Author Topic: Poetry Page  (Read 725009 times)

Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5280 on: August 10, 2021, 07:31:28 AM »
PatH, interesting info about Elizabeth Bishop. Since I've taken an interest in Brazil, that she lived there for a while is especially interesting.

Also, an unknown to me is Margaret Nickerson Martin, but her recurring lines, "When you’ve come to the end of your rope,
Tie a knot in the end and hang on", sound familiar. Probably I've run across similar sentiments before, if not exactly that.

Recently I picked up a The Banished Immortal: A Life of Li Bai by Ha Jin. It includes some of Li Bai's (aka: Li Bo, and others) poems. Of course I haven't started it yet. The ancient Chinese often had more than one name. According to custom, there was the birth name, the nickname, the name used when at court, and possibly others so that there would be no question whether a person was acting in a political, military, or business capacity, or just relaxing at home with friends and family.


BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5281 on: August 10, 2021, 01:03:48 PM »
Interesting the different names - over the years worked with many Indonesians with recent Chinese heritage I thought how 'with it' were the women who all have different, what we call surnames than their husbands - well it turned out that everyone's last name is their mother's first name that stays with them for life - the names are passed down from the maternal side and has nothing to do with a marriage contract. I worked with about 36 or 38 Chinese Indonesian families - I worked also with other Asians, from mainland China, Hong Cong, Singapore and Taiwan, a total of about 12 families.

They all had an American name they used - they even had their chosen American name on their driver's license - have no clue how they did that since no one went through a judge to make the chosen name legal - I'd only find out their real name at closing when all the documents had their real name. Those whom I worked with in the late 80s and 90s have become US citizens and those who did not, went back to live in Indonesia but kept their homes here as lease property.   

Yes, I am remembering a poster many had hung behind their bedroom door of a cat hanging onto the end of a knotted rope with something about hanging on - this was years ago maybe as far back as the 70s.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5282 on: August 10, 2021, 03:25:59 PM »
Dog Days of Summer
By Meena Alexander

In the dog days of summer as muslin curls on its own heat
And crickets cry in the black walnut tree

The wind lifts up my life
And sets it some distance from where it was.

Still Marco Polo Airport wore me out,
I slept in a plastic chair, took the water taxi.

Early, too early the voices of children
Mimicking the clatter in the Internet café

In Campo Santo Stefano in a place of black coffee
Bordellos of verse, bony accolades of joy,

Saint Stephen stooped over a cross,
A dog licking his heel, blood drops from a sign

By the church wall—Anarchia è ordine—
The refugee from Istria gathers up nails.

She will cobble together a gondola with bits of driftwood
Cast off the shores of the hunger-bitten Adriatic.

In wind off the lagoon,
A child hops in numbered squares, back and forth, back and forth,

Cap on his head, rhymes cool as bone in his mouth.
Whose child is he?

No one will answer me.
Voices from the music academy pour into sunlight

That strikes the malarial wealth of empire,
Dreams of an old man in terrible heat,

Hands bound with coarse cloth, tethered to a scaffold,
Still painting waves on the walls of the Palazzo Ducale.

“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5283 on: August 10, 2021, 03:29:09 PM »
A something in a summer's Day
By Emily Dickinson

A something in a summer's Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.

A something in a summer's noon -
A depth - an Azure - a perfume -
Transcending ecstasy.

And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see -

Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle - shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me -

The wizard fingers never rest -
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed -

Still rears the East her amber Flag -
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red -

So looking on - the night - the morn
Conclude the wonder gay -
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day!
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5284 on: August 11, 2021, 03:40:59 AM »
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

Tomereader1

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5285 on: August 11, 2021, 06:20:13 PM »
Beautiful poem, thank you, Barb!
The reading of a fine book is an uninterrupted dialogue in which the book speaks and our soul replies.


André Maurois

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5286 on: August 23, 2021, 03:23:11 PM »
Have A Nice Day

 'Help, help, ' said a man.
 'I'm drowning.
'
'Hang on, ' said a man from the shore.

'Help, help, ' said the man.
 'I'm not clowning.
'
'Yes, I know, I heard you before.

Be patient dear man who is drowning,
You, see I've got a disease.

I'm waiting for a Doctor J.
 Browning.

