Author Topic: Poetry Page  (Read 755859 times)

MarjV

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #560 on: August 03, 2009, 07:41:47 AM »
Let's Celebrate Summer
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words
that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known
about the poems we share - Please join us.

Summer time fills our mind-pictures with
long, lazy picnics by the river,
old-fashioned ice cream socials,
a day at the seaside,
parades, flags, fireworks and
burgers hot off the grill.  

Poetry can be part of life rather than a thing apart.
Share with us your:
Warm weather poems,
Summer recipes and entertainment that
Celebrate poets and poems,
Summer craft idea using poetry.


Promise to follow through using poetry in
a weekly outdoor happening and
make this summer the best it can be!


Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey & Fairanna





Since life has jumped to August I found this - has a few nice images.

August, with its clouds of scented blooms,
August, with its great stacks of giant clouds,
August, with corn plants standing like rows of soldiers,
August, with watermelons, full and heavy, dozing in the sun,
August.

August, remember swimming in the lake?
August, remember baby Alice daintily eating berries from the vine?
August, remember Richie playing with the goat?
August, remember Donald practicing on his new saxophone?
August.

August, and its lightening laced sky,
August, and newlyweds Pat and Chet decorating their first home,
August, and Billy the Brave, Billy the Fearless, on his two wheel bike,
August, and shimmering memories hanging like drops of dew,
August.

August, the bountiful, August the full,
August, Mama hot, but smiling, over a platter of succulent roast chicken,
August, Daddy mixing her a frosty mint julep,
August, blessed harvest of memories,
August.

Mary Naylor

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #561 on: August 03, 2009, 08:40:59 AM »
 August, hot, hot, hot, hot!  If Mama was roasting chicken in August down here,
she definitely deserved that frosty mint julep. Or to have her head examined.  ;)
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #562 on: August 03, 2009, 12:01:11 PM »
Hot it is Babi - my AC bill this summer will be equal to the down payment on a vehicle.

Marj - perfect and here we are starting August already - how the  year has flown by - I used to start my Christmas gift making in August but this year I am lying low till this heat breaks.

Here is a Robert Frost poem - Design

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth—
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth—
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?—
If design govern in a thing so small
“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 #563 on: August 03, 2009, 12:27:56 PM »
Well known poets born during the month of August abound...

Today the 3rd we have: Rubert Brooke 1887 - 1915

On the 4th we have: Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792 – 1822  and  Robert Hayden 1913 – 1980

6th: Lord Tennyson 1809 – 1892

8th: Sara Teasdale 1884 – 1933

9th: John Dryden 1631 – 1700

15th: Sir Walter Scott 1771 – 1832

17th: Ted Hughes 1930 – 1998

19th:  Ogden Nash 1902 – 1971

20th: Salvatore Quasimodo 1901 – 1968

21th:  X.J. Kennedy 1929

22th:  Dorothy Parker 1893 – 1967

24th:  Robert Herrick 1591 – 1674  and  Malcolm Cowley 1898 – 1989

25th:  Bret Harte 1836 – 1902

26th:  Guillame Apollinaire 1880 – 1918

28th:  Goethe 1749 – 1832

29th:  Oliver Wendell Holmes 1809 – 1894

31st: Theophile Gautier 1811 – 1872

All that and Goethe - my oh my what a month of birthdays.
“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 #564 on: August 03, 2009, 12:30:49 PM »
In celebration of his birthday today ---

Nineteen-Fourteen: Peace
by Rupert Brooke

Now, God be thanked who has matched us with his hour,
      And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping!
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
      To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary;
      Leave the sick hearts that honor could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
      And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
      Where there’s no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
            Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart’s long peace there,
      But only agony, and that has ending;
            And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
“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 #565 on: August 03, 2009, 01:15:13 PM »
The image of Roasted Chicken and Mint Julips is lovely served on a wide porch with a painted blue ceiling however, Rubert Brooke brings us face to face with soldiers in the muddy Trenches - when they could, because a battle wasn't raging, this is the daily fare [ rations] of WWI British Soldiers:

