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!

“Shakespeare Sonnet 73” “That time of year thou mayst in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death’s second self that seals up all in rest. In me thou seest the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. ”

Autumn Poems

• 10 Poems for Autumn
  
• Changeful Autumn / Fall in Classical Poetry

Discussion Leader: BarbStAubrey

[BarbStAubrey]

An Emily Dickinson poem The name—of it—is ‘Autumn’— The hue—of it—is Blood— An Artery—upon the Hill— A Vein—along the Road— Great Globules—in the Alleys— And Oh, the Shower of Stain— When Winds—upset the Basin— And spill the Scarlet Rain— It sprinkles Bonnets—far below— It gathers ruddy Pools— Then—eddies like a Rose—away— Upon Vermilion Wheels—

[Frybabe]

Lovely, Barb. I especially like the Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem and the photo with it. Also, the Charalana, art or photograph(?) with the Keats poem. I tried looking up Charalana, but got nowhere.

[BarbStAubrey]

Here are two of her site's
https://500px.com/chiaralana

https://yourshot.nationalgeographic.com/profile/1478737/

[Frybabe]

Well, that explains it. I spelled the name wrong. I missed the "I". Not to mention it was two names, not one. And to think I just got new glasses.

[BarbStAubrey]

  

[BarbStAubrey]

“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.” ‘For the Fallen’, Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon (1869-1943), first published in The Times Newspaper on 21st September 1914.

[hats]

Poppies are always beautiful. The photo fits the thought.

[BarbStAubrey]

Paradise California - 42 Dead

Empty Dwelling Places Kenneth Patchen Forever the little thud of names, falling, Disappearing, baying at the moon for the last time -- Quiet obscure little names, leaving no trace But the ash-flecked aroma of stale fragmentary careers. Names that once clothed the pound of blood in a body, That stood for lungs, and love-possible limbs, And voices, voices rich in faith and friendly To the sweep and surge of curious spying years. In the brisk procession of sub-tunneled fame The little names settle in the ooze of silent unhurried            nothingness. In the night the head on the pillow turns, And a little changed hurt settles on the course Of the dearest striving, a wrong music flooding Forbidden chambers, with no semblance of comfort even            in the words.                       My name is . . .                       (over and over)--                       my name is . . . I swear to you I knew it once.

[Frybabe]

That's sad Barb, but then so is the loss of so many lives in the latest CA fires.

[BarbStAubrey]

Yes frybabe - even if they published their names they would be obscure to all but those who know and are hurting from the loss of their loved one.

[hats]

Barb, loved seeing the Emily Dickinson poem about the wonder of books in the Library. Also, fell in love with the poster. With snow in the forecasts I suppose it is time to settle in like a not hibernating bear. I love snow. I have begun saying 'I don't care about snow. I hope it never comes.' This is the way I keep myself from becoming disappointed. We seldom get snow. Only warnings that it is coming, on the way. Then, it passes by us. Disappointment hurts like a good old fashioned bellyache.

There are six hundred and something missing persons in the fire in California. Oh, it is heartbreaking.

[BarbStAubrey]

An Apple-Gathering  Christina Georgina Rossetti I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple tree And wore them all that evening in my hair: Then in due season when I went to see I found no apples there. With dangling basket all along the grass As I had come I went the selfsame track: My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass So empty-handed back. Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by, Their heaped-up basket teazed me like a jeer; Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky, Their mother's home was near. Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full, A stronger hand than hers helped it along; A voice talked with her thro' the shadows cool More sweet to me than song.

Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth Than apples with their green leaves piled above? I counted rosiest apples on the earth Of far less worth than love. So once it was with me you stooped to talk Laughing and listening in this very lane: To think that by this way we used to walk We shall not walk again! I let my neighbours pass me, ones and twos And groups; the latest said the night grew chill, And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews Fell fast I loitered still.