So do be patient please.
'
'How long, ' said the man who was drowning.
 'Will it take for the Doc to arrive? '
'Not very long, ' said the man with the disease.
 'Till then try staying alive.
'
'Very well, ' said the man who was drowning.
 'I'll try and stay afloat.

By reciting the poems of Browning
And other things he wrote.
'
'Help, help, ' said the man with the disease, 'I suddenly feel quite ill.
'
'Keep calm.
' said the man who was drowning, ' Breathe deeply and lie quite still.
'
'Oh dear, ' said the man with the awful disease.
 'I think I'm going to die.
'
'Farewell, ' said the man who was drowning.

Said the man with the disease, 'goodbye.
'
So the man who was drowning, drownded
And the man with the disease past away.

But apart from that,
And a fire in my flat,
It's been a very nice day.

Written by Billy Collins
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5287 on: August 23, 2021, 03:26:08 PM »
 
We are the time. We are the famous
by Barry Tebb

 We are the time.
 We are the famous
metaphor from Heraclitus the Obscure.

We are the water, not the hard diamond,
the one that is lost, not the one that stands still.

We are the river and we are that greek
that looks himself into the river.
 His reflection
changes into the waters of the changing mirror,
into the crystal that changes like the fire.

We are the vain predetermined river,
in his travel to his sea.

The shadows have surrounded him.

Everything said goodbye to us, everything goes away.

Memory does not stamp his own coin.

However, there is something that stays
however, there is something that bemoans.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5288 on: August 23, 2021, 03:39:24 PM »
In My Dreams
By Stevie Smith

In my dreams I am always saying goodbye and riding away,   
Whither and why I know not nor do I care.
And the parting is sweet and the parting over is sweeter,   
And sweetest of all is the night and the rushing air.

In my dreams they are always waving their hands and saying goodbye,
And they give me the stirrup cup and I smile as I drink,   
I am glad the journey is set, I am glad I am going,
I am glad, I am glad, that my friends don't know what I think.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

PatH

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5289 on: August 24, 2021, 06:16:11 PM »
Oh, Barb, those poems really hit the mood of the moment.  Thanks.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5290 on: August 27, 2021, 06:13:12 AM »
When Great Trees Fall
By Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5291 on: August 27, 2021, 06:16:20 AM »
And Death Shall Have No Dominion
 Dylan Thomas   

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashore;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Through they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5292 on: August 27, 2021, 06:26:07 AM »

9/11   2001-2021
   I felt an angel near today, though one I could not see
    I felt an angel oh so close, sent to comfort me

    I felt an angel’s kiss, soft upon my cheek
    And oh, without a single word of caring did it speak

    I felt an angel’s loving touch, soft upon my heart
    And with that touch, I felt the pain and hurt within depart

    I felt an angel’s tepid tears, fall softly next to mine
    And knew that as those tears did dry a new day would be mine

    I felt an angel’s silken wings enfold me with pure love
    And felt a strength within me grow, a strength sent from above

    I felt an angel oh so close, though one I could not see
    I felt an angel near today, sent to comfort me. 
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

KathyB

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5293 on: September 14, 2021, 03:31:56 PM »
THE VACATION

Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.
 He went flying down the river in his boat
 with his video camera to his eye, making
 a moving picture of the moving river
 upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
 toward the end of his vacation. He showed
 his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,
 preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
 the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat
 behind which he stood with his camera
 preserving his vacation even as he was having it
 so that after he had had it he would still
 have it. It would be there. With a flick
 of a switch, there it would be. But he
 would not be in it. He would never be in it.

Wendell Berry

KathyB

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5294 on: September 14, 2021, 03:34:41 PM »
 Though some Saith that Youth Ruleth me


Though some saith that youth ruleth me,
I trust in age to tarry.
God and my right and my duty,
From them I shall never vary,
Though some say that youth ruleth me.

I pray you all that aged be,
How well did ye your youth carry?
I think some worse, of each degree:
Therein a wager lay dare I,
Though some saith that youth ruleth me.

Pastimes of youth sometime among,
None can say but necessary.
I hurt no man, I do no wrong,
I love true where I did marry,
Though some saith that youth ruleth me.