20 ounces of bread
 16 ounces of flour instead of above
  4 ounces of oatmeal instead of bread

3 ounces of cheese

5/8 ounces of tea

4 ounces of jam
 4 ounces of dried fruit instead of jam

½ ounce of salt
 1/36 ounce of pepper
 1/20 ounce of mustard
 4 ounces of butter/margarine
 
8 ounces of fresh vegetables or
 2 ounces of dried vegetables
 1/10 gill lime if vegetables not issued
 
½ gill of rum
 1 pint of porter instead of rum

maximum of 20 ounces of tobacco
 1/3 chocolate – optional

That is for the Day! Looks like Bread and Cheese then later Tea and Jam followed by a dinner of veggies and rum with maybe a chocolate for dessert and a few smokes during the 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 #566 on: August 03, 2009, 01:18:50 PM »
Today let's celebrate Rubert's Birthday with a bit of pre-war Tea - according to Tea Time on the web page of The Brave Writer's lifestyle the musts for tea are...  http://www.bravewriter.com/bwl/tea-time/
“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

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #567 on: August 04, 2009, 08:16:17 AM »
Quote
If design govern in a thing so small
  Hi, BARB.  Pesonally, I think there is design in everything. Even the
smallest thing is so complex and so beautifully and perfectly designed.

 The Rupert Brooke poem is so powerful. I think I want to quote one great
line, but then find another...and another...

 Where did you find that list of poets' birthdays?  That is quite a
distinguished list.
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

MarjV

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #568 on: August 04, 2009, 08:31:34 AM »
A gill is 5 fluid oz - so it says on the web - so half a gill wouldn't be very much.

Interesting food list.

And I'll have the chocolate please.

MarjV

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #569 on: August 04, 2009, 08:36:22 AM »
August rushes by like desert rainfall,
A flood of frenzied upheaval,
Expected,
But still catching me unprepared.
Like a matchflame
Bursting on the scene,
Heat and haze of crimson sunsets.
Like a dream
Of moon and dark barely recalled,
A moment,
Shadows caught in a blink.
Like a quick kiss;
One wishes for more
But it suddenly turns to leave,
Dragging summer away.
-  Elizabeth Maua Taylor


I have the same feeling today - that all of a sudden summer is past.   Already I see how the light changes - more hazy than in July (here in lower Michigan)

This morning we had  hot orange sunrise.   The old quote:  red sun at night, sailors delight; red sun in the morning, sailors take warning.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #570 on: August 04, 2009, 09:33:14 AM »
Babi it was one of the many history web sites that  included the birthdays of artists and I just picked out the poets. I was balled-over weren't  you with the group of names who were born in August but then since I started to think - there are only 12 months and I guess I never took into account the many poets whose work we read as basic to poetry in our western cannon.

Yes Marj, you are reminding me again of how quickly time passes and if I am going to do some of the things I have set aside in my mind I need to actually start doing them. It is so easy to get caught in the rhythm of a usual day so that making the effort to break and do something on my mental list will take an effort - I kept thinking I would start treating weeks and months as if they were my last so I would not have so many regrets that i didn't do this or that and your poem reminds me I really need to refocus and get some of these wants into reality.

And so, it may not be in keeping with triple digit heat but I have decided to get a couple of my books of poetry and one of my teapots onto what was intended as a breakfast room table where as for years the family defined it as the eating room table - an alcove with a bay window at the end of my kitchen - As of now the table had become a catch all with the pile of mail that accumulates along with anything that I bring in from the car that does not yet have a place.

So today the table will be cleared - and set one side for my meals instead of eating standing at the counter or sitting on the sofa watching TV - and the other side will become my tea break area with a couple of poetry books, a teapot, cup laying sideways on a saucer till tea time, a tea plate and silverware - I never  use my silver - this is ridiculous - my children do not live a lifestyle that includes good silver, you cannot even sell it on eBay for a decent price which I couldn't I think it is too lovely to  divest myself of what I thought was important - the thing is to  use it and live the life that is in my head.