[hats]

This poem about apple picking is beautiful. Poor girl, all the other neighbors have filled their baskets with apples. She has  no apples but she does have Willie. Would have liked to know more about him. Hearing the names of the apple pickers makes the poem seem friendly. But we don't know her name, and why doesn't she have any apples in her basket?

I have been thinking of apple poems. Last week I read in a book, it or someone mentioned Robert Frost's poem about apple picking. I've put off looking up. Apples really do make autumn special. "An apple a day keeps the doctor away."

[Tomereader1]

Hats, this is why she had no apples.

I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple tree
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.

[BarbStAubrey]

Thanksgiving By Tim Nolan Thanks for the Italian chestnuts—with their tough shells—the smooth chocolaty skin of them—thanks for the boiling water— itself a miracle and a mystery— thanks for the seasoned sauce pan and the old wooden spoon—and all the neglected instruments in the drawer— the garlic crusher—the bent paring knife— the apple slicer that creates six perfect wedges out of the crisp Haralson— thanks for the humming radio—thanks for the program on the radio about the guy who was a cross-dresser— but his wife forgave him—and he ended up almost dying from leukemia— (and you could tell his wife loved him entirely—it was in her deliberate voice)— thanks for the brined turkey— the size of a big baby—thanks— for the departed head of the turkey— the present neck—the giblets (whatever they are)—wrapped up as small gifts inside the cavern of the ribs— thanks—thanks—thanks—for the candles lit on the table—the dried twigs— the autumn leaves in the blue Chinese vase— thanks—for the faces—our faces—in this low light.

[BarbStAubrey]

Perhaps the World Ends Here Joy Harjo 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]

Tomereader  her use of all the apple blossoms tells about her character, doesn't it? I missed all of that until reading your answer last week. I like this girl. I know she isn't very practical. She's playful. She still has a childish spirit. I wonder if she felt guilty about not having picked the apples instead of loving the pink blossoms. I also wonder was she a teen or in her twenties. I hope not to wander too far away from the poem's meaning. Barb in a poem, how far can you wander in a poem without taking too much poetic license?

[hats]

I almost missed the autumn links in the header. Boy, I would feel terrible if I had found them on the first day of winter. I'm so excited to read this first poem and the other ones. The autumn photo is beautiful.

[BarbStAubrey]

In Advent when we think about Mary and her Magnificat and the scandal of teenage motherhood and we light a candle and  think about this gem of a poem by James Wright called “Trouble”:

Leering across Pearl Street,
Crum Anderson yipped:
“Hey Pugh!
I see your sister
Been rid bareback.
She swallow a watermelon?
Fred Gordon! Fred Gordon! Fred Gordon!”
Wayya mean? She can get fat, can’t she?”

Fat? Willow and lonesome Roberta, running
Alone down Pearl Street in the rain the last time
I ever saw her, smiling a smile
Crum Anderson will never know,
Wondering at her body.

Sixteen years, and
All that time she thought she was nothing
But skin and bones.

[BarbStAubrey]

I was surprised my quilt and pillow were cold, I see that now the window's bright again. Deep in the night, I know the snow is thick, I sometimes hear the sound as bamboo snaps. -  BaiJuyi, Night Snow

[BarbStAubrey]

I Heard a Bird Sing -   Oliver Herford I heard a bird sing In the dark of December A magical thing And sweet to remember. 'We are nearer to Spring Than we were in September,' I heard a bird sing In the dark of December.

[BarbStAubrey]

[hats]

I have never heard a bird's song in December. I must draw an audience of birds and apologize to each one. Seriously, I must listen more closely. When I don't hear birds sing, I feel a little bit distressed. Their lack of songs must mean the earth is sick and weary. I am very aware of their voices in the spring and summer and fall. A bird's song can change my mood.

[BarbStAubrey]

Winter Crept Up On Us



    Winter solitude -

    in a world of one color

    the sound of wind

By Basho, a 17th century Japanese haiku master.

[PatH]

Barb, one of my favorite haiku masters.  Thanks.