Then soon discuss that hence we must.
Pray we to God and Saint Mary
That all amend, and here an end,
Thus saith the king, the eighth Harry,
Though some saith that youth ruleth me.


By Henry VIII, King of England

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5295 on: September 14, 2021, 04:32:22 PM »
Wow Kathy - where ever did you find that - had no idea Henry VIII wrote poetry that is still around - I heard he liked music and poetry but never thought to look for any of his work - thanks for posting this...
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

KathyB

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5296 on: September 14, 2021, 08:18:07 PM »
I found it on one of the Tudor shows that David Starkey hosted. It's my favorite HVIII poem. He has written a few.
I like Tudor History.

Here are some of his poems:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/henry-viii#tab-poems

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5297 on: September 14, 2021, 08:53:44 PM »
Tra la... amazing - he is not brilliant as a poet - his opinion on his life seems to be his focus however, the one about Holly and Ivy you just have to shake your head and wonder when he wrote it because he sure did not live a love life in keeping with that poem did he... ah so and such is life so that even a powerful king has his poetic fantasies...  ;)
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5298 on: October 01, 2021, 01:44:45 PM »
Fireflies

The air in this house
is so warm, closer
than close.
In different rooms
they flutter,
eyes closed within
their own worlds.

Faces bathed in twilight,
headphones mainline
Jackie, Sam, Aretha
Dionne, James or Smokey
into their pulsing bodies—
who they were then
lives inside every adlib
& holler, shooting
from fingertips spread
above their heads.

Inside the brightest nook
of themselves, they are
everything they did
right, everything that
made sense at the time
still bringing
residual joy. Ambient,
my parents winged
& lit from every angle
hover, untaxed delight!

I don’t blink, don’t dare
try to capture them
in the mason jar
of my hungers
nor halt them
shimmering, spellbound.

by Kamilah Aisha Moon recently deceased
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5299 on: October 07, 2021, 12:54:45 PM »
I like this... so simple... no flowery words... The word icebox dates the time in history... 

This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5300 on: October 08, 2021, 06:47:00 AM »
Barb, another reminder of George. A big sneaky snacker, he used to raid the refrigerator and swipe stuff I was saving to make dinner. His comment was that if I wanted to keep it for dinner I should have attached a note saying so.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5301 on: October 08, 2021, 01:56:48 PM »
I know what you mean since my son-in-law does this - at first it was a mouth dropping shock - after repeated forays on his part I am so buffaloed where their mind is -

I can understand things like snack food and fruit but even fruit he would eat all the grapes leaving none for anyone else - just do not understand and yet this poem seems harmless that tells the tale of eating all the plums - Given the time in history that iceboxes were the thing - the early 20th century till around the time of WWII - I'm thinking the plums came from either a backyard tree or a very nearby fruit stand where they can easily be replaced - today, everything being shipped in there is no feeling of a constant bounty within walking distance. If the icebox robbers replaced what they eat all would be tolerable but they don't do they - 

Hmm frybabe you have me looking at the poem from another angle and now I wonder if they were "so sweet" because like ill gotten gains the sweetness is in the taking. Boy this concept of taking from a quasi public place to taking merchandise is rampant - wow could go off on that concept - simple poem but more loaded than I saw it when I first read it... I want and so I take... Wow - at least the poem shows someone using charm where as most takers today have little charm nor acknowledge they are taking...
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

PatH

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5302 on: October 08, 2021, 03:46:32 PM »
A lot of people called their refrigerators "iceboxes" for a long time after there weren't iceboxes any more.  But that behavior is timeless.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5303 on: October 08, 2021, 07:28:52 PM »
Whow - I thought i would look online if there were any poems that had to do with takers... found some that would bring this already 'down' conversation even further into the dumps - Not yet giving up, toward the bottom of one of the pages I found this - says it all...

A King's last wish
There was once a curious King that was loved by all and understood by few. After years of ruling the land, he felt as though he was missing something. After days of pacing back and forth in hopes of discovering the newly felt void, it came to him. He approached his servants with the toughest task to ever be given. He sat in front of his people and spoke, "I need something that carries the ability to make me happy when I am sad and sad when I am happy." After his task was given, a servant yelled out, "That's preposterous!" Minutes passed, no one dared to take on such a task; failure to produce success would result in expulsion from the kingdom.