Nothing is growing in the yard with a bloom - the heat is too much for most blooming plants - but I read not long ago that it is worth the money to buy a chrysanthemum that should last in the house about 2 months - the amount of poisens and chemical vapors from our electronics it removes from the air is astounding. If I cannot find a mum then I will get a kalanchoe which is not as good an air vacuum of toxins but does add moisture to dry air - with our heat this summer the household air is dry, dry, dry. Of course the AC is pulling out every last drop of moisture so we shall see if a kalanchoe helps - hopefully I can find a mum for my tea place and to celebrate poetry.
“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 #571 on: August 04, 2009, 09:42:41 AM »
today is a double birthday - since there isn't a poet's birthday tomorrow I think I will save Shelly for tomorrow - here is a poem by Hayden - timely since last night the moon if it wasn't full it was darn  near close to being full:

Full Moon 
 
  No longer throne of a goddess to whom we pray,
no longer the bubble house of childhood's
tumbling Mother Goose man,

The emphatic moon ascends--
the brilliant challenger of rocket experts,
the white hope of communications men.

Some I love who are dead
were watchers of the moon and knew its lore;
planted seeds, trimmed their hair,

Pierced their ears for gold hoop earrings
as it waxed or waned.
It shines tonight upon their graves.

And burned in the garden of Gethsemane,
its light made holy by the dazzling tears
with which it mingled.

And spread its radiance on the exile's path
of Him who was The Glorious One,
its light made holy by His holiness.

Already a mooted goal and tomorrow perhaps
an arms base, a livid sector,
the full moon dominates the dark.

Robert Hayden

 
 
“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 #572 on: August 04, 2009, 10:00:53 AM »
Just found this - isn't this poem just wonderful...

Why We Tell Stories
     by Lisel Mueller

For Linda Foster

I
Because we used to have leaves
and on damp days
our muscles feel a tug,
painful now, from when roots
pulled us into the ground

and because our children believe
they can fly, an instinct retained
from when the bones in our arms
were shaped like zithers and broke
neatly under their feathers

and because before we had lungs
we knew how far it was to the bottom
as we floated open-eyed
like painted scarves through the scenery
of dreams, and because we awakened

and learned to speak

2
We sat by the fire in our caves,
and because we were poor, we made up a tale
about a treasure mountain
that would open only for us

and because we were always defeated,
we invented impossible riddles
only we could solve,
monsters only we could kill,
women who could love no one else
and because we had survived
sisters and brothers, daughters and sons,
we discovered bones that rose
from the dark earth and sang
as white birds in the trees

3
Because the story of our life
becomes our life

Because each of us tells
the same story
but tells it differently

and none of us tells it
the same way twice

Because grandmothers looking like spiders
want to enchant the children
and grandfathers need to convince us
what happened happened because of them

and though we listen only
haphazardly, with one ear,
we will begin our story
with the word and

“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

MarjV

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #573 on: August 04, 2009, 11:11:11 AM »
Barbara said:So today the table will be cleared - and set one side for my meals instead of eating standing at the counter or sitting on the sofa watching TV - and the other side will become my tea break area with a couple of poetry books, a teapot, cup laying sideways on a saucer till tea time, a tea plate and silverware - I never  use my silver - this is ridiculous - my children do not live a lifestyle that includes good silver, you cannot even sell it on eBay for a decent price which I couldn't I think it is too lovely to  divest myself of what I thought was important - the thing is to  use it and live the life that is in my head.

Fantastic Barbara.   And how nice to have an area where you can do that!

My kitchen table overlooks my backyard so I usually eat or snack there.   I know all to well how easy it is to get in the habit of standing at the counter to eat.

AND - I have a friend that is living with lymph cancer.   Makes me even more aware of how precious each minute, etc. is.   I  make my choices based on what I want to do with  my time.   Yes, use your silver and your china daily if that is what you like.   
 

MarjV

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #574 on: August 04, 2009, 11:13:38 AM »
"Why we tell stories" is wonderful.   Just think - we tell our "stories" when we respond to poems right here.