[hats]

Barb and Path, I am not as familiar with the Haiku. The ones I've read have been very memorable. I like the one above about the quietness of winter. Due to the lack of color and maybe animal life a person must really become more observant. Then, there is a realization this is not a dull season. It is only different in its beauty. I'm sitting here trying to remember windy, winter day. Thankfully, I can say the wind is in my memory box. It's a different sound from the wind of spring, summer and autumn. I wonder if it's a lonely sound. Think, brain, think.

At one time, I tried writing a Haiku or two.  I had so much fun. Often, I miscounted the syllables. Isn't that silly? I might go back to Haiku writing. I haven't seen many cardinals this winter. My husband saw four perched together one morning. Cardinals are always pretty against snow. I have a throw pillow of that description. Usually, it's taken out during Christmas. I didn't this time. It's in a box somewhere. Maybe the pillow is with Christmas decorations. I didn't use those this year. Only a green bell wreath was put on the door. Whoops, I don't want to wander too far away from winter solitude.

[BarbStAubrey]

THE WHITE FLOWER By Heinrich Heine In father’s garden there silently grows A flow’ret mournful and pale; The spring-time returns, the winter’s frost goes, Pale flow’ret remaineth as pale. The poor pale flower looks still Like a young bride that’s ill. Pale flow’ret gently saith to me— “Dear brother, pluck me, I pray!” I answer pale flow’ret—“That must not be, I never will take thee away. I seek with anxious care A purple flow’ret fair.” Pale flow’ret saith—“Seek here, seek there, Seek e’en till the day of thy death, But still that purple flow’ret fair Thou’lt seek in vain,” she saith. “But, prythee, pluck me now, I am as ill as thou.” Thus whispers pale flow’ret, beseeching me sore; I tremblingly pluck her, and lo! I find my heart suddenly bleeding no more, Mine inward eye brightly doth glow. Mute angel-rapture blest Now fills my wounded breast.

[BarbStAubrey]

Pounding frantic storm

trudging through crushed white diamonds

icy blow to Spring

[BarbStAubrey]

[BarbStAubrey]

Wintry wind—
Passing a man
With a swollen face.

[BarbStAubrey]

"My darling girl, when are you going to realize that being normal is not necessarily a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage.“  - Aunt Frances

[PatH]

I like that.

[PatH]

     A tethered horse,
snow
     In both stirrups.




Yosa Buson, 18th century poet and painter

[BarbStAubrey]

Yes, Pat I remember reading that piece - I need to pull out my books filled with these Haiku masters - to pack so much in just a few syllables is awe inspiring - I like this short bio on Buson...

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/yosa-buson

[hats]

Instead of poetry that seems like a wise saying. Courageous people don't worry about acting normal. That seems like a mouthful. Might write this poem in my little journal. I don't have any daughters only sons. If I were the mother of a daughter, I wouldn't have the nerve to tell her to avoid conformity is fine. What might she do?

[BarbStAubrey]

Glass, glass, What is glass? A thing that is nothing where light may pass. It is air and not air, it is there and nowhere. And yet it is hard and the dazed bird as it flies through the land strikes the glass and cannot understand. —Gerhart Hauptmann

[hats]

I am glad the bird stops and notices the "hard" glass. Even what seems hard might have something to give back to its visitor.

[BarbStAubrey]

hats have you had birds hit your windows? Sometimes they hit the window in the breakfast room so hard they knock themselves out and land stunned on the patio for a bit - I'm told it is because they see the grass and trees reflected in the glass - I hate hearing that thud knowing how hard it is when I hit my head not seeing a closed glass door much less a tiny bird.

[Tomereader1]

Barb, if you have one of those "Wild Bird Stores" in your area, you can get a little holographic bird, or other thing, to put on the glass and the birds will not hit the window.  The one I had finally washed off, and I haven't been to get another just yet.  The bird strike is frightening when it happens, and you are sitting quietly reading or napping inyour chair!