Moments went by and still there were no takers, but finally his most trusted servant says, "I shall take on your task my King." The room went silent, a mere pin drop could be heard from miles award. The King smiles and says to him, "You have 30 days, I wish you luck."

The servant returned back to his bedroom and packed everything he could carry, along with every cent he had ever made. He traveled throughout the land to the richest of towns in hopes of an answer. He found himself continually asking shopkeepers, spiritual members of society, and every person he passed, "What would make you happy when you're sad and sad when you're happy?" His question was constantly met with laughter, sympathy, or was left ignored.

Ten days have passed and he has made no progress. Every night he was haunted with the King's words, "Does such a thing even exist?" His spirits began to plummet. Day after day, night after night, he faced constantly failure due to a concept he hard a time understanding.

Twenty days have passed and he began to find each night of sleep was met with tears. The mere thought of failing the King made him tremble in fear. Each night he thought, "How is it possible to find something that will make my King happy when he is sad and sad when he is happy?"

Twenty nine days have passed and his journey home was underway. He had failed his King, he has never failed him, he thought to himself, "What else do I have to offer the world?"

On his last day, he was walking through the last town before he would re-enter the kingdom. The servant walked through the town with hopes low and shoulders lower. As he was walking a shopkeeper stops him, "My son, what causes you to carry such sorrow." The servant laughs, "Oh trust me, you would not know a thing about what I am going through. You are just a mere ***** shopkeeper!" The shopkeeper responded, "My son, not giving another man a chance for success will get you no where." The servant sighs, "Fine, my King has sent me on a mission. He wishes to find something that will make him happy when he is sad and sad when he is happy." The shopkeeper pauses for several minutes and his eyes brighten, "I have just the thing, follow me inside." The servant rolls his eyes and follows. As they enter the shop, the shopkeeper opens a cabinet. Just as he is pulling a silver ring from the cabinet the servant stops him, "You expect me to give him a ring worth less then my shoes?!" The shopkeeper responds, "Breathe my son, I will solve your troubles." The shopkeeper enters the back of his shop and asks the servant to stay in front. A half hour passes and the shopkeeper returns, "This should do it, now go before the sun sets... consider us even."

The servant grabs the ring and runs back to the kingdom before his deadline surpassed. He is met with music, wine, women; however, he feels he has not succeeded. The King greets him, "Welcome back! What do you have for me?" The servant sighs and says to him, "I have traveled all throughout the land and all I have to offer is this ring." The servant looks down to his feet and hands the King the ring that was wrapped in linen.

Just as he is about to tell the King he will return to his bedroom and collect his belongings, the King begins to sob. The music comes to a holt, the women stare, and every eye lays upon the King. The King begins to uncontrollably sob, he gets off of his thrown and embraces the servant in his arms. He says to him, "You have done it, you have found something to make me happy when I am sad and sad when I am happy. I am forever in debt."

That day in the Kingdom a servant was saved from expulsion, a crowd remained perplexed, and a King remained misunderstood.

The servant did not understand and asked the King, "My Kind I am sorry, but why is this ring the answer to your question... it is only a ring." The King responded, "You did not read the engraving?" The servant remains anxious, "No my King, what does the engraving say?"

The King responds, "This too shall pass."
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

Annie107

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5304 on: October 29, 2021, 08:10:34 AM »
Good morning poetry lovers!  I am a Latin student, and I hope it's okay for me to jump in here from out of nowhere!  Barb posted a poem by one of my all-time favorite poets, Elizabeth Bishop, and I thought some of you might be interested in the episode of Poetry in America that discussed  One Arthttps://www.poetryinamerica.org/episode/one-art/. Enjoy the weekend!
Asterix CVII

Frybabe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5305 on: October 29, 2021, 09:49:38 AM »
Thanks, Annie107. I was not aware of this website. I've now bookmarked the site so I can browse their free online courses.

Annie107

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5306 on: October 29, 2021, 02:03:54 PM »
Asterix CVII

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5307 on: October 29, 2021, 06:38:08 PM »
Glad you stopped in Annie - interesting how we see different things when reading a poem - when I read “One Art,” by Elizabeth Bishop I thought she was talking about Dementia but yes, it can be understood from various experiences and viewpoints on loss can't it...