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #575 on: August 05, 2009, 08:40:12 AM »
MARJ, I've always thought that quote was 'sky' rather than 'sun'. Either way,
it seems to be an accurate guide.

 You're probably right, Barb, but I'd be interested to look over he rest of
the months. Wouldn't it be fun if some months were way out of kilter? Bound
to set one speculating.
 The breakfast room table sounds like a winning project. Though if there is
a favorite program on, I do tend to eat in my chair. Tea time and a book in a
lovely spot. How wonderful.

 The Hayden poem is remarkable.  I've never heard of trimming hair or piercing
ears by the phase of the moon, though. How odd. I do hope the day will never
come when the moon is an arms base!

and because we were always defeated,
we invented impossible riddles
only we could solve,
monsters only we could kill,
women who could love no one else
and because we had survived
sisters and brothers, daughters and sons,
we discovered bones that rose
from the dark earth and sang
as white birds in the trees

  I think this may be very true.
 
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #576 on: August 05, 2009, 11:35:29 AM »
Hymn to Pan
           by Percy Bysshe Shelley (August 4, 1803-1882)

From the forests and highlands
We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the dædal earth,
And of heaven, and the giant wars,
And love, and death, and birth.
And then I changed my pipings—
Singing how down the vale of Mænalus
I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!
It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.
All wept—as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood—
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
“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 #577 on: August 06, 2009, 02:29:21 AM »
Today August 6, is the birthday of Lord Tennyson - here are a few of his summertime poems.

'Flower in the crannied wall’

Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower–but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.


The Roses on the Terrace
    
Rose, on this terrace fifty years ago,
    When I was in my June, you in your May,
Two words, ‘My Rose,’ set all your face aglow,
    And now that I am white and you are gray,
That blush of fifty years ago, my dear,
    Blooms in the past, but close to me to-day,
As this red rose, which on our terrace here
    Glows in the blue of fifty miles away


The Flower
    
Once in a golden hour
    I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,
    The people said, a weed.
To and fro they went
    Thro’ my garden-bower,
And muttering discontent
    Cursed me and my flower.

Then it grew so tall
    It wore a crown of light,
But thieves from o’er the wall
    Stole the seed by night;

Sow’d it far and wide
    By every town and tower,
Till all the people cried,
    ‘Splendid is the flower.’

Read my little fable:
    He that runs may read.
Most can raise the flowers now
    For all have got the seed.

And some are pretty enough,
    And some are poor indeed;
And now again the people
    Call it but a weed.

“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

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #578 on: August 06, 2009, 09:11:15 AM »
 Isn't it evident that Yeats and his contemporaries were quite familiar
with the classic Greek and Roman pantheons and myths?  Yeat writes about
them with such ease and famliarity. The poem evokes vivid images.

 I'd never seen Tennyson's "The Flower" before, and I loved the gentle irony
of it.  I have/had a lovely bed of Wandering Jew, which apparently some
people must regard as a weed, since I have had it mowed down twice by ignorant yard men!  Not at all amusing, I assure you.

 I found this intriguing quote about 'the season of waning light'. Perhaps I
can find more of it.

  "As in the bread and wine, so it is with me.
Within all forms is locked a record of the past
And a promise of the future.
I ask that you lay your blessings upon me, Ancient Ones,
That this season of waning light
And increasing darkness may not be heavy.
So Mote It Be!"
-  Faille, Lammas Ritual  
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

MarjV

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #579 on: August 06, 2009, 11:55:07 AM »
BABI - that quote is fantastic!    Just beautiful.  Thanks

This poem was in my Panhala daily poem e-mail today-
I thought it was quite wonderful~

I Am Completely Different
 
I am completely different.
Though I am wearing the same tie as yesterday,
am as poor as yesterday,
as good for nothing as yesterday,
today
I am completely different.
Though I am wearing the same clothes,
am as drunk as yesterday,
living as clumsily as yesterday, nevertheless
today
I am completely different.
 
