tall buildings of wall street.

[hats]

Barb, thank you for the photo. I would love to walk inside that meeting - house. I would love to visit Boston.

[PatH]

The poem that sold me a book:

My theory is that I'll keep up my Spanish by reading bits of good writing, mostly poetry, and translating it first, without looking at the translation unless I'm really stuck.  That would be more impressive if I actually did it more than once or twice a month, but I'm always looking for good material.  When I saw recently that Ursula K. LeGuin had translated the poems of Chilean Nobel Prize winner Gabriela Mistral, I thought that would be a good bet. I'm willing to take a chance on anything she liked, but before paying for a hefty paperback, I wanted to see a sample.  Here's what Amazon provided:

GIVE ME YOUR HAND

          For Tasso de Silviera

Give me your hand and give me your love,
give me your hand and dance with me.
A single flower and nothing more,
a single flower is all we’ll be.

Keeping time in the dance together,
singing the tune together with me,
grass in the wind, and nothing more,
grass in the wind is all we’ll be.

I’m called Hope and you’re called Rose:
but losing our names we’ll both go free,
a dance on the hills, and nothing more,
a dance on the hills is all we’ll be.


Here it is in Spanish, so you can see the rhythm, even better in the original:

DAME LA MANO

          A Tasso de Silviera

Dame la mano y danzaremos;
dame la mano y me amaras.
Como una sola flor seremos,
como una flor y nada mas.

El mismo verso cantaremos,
al mismo paso bailaras.
como un espiga undularemos,
como una espiga, y nada mas.

Te llamas Rosa y yo Esperanza;
pero tu nombre olvidaras,
porque seremos una danza
en la colina, y nada mas.


She had phases with different styles, and so far I've liked all of the few I've read.

[hats]

The poem Give Me Your Hand is beautiful. I wish there were time to memorize it. Path, I envy your ability to read, write and translate in Spanish. I would love to learn this language. Unfortunately, I took courses in French. Now, I can hardly remember any of the words and/or phrases. I would love to hear the Spanish translation of the poem. For some reason, the poem brings a tear to my eyes. It speaks of love, sharing and freedom. And there is that name. It follows me about lately: Ursula K. LeGuin. I am not familiar with the Chilean Nobel Prize winner either. I have much to learn about Gabriel a Mistral and Chile. I did read a novel In The Midst of Winter by Isabel Allende last month. It is wonderful. This poem reminds me that she is a writer of poem also. Yes, I think so.

[PatH]

Hats, I'm glad you saw what I saw in that poem.  I'm going to enjoy reading more of them.  LeGuin's English translation is really good, captures the feel of the original perfectly.

You're overestimating my Spanish skills.  Reading is the easiest; you don't have to come up with the Spanish word, just recognize it, or look it up if you don't know it, and my translations aren't smooth, just roughly what the sentence means.  My speaking is pretty minimal, and my writing even worse.

[BarbStAubrey]

poignant but true - a dance on the hills is all we’ll be.

[BarbStAubrey]

Came across this today and it fits my mood for the month - written by an English Clergyman R. Combe Miller during the early nineteenth century.

Fairest of the months! Ripe Summer’s Queen The hey-day of the year With robes that gleam with sunny sheen Sweet August doth appear.

[BarbStAubrey]

Old New Griefs              by Shakti Chattopadhyay Grief that is now old, I ask it to come and sit near me today. I’m sitting, there’s my shadow, and if grief indeed comes and sits beside me I will feel quite good; I’ll probably say to this new grief, go; for a few days go and visit another garden of joy, pluck some flowers, burn the green leaves, destroy destroy. After a few days get tired from the trip. Then come, sit beside me. For now, offer some space to this old grief. It wants to come and sit beside me after having visited several gardens, lighting up several homes of several people. Let it stay for a few days. Let it have some peace, some company. You may come after that. O newer grief you may come after that.

[Frybabe]

Known best for her SciFi/Specultive fiction, Ursula Le Guin was also a poet. A book of her poetry, So Far So Good, is scheduled to release in September.

[BarbStAubrey]

Did not know she also wrote poetry Frybabe - found two books of her poetry that have already been published

Late in the Day: Poems 2010-2014

Incredible Good Fortune: New Poems

From those titles I'm thinking there may be other books written earlier.

[hats]

Canto que Amabas

Yo canto lo que tú amabas, vida mía,

por si te acercas y escuchas, vida mía,

por si te acuerdas del mundo que viviste,

al aterdecer yo canto, sombra mía.

Yo no quiero enmudecer, vida mía.

¿Cómo sin mi grito fiel me hallarías?

¿Cuál señal, cuál me declara, vida mía?

Soy la misma que fue tuya, vida mía.

Ni lenta ni trascordada ni perdida.

Acude al anochecer, vida mía,

ven recordando un canto, vida mía,

si la canción reconoces de aprendida

y si mi nombre recuerdas todavía.

Te espero sin plazo y sin tiempo.

No temas noche, nebline ni aguacero.

Acude con sendero o sin sendero.

Llámame adonde tú eres, alma mía,

y marcha recto hacia mí, compañero.

What You Loved

Life of my life, what you loved I sing.

If you're near, if you're listening,

think of me now in the evening:

shadow in shadows, hear me sing.

Life of my life, I can't be still.

What is a story we never tell?

How can you find me unless I call?

Life of my life, I haven't changed,

not turned aside and not estranged.

Come to me as the shadows grow long,

come, life of my life, if you know the song

you used to know, if you know my name.

I and the song are still the same.

Beyond time or place I keep the faith.

Follow a path or follow no path,

never fearing the night, the wind,

call to me, come to me, now at the end,

walk with me, life of my life, my friend.

I think this poem is beautiful. Thank you for introducing me to this poet. I'm glad she is still writing and publishing a new book. Any one can act as a true friend. A true friend is special. You want them to walk with you all the time.

[BarbStAubrey]

Yes, agree a beautiful poem hats... and said aloud in the Spanish it rolls off your tongue

[BarbStAubrey]

"We people who are attracted by the countryside cherish fond memories of certain springs, certain woods, certain ponds, certain hills, which have become familiar sights and can touch our hearts like happy events.

Sometimes indeed the memory goes back towards a forest glade, or a spot on a river bank or an orchard in blossom, glimpsed only once on a happy day, but preserved in our heart."

by Guy de Maupassant

[BarbStAubrey]

Hymn to Time Ursula K. Le Guin, 1929 - 2018 Time says “Let there be” every moment and instantly there is space and the radiance of each bright galaxy. And eyes beholding radiance. And the gnats’ flickering dance. And the seas’ expanse. And death, and chance. Time makes room for going and coming home and in time’s womb begins all ending. Time is being and being time, it is all one thing, the shining, the seeing, the dark abounding.

[hats]

I'm trying to see that special place again in my mind. The French author wrote great short stories like the old favorite The Neckace. Don't remember reading his poems.

[BarbStAubrey]

Hats the words are not a poem as such - they are a quote from one of his books that sound like poetry. i realize how many of my good memories are when I was out of doors - hiking in mountains or on a beach or picnicking with family both as a child and later with my children. He brought back those memories and it was nice.

[BarbStAubrey]

Every Land (From a saying of Black Elk) Watch where the branches of the willows bend See where the waters of the rivers tend Graves in the rock, cradles in the sand Every land is the holy land Here was the battle to the bitter end Here's where the enemy killed the friend Blood on the rock, tears on the sand Every land is the holy land Willow by the water bending in the wind Bent till it's broken and it will not stand Listen to the word the messengers send Life like the broken rock, death like the sand Every land is the holy land — Ursula K. Le Guin - November 2006