Here of late even without the pandemic, just aging, there are so many loses - loss of friends, of course a meaningful job, energy, physical abilities, a loss of purpose, no longer being in the middle of things - on and on it goes - lately after reading about how most of our life is really about solving obstacles I decided all the losses were just that, obstacles and one viewpoint I decided on is instead of loss I'm seeing it as change - if nothing else it helps make it something I can deal with rather than feeling hopeless.

In keeping with change I've found a couple of poems...

Sonnet 123: No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change
By William Shakespeare

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past;
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by that continual haste.
   This I do vow, and this shall ever be:
   I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.


Change
By Wendy Videlock

Change is the new,

improved

word for god,

lovely enough
to raise a song

or implicate

a sea of wrongs,
mighty enough,

like other gods,

to shelter,
bring together,

and estrange us.

Please, god,
we seem to say,

change us.
 
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5308 on: October 29, 2021, 06:41:25 PM »
OH and this - by one of my favorite poets - the ravages of loss...


Grace
By Joy Harjo

for Darlene Wind and James Welch

I think of Wind and her wild ways the year we had nothing to lose and lost it anyway in the cursed country of the fox. We still talk about that winter, how the cold froze imaginary buffalo on the stuffed horizon of snowbanks. The haunting voices of the starved and mutilated broke fences, crashed our thermostat dreams, and we couldn’t stand it one more time. So once again we lost a winter in stubborn memory, walked through cheap apartment walls, skated through fields of ghosts into a town that never wanted us, in the epic search for grace.

Like Coyote, like Rabbit, we could not contain our terror and clowned our way through a season of false midnights. We had to swallow that town with laughter, so it would go down easy as honey. And one morning as the sun struggled to break ice, and our dreams had found us with coffee and pancakes in a truck stop along Highway 80, we found grace.
   
I could say grace was a woman with time on her hands, or a white buffalo escaped from memory. But in that dingy light it was a promise of balance. We once again understood the talk of animals, and spring was lean and hungry with the hope of children and corn.
   
I would like to say, with grace, we picked ourselves up and walked into the spring thaw. We didn’t; the next season was worse. You went home to Leech Lake to work with the tribe and I went south. And, Wind, I am still crazy. I know there is something larger than the memory of a dispossessed people. We have seen it.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5309 on: October 29, 2021, 06:56:16 PM »
OH I do like this one by Elizabeth Bishop

A Miracle For Breakfast

At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
—like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.

The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.

He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds—along with the sun.

Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.

I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
—I saw it with one eye close to the crumb—

and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.

We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

Annie107

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5310 on: October 29, 2021, 07:22:16 PM »
What wonderful and varied selections, Barb.  And thank you for introducing me to Joy Harjo.  Grace is marvelous, and I am going to look for more.  This is probably my favorite Elizabeth Bishop; I hope you like it. 
   
Filling Station

By Elizabeth Bishop

Oh, but it is dirty!
—this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it’s a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide
the only note of color—
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
esso—so—so—so
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.
****


Asterix CVII

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5311 on: October 29, 2021, 08:04:58 PM »
ahh nice Annie - I Love handmade things and the poem helps me see our handwork speaks...
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

Annie107

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5312 on: October 29, 2021, 08:22:53 PM »
Yes.  Regardless of circumstances, all of us want to make our surroundings more beautiful. 
Asterix CVII

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5313 on: October 30, 2021, 08:35:16 PM »
A poem related to “The Lacemaker”

Her hands know what to do:
they dance, winding the threads
around their tiny maypoles, trying
each knot with surprising speed under
the deep calm of that broad, honest face,
suspended like a benevolent moon
over this delicate task.

She is not delicate. Body and bosom
are full-fleshed; her heavy ringlets will uncurl
by sundown. Wool and wood, metal hooks
and folds of yellow fabric are rich
with gravity and mass —- things
solidly of this world.

Yet in this light that pours
from some high window,
passing beneficence of a northern sun,
those solid things seem fragile:
the light will shift; she will lift her head
and stretch and sigh, the quiet
around her rippled like a pond´s surface,
and this graced moment gone.