Ah ...
I patiently close my eyes
on all the grins and smirks
on all the twisted smiles and horse laughs---
and glimpse then, inside me
one beautiful white butterfly
fluttering towards tomorrow.

~ Kuroda Saburo ~

MarjV

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #580 on: August 06, 2009, 12:00:15 PM »
Re:  "The Flower"

Oh - I have "flowers" like that in my yard.    Wild flowers/weeds - whatever they may be in someone's eyes I am most contented with them.    An acquaintance the other day asked why I didn't cut down the weeds out behind my back gate - I said - those are wildflowers I've cultivated and keep neat and trim and he snorted.  Grrrrrr!  Tough!

One of my wildflowers I really like is the spiderwort - blooms in the mornings....
SPIDERWORT PICTURE

fairanna

  • Posts: 263
Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #581 on: August 07, 2009, 06:02:14 AM »
Sleep seems to be avoiding me so I have read and enjoyed your posts,,,poems and just great conversation....we have had HOT weather and almost daily thunderstorms and rain so heavy it looked like a waterery drape....I spend as much time as possible outdoors since I know when winter comes I will be dining in the dark,,,,and thanks for the picture  .....my yard holds many wild things and one of the them is yours..when we moved here my husband wanted a "real" lawn and I said as long as you take care of it ,,as for me I planted a vegetable garden and lots of flowers ,,and welcomed any wild flower that was brave to appear...as I told him you cant give anyone a bouquet of grass...I guess I am odd but could never understand the time people spend having a green lawn...automatic water system, fertilizer, seed , mowing, and some daily pulling out tiny outcropping things that are not grass...well my eyes are saying they would like to close and go to sleep....

Hugs to all and thanks for keeping poetry going.....

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #582 on: August 07, 2009, 09:17:44 AM »
I found myself wondering if the subject of the poem was Saburo himself, MARJ,
and hoping his 'tomorrow' came true.
 I've seen flowers like your picture of the Spiderwort, but there are so many
small blue wildflowers I'm not sure they were the same.

 A smooth green lawn..surrounded by flowers and plantings, of course...can be
a beautiful think, ANNA. But of course it is a great deal of work, and beyond
me now. I must rely on someone else to cut the grass, and am content enough
to enjoy whatever 'volunteers'.
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #583 on: August 07, 2009, 02:58:03 PM »
Here in Texas we see spiderwarts along the edge of fields and along the edge of road shoulders however this year few wildflowers - We are experiencing a history making draught breaking all kinds of heat records for the number of triple didgit days with nights that most often only go down to 95. We can count the number of days it has rained on one hand and here in  Central Texas the lakes were only lower two other periods in the history of droughts.

With Shelley's birthday just the other day it can be our excuse to get some of the groups of poets planted in our heads - Shelley was part of the Big Six - the Six major English Romantic poets.

William Blake - William Wordsworth - Samuel Taylor Coleridge - George Gordon, Lord Byron - Percy Bysshe Shelley - John Keats

It used to be the Big Five but in recent years they have included Blake as part of this group - he was a poet unto his own - steeped in religion to the point of creating his own mythology and religion - He did bring a new art form of poetry and drawings interchangeable.

The early two are Spenser and Milton -

Remember Spenser for The Faerie Queene, all about Elizabeth I - he was one of those Englishmen in Ireland who wrote ridicul ing the Irish so that during one of the rebellions his castle was burnt to the ground - he escaped to his second holding in the south.

Spenser influenced the Romantic poets with the Elegy, Spenserian nine line stanza,  Pastoral poetry that led, along with the influence of Milton, Pindar and Horace to the eighteenth century Ode, and then his beast fable.

Milton wrote Paradise Lost - another of those epic poems that I have not tackled considered one of the great poems in the English language.

Many, especially Blake claimed that Spenser influenced Milton and then Milton influenced Tennyson who was NOT one of the Romantic Big Six poets. Tennyson was a child during the hayday of the second tier Romantic Poets. He was born in the nineteenth century.  

Wordsworth and Coleridge were not only friends but Coleridge, [Rime of the Ancient Mariner] was instrumental in grooming Wordsworth into the recognized poet we know today. For me it is more easy to remember Wordsworth by his poem about Daffodils then his other major work - he lived with his sister and together they took long long walks - he had a major breakdown in his early twenties however later he was the Poet Laureate for Britian. Upon his death in 1850 Tennyson became the national Poet Laureate.

Back to the Big Six - we have the early two Spenser and Milton who lived 300 years before Wordsworth and Tennyson.

Blake a man unto himself born in 1757.

John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and Lord Byron comprised the latter half of the movement.

Shelley was from gentry  with a great 'Country House' - [a castle has a keep where as a country house can be as large or larger than many castles] - however the young Shelley blew it and his sister was helping to support him with her good friend a sixteen year old dropping off the money - Shelley at age nineteen assumed romance - the girl, Harriet was delighted and they run off the Scotland to be married. One thing and another including the girl having an affair and a sister who gave them no space to work out their marriage Shelley leaves - later Harriet kills herself by thowing herself in the Serpentine but has her last sting by making it impossible for Shelley to have custody or visiting rights to his two children.

Shelly had an arrangement living in France and later in Italy with Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin [author of Frankenstine] they marry after the death of Harriet and after the father relents and Shelley receives his stipend - again another sister almost ruined their marriage but that is another story because important is that Shelley liked Keats and was helping him. Keats, a young man with TB - Both his mother and brother died from TB - for his health he came to Italy however, he did not accept Shelley's invitation to stay with them - soon after Keats died in Italy.

We focused on the work of Keats for a month back a year or two ago. Remember how we were enchanted with his poem Ode To A Nightingale

Again, Shelley is the king pin to this group of three because Shelley did not like Byron - he thought he was too loose and fancy free with girls and yet, because they were all Brits in Italy he felt a responsibility to maintain loyalty and fidelity.

Byron served in the  House of Lords in 1811 and later spent his own money refitting the Greek fleet as he was engaged with Greece in their war with Turkey.

Byron in Italy - a ladies man, he wanted a women to be met at the train station north and brought to him in Genoa - Shelley offered - after which he and his two companions sail his new custom made boat from Genoa home. A Storm came up and the boat sank - since the  boat sank Mary believed it was murder -  everything from Byron's jealousy to the possibility of British intelligence because of a radical political paper written while he was living in Wales is blamed. There are several other versions of what could have happened - this was 1822 - not a time when science would have helped solve a crime.

And so these three second tier English Romantic poets knew each other as their lives were touched in one way or another by each other.

Byron for me is best known for Childe Harold's Pilgrimage which influenced Turner to paint http://tiny.cc/QPymH  and Berlioz to compose, Harold in Italy

Before an audience estimated at 250,000 to 300,000, Mick Jagger of The Rolling Stones read a part of Shelley's poem Adonais, An Elegy To The Death of John Keats  http://theotherpages.org/poems/shell03.html   at the Brian Jones memorial concert at Hyde Park on July 5, 1969. Jones, founder and guitarist of the Stones, had drowned July 3, 1969 in his swimming pool.  

And finally, the Irish poet Yeats who was influenced by both Shelley and Spenser and only died in 1939. His family was part of the Protestant Ascendancy and they moved back to England during William Yeats early childhood returning to Ireland with the rise of Parnell and the Home rule movement. His poetry was steeped in Irish myth and folklore and his Big Six influence was William Blake.
“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

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #584 on: August 08, 2009, 08:47:11 AM »
 I remember reading Milton's "Paradise Lost" as an assignment in high school.
We also had to write an essay about it, and I am happy to say the teacher was
pleased with mine. I thought it was a rather simple comparison between the
'night' people and the 'day' people, but apparently no one else had done that
before.
  Blake has, IMO, written some of the most exotic lines in poetry, though I
have read suggestions that he may have been either somewhat wacky or using
drugs. Irregardless, what can match these wonderful lines from Kublai Khan:

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #585 on: August 08, 2009, 07:28:11 PM »
So many poems from Sara Teasdale to choose from - this  one is perfect for our historic summer of heat - other areas of the nation have experienced a different sort of summer but we have been the furnace of the nation since the end of May.