Gathered on what we see,
filtered through lace, gleaming
on hair and polished wood, what we see
is always the light.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5314 on: October 30, 2021, 08:58:22 PM »
Pioneers-- the Lace-Maker
Sally T Taylor

Hands which had made the lace now pushed the plow
Across cracking fields of reclaimed wasteland.
The hot smell of summer pushed the past to
A kaleidescope of half lost fragments:

The acrid odor of wool coats drying
By the hearth as English storms sang outdoors;
The promised magic of new thread, spider -
Fine and smoothly waiting for careful form;

The close quietness of old artisans
Forming familiar patterns net-like with
The fragile flourish and curve for a trim,
So different from this straight, hard, dry furrow.

The lace-maker stopped his horse and slapped at
A lean horsefly buzzing his steaming neck,
These eyes burned by the base dust and stung by
The sun would never again see that life.

Dirt gloved hands would not form the silky threads
In fine designs of royal-ranked stature.
He had lost that past to the channeled task-
Master of time and life revolving faith.

Faith! His hands felt for the wood smooth handles
Gee hah! the worn horse huffed away the flies
And stepped slowly on, pulling a new type
Of pattern in the solid soil of now.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5315 on: October 30, 2021, 09:06:07 PM »
The Lacemaker of Ypres
By George Tucker Bispham

“Most of the houses in the Grande Place are in ruins.  The town is uninhabited. 
 Only the dead are left.  But the enemy keeps on bombarding – apparently to pass the time.”

She passed the hours
In a friendly solitude;
Heard the voices, wrangling shrewd,
In the market-place of flowers;
Clatter of cart-wheel; sounds that drifted—
From her open window, saw uplifted
Her cathedral towers.

While passed the hours
Her thoughts would find some little song,
Loved for many a year and long
In the market-place of flowers;
When days of summer drifted, drifted—
And in the peaceful sky were lifted
Ypres’ cathedral towers.

To pass the hours,
Since her last scream was choked in dust,
Shot and shrapnel spend their lust
In the market-place of flowers;
Smoke is drifted, drifted, drifted—
Lonely in the sky are lifted
Christ’s cathedral towers.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5316 on: October 30, 2021, 09:10:12 PM »
CARPENTER'S BELT
Whit Dorfneilsen

Pencil in hand,
Tape on the board.
"Two at eight feet!"
measured and scored.

Precise cross-cuts
Yielding perfect fit.
Atop the jacks
Abeam will sit.

A load,no doubt
Over mind and soul;
A silent integrity;
With personal control.

Line follows truth;
An arc of duty.
Concentric circles
Radiating beauty.

Of divine proportion
Do molecules start
The muscles spiraling
Around a kind heart.

Love for family and friends;
Confidence felt
Are tools of inspiration
On a carpenter's belt.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5317 on: October 30, 2021, 09:16:55 PM »
CARPENTER'S DAWN
Marc Rogovin

The alarm wrestles me from my sleep.
Darkness implies this is an improbable hour
But the clock crows a new day.

Tea water boils, cold water on face renews, radio informs
How many layers must be worn?
Comfort is paramount; there is work to be done

Grim face men dancing to keep warm in the dark
Cords, lines, tools, wood, paper, steel appear.
Good quality is a must freezing cold or not.

Sun drifting from behind the house
Shines on our work and our spirit.
I shed my outer layer.

The house shall be tight and warm
It built by cold fingers and sun warmed backs.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5318 on: October 30, 2021, 09:23:49 PM »
"The Blacksmiths" is a one-off. Love-lyrics, ballads, sacred poems are common at the period, but not this sort of realistic evocation of the chores of daily life. It shows, I think, the hand of a skilled literary artist. Chanted aloud, it must have won sympathy and laughter from the audience – perhaps an audience including blacksmiths?

The poem comes from the BM Arundel collection of 15th century poems. Davies has modernised the spelling to a judicious extent, so that, with some glosses, the poem can be understood without too much brain-bursting. It's best read aloud, remembering that the "e" at the end of a word would have usually been sounded.

The Blacksmiths

Swarte-smeked smethes, smattered with smoke,
Drive me to deth with den of here dintes:
Swich nois on nightes ne herd men never,
What knavene cry and clattering of knockes!
The cammede kongons cryen after 'Col! Col!'
And blowen here bellewes that all here brain brestes.
'Huf, puf,' saith that on, 'Haf, paf,' that other.
They spitten and sprawlen and spellen many spelles,
They gnawen and gnacchen, they groan togedire,
And holden hem hote with here hard hamers.
Of a bole hide ben here barm-felles,
Here shankes ben shackeled for the fere-flunderes.
Hevy hameres they han that hard ben handled,
Stark strokes they striken on a steled stock.
'Lus, bus, las, das,' rowten by rowe.
Swiche dolful a dreme the Devil it todrive!
The maistre longeth a litil and lasheth a lesse,
Twineth hem twein and toucheth a treble.
'Tik, tak, hic, hac, tiket, taket, tik, tak,
Lus, bus, las, das.' Swich lif they leden,
Alle clothemeres, Christ hem give sorwe!
May no man for brenwateres on night han his rest.
Glossary

Dintes – blows
Knavene – workmen, helpers
Cammede kongons - snub-nosed, or crooked, changelings
"That all here brain brestes" – fit to burst their brains
Spellen many spelles – tell many tales?
"Holden he hote" – keep themselves hot
Bole hide – bull's hide
Ben – are
Barm-felles - aprons
Shakeled for – protected from
Fere-flunderes – literally "fire-finders"
A kenning "sparks"
Steled stock – steel anvil
Rowten by row – (they) crash in turn
"Swich dolful a dreme the Devil it todrive – May the Devil put an end to such a miserable vision (Davies has "so miserable a racket" )
Longeth – lengthen (a piece of iron)
Lasheth a lesse – hammers a smaller piece
Toucheth a treble – strikes a treble note?
Alle clothemeres – all who clothes horses (mares) in iron armour
"May no man for brenwateres no night han his rest" – no man can sleep at night for (the noise of ) the smiths burning water.
Another great kenning: smiths are dubbed "burnwaters" because they dip hot metal in water.

Kenning, concise compound or figurative phrase replacing a common noun, especially in Old Germanic, Old Norse, and Old English poetry. A kenning is commonly a simple stock compound such as “whale-path” or “swan road” for “sea,” “God's beacon” for “sun,” or “ring-giver” for “king.”

Besides "the din of here dintes" ("the din of their blows")
They yell for more coal ("Col! Col!");
They spit, gnaw, gnash, groan and "spellen many spelles." as "tell many tales" – other translations give "reel off many charms" because blacksmiths have traditionally been associated with magic. In the Middle Ages they were held in awe for their control of fire and their ability to bend metal.
Similarly, "kongons" – translated as "changelings" – who are either "snub-nosed" or "crooked" ("cammede") is suggestive of the myths about the first blacksmiths.
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #5319 on: October 30, 2021, 09:31:18 PM »
The Toy-maker
by Padraic Colum

I AM the Toy-maker; I have brought from the town
As much in my plack as should fetch a whole crown,
I'll array for you now my stock of renown
And man's the raree will show you.

Here's a horse that is rearing to bound through the smoke
Of cannon and musket, and, face to that ruck,
The horseman with sword ready-held for the stroke,
Lord Lucan, maybe, or Prince Charlie.

An old woman sitting and waiting for call,
With her baskets of cockles and apples and all;
A one-legged sailor attending a ball,
And a tailor and nailer busy.

Or would you have these? A goose ganging by,
With head up in challenge to all who come nigh;
A cock with a comb dangling over his eye,
And a hen on a clutch nicely sitting;

Or a duck that is chasing a quick thing around,
Or a crow that is taking three hops on the ground,
Or an ass with head down (he is held in a pound);
Or a fox with his tail curled around him?

A ship made of shells that have sheen of the sea,
All ready to sail for black Barbarie,
The Lowlands of Holland, or High Germanic
And who'll be the one that will steer her?

I'll speak of my trade: there's a day beyond day
When the hound needn't hunt and the priest needn't pray,
And the clerk needn't write, and the hen needn't lay,
Whence come all the things that I show you.

I am the Toy-maker; upon the town wall
My crib is high up; I have down-look on all,
And coach and wheelbarrow I carve in my stall,
Making things with no troubles in them.
 
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ~ Goethe