Oh Day of Fire And Sun

Oh day of fire and sun,
Pure as a naked flame,
Blue sea, blue sky and dun
Sands where he spoke my name;

Laughter and hearts so high
That the spirit flew off free,
Lifting into the sky
Diving into the sea;

Oh day of fire and sun
Like a crystal burning,
Slow days go one by one,
But you have no returning.

Sara Teasdale
“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 #586 on: August 08, 2009, 07:40:19 PM »
ah Kubla  Khan - here is a link about the real Kublai Khan followed by a wonderful series of photos on YouTube

http://www.thenagain.info/WebChron/china/KublaiKhan.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=645CurSFiOM

And finally a link the the entire poem - how the words just roll off your tongue - great Babi, to remind us of such wonders...

http://poetry.eserver.org/kubla-khan.html

I loved the line: "Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!" but wasn't sure what "athwart" or "cedarn" meant -  athwart is looking from side to side and cedarn is woody usually cedar.
“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

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #587 on: August 09, 2009, 08:44:31 AM »
  "In Xanadu did Kublai Khan a stately pleasure dome decree...",  and that's
where Marco Polo met him so many years later.  Genghis Kahn, Kublai Khan..not to mention their mother...what a remarkable family that was.

  Here's an  anonymous August poem you will probably appreciate, BARB.

  AUGUST HEAT

In August, when the days are hot,
I like to find a shady spot,
And hardly move a single bit--
And sit--
And sit--
And sit--
And sit!
"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

MarjV

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #588 on: August 10, 2009, 08:05:25 AM »
Isn't this so true -

Oh day of fire and sun
Like a crystal burning,
Slow days go one by one,
But you have no returning.

Sara Teasdale

Thanks for the K Khan reminder.   Hadn't thought of that in ages

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #589 on: August 10, 2009, 12:04:31 PM »
missed Yesterday - Babi, I was close to your neck of the woods as the expression goes -  I have had such problems with the back shocks on my vehicle ever since they were changed out in early June - I couldn't get anyone to acknowledge the problem without coming up with all sorts of solutions that was going to cost me hundreds - and so my son knows so much about cars he took the tires off and examined the entire system - found the problem and talked to the mechanic in Austin so it WILL be fixed.

Anyhow, all that because I drove down to Houston - all his tools were at his house - he lives in Magnolia 2 streets away from the Woodlands - so all the way over off that road 14 whatever - which is slower than any of the roads on the entire trip - takes me nearly an hour just in from Hempstead on this 14 whatever where I can get all the way to Hempstead from Austin in less then 2 hours.

There was rain - glorious rain - short rain showers that I drove through from Giddings over and while at Paul's the rain came down - When I got home last night they said it rained less than a quarter of an inch here in Austin as well - did not notice any change though in the dried up grass and so I have my hose going again today on the bleached area that gets the sun all day. My concern is they tree roots are going to become so dry that when we finally do get rain the trees will be toppling all over town.

Well Yesterday was John Dryden's birthday and here is one of his poems - not so much Summer but not any other season so I thought we could go with it...

ONE HAPPY MOMENT

by: John Dryden

O, no, poor suff'ring Heart, no Change endeavour,
Choose to sustain the smart, rather than leave her;
My ravish'd eyes behold such charms about her,
I can die with her, but not live without her:
One tender Sigh of hers to see me languish,
Will more than pay the price of my past anguish:
Beware, O cruel Fair, how you smile on me,
'Twas a kind look of yours that has undone me.
  
Love has in store for me one happy minute,
And She will end my pain who did begin it;
Then no day void of bliss, or pleasure leaving,
Ages shall slide away without perceiving:
Cupid shall guard the door the more to please us,
And keep out Time and Death, when they would seize us:
Time and Death shall depart, and say in flying,
Love has found out a way to live, by dying.

“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 #590 on: August 10, 2009, 12:23:36 PM »
“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

MarjV

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #591 on: August 10, 2009, 12:55:07 PM »
I don't think we've had this one..

   August

 When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend

all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking

of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body

accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among

the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.
-   Mary Oliver, August


 

MarjV

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #592 on: August 10, 2009, 12:56:45 PM »
Re:  One Happy Moment

- ah love, oh so painful!   Can just feel  him itching in his clothes.

JoanK

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #593 on: August 10, 2009, 01:53:36 PM »
Marg: Although I couldn't see the name on my browser, I knew as soon as I started reading that poem that it was Mary Oliver. Somehow, all her poems read TRUE to me, if you know what I mean.

PS: where are you in Title Mania? I miss the duals we used to have. Not quite the same without points and winners, though.

Babi

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #594 on: August 11, 2009, 08:08:22 AM »
  Glad you had a chance to enjoy a bit of rain, BARB. We had a dry spell, too,
really hot. It finally broke and for the last two weeks we've enjoyed enough
rain to keep the temp. a notch or two lower.  Glad you solved your car problem, too.

 Mary Oliver seems to really be enjoying herself, MARJV, with her 'happy
tongue'.  A similar feeling in these lines from Andrew Marvell:

  "What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass."

-  Andrew Marvell, Thoughts in a Garden   

 



"I go to books and to nature as a bee goes to the flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey."  John Burroughs

MarjV

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #595 on: August 11, 2009, 12:54:21 PM »
I love my flower garden like Marvell does- think I'll skip throwing myself in the grass since there are yellow jackets.

Gee - here in SE Michigan we are having humid/hot Michigan!  Totally yucky outside.

Here's another Mary Oliver I just recd - it is so neat!  Funny you couldn't see her name on the other, Joan K - it followed the poem.

 
DAISIES
 
It is possible, I suppose that sometime
we will learn everything
there is to learn: what the world is, for example,
and what it means. I think this as I am crossing
from one field to another, in summer, and the
mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either
knows enough already or knows enough to be
perfectly content not knowing. Song being born
of quest he knows this: he must turn silent
were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead
 
oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly
unanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies display
the small suns of their center piece, their -- if you don't
mind my saying so -- their hearts. Of course
I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and
narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know?
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;
for example -- I think this
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch --
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the
daisies for the field.
 

 ~ Mary Oliver ~
 
(Why I Wake Early)


JoanK

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #596 on: August 11, 2009, 04:34:37 PM »
That was great, Marj. I just hadn't scrolled down far enough to see the name yet.

BarbStAubrey

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Re: Poetry Page
« Reply #597 on: August 12, 2009, 04:34:30 AM »
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

by Eugene Field

Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe--
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea--
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish--
Never afeard are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
and Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam.
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home.
'Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed
As if it could not be
And some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea--
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
and Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
and Nod.
“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 #598 on: August 12, 2009, 04:40:43 AM »
Quote
At my feet the white-petalled daisies display
the small suns of their center piece
 Mary Oliver writes so simply and so perfect so that all you can do is smile with the image it brings to our minds.
“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 #599 on: August 12, 2009, 04:45:49 AM »
Babi we just have to have the entire poem - it is just too wonderful and perfect for our Summer theme.

The Garden

How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the Palm, the Oak, or Bays,
And their uncessant labors see
Crowned from some single Herb or Tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men:
Your Sacred Plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow;
Society is all but rude,
To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green;
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
 Cut in these trees their mistress' name.
Little, alas, they know or heed,
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheresoe'er your barks I wound
No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat:
The gods who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race.
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow,
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness:
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide:
There like a bird it sits and sings,
Then whets and combs its silver wings;
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walked without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises 'twere in one
To live in Paradise alone.

How well the skillful gardener drew
Of flowers and herbs this dial new;
Where from above the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run;
And, as it works, the industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers!

   -- Andrew Marvell

“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