Poetry Page

[salan]

Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.

Poetry can be part of life       rather than a thing apart. Share with us       Poems about the end          of the natural year.           Tell us       How you celebrate          a poet's life and poems. Autumn holidays -       Tell us about Poetry in          Fall parties and gift giving.

A few Poetry Links:

• Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn
• Fall Poetry
• Poems for Autumn

Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey & Fairanna

Great poem, Babi.  Substitute I Give Thanks for I Take Joy and it makes the poem even more appropriate for this time of the year.  Thank you for reminding me of all the things I have that I can take joy in!
Sally

[Babi]

 It does seem to me the poem is expressing gratitutde for all those
joys. I know my heart is full of gratitude whenever I can experience one
of those moments of sheer joy.

[mrssherlock]

Those moments are what holds my life together.  I'll see a sunset sky and gasp at its beauty.  Sighting Mt Hood, one of our local volcanoes, is another of those moments.  Having a comfortable laugh with my family, seeing my cat/clown acting silly, talking to my sister on the phone, little bits of daily life scattering joy like pepper on scrambled eggs. 

[BarbStAubrey]

Welcome Salon - glad you found us and the poem said something to you - sorry but the heading must be inserted in the first post of every page and so your message is the post that also carries the heading.

Interesting to me - my friend and I get together for dinner every Wednesday and after dinner we usually read and discuss a chapter from a book written by a theologian. - Currently, we are reading a book written by Matthew Fox whose views the Vatican had trouble accepting and so he left the Dominicans and became an Episcopal priest. Regardless, he is expanding the view of God where as Rome prefers the official interpretations, which are only, expanded by either a written encyclical from the Pope or by and council of Church Cardinals and Bishops.

All to say Matthew Fox is explaining a view of a Cosmic God that is at the core of everything - at the center of every plant, creature, atom, drop of water, grain of sand etc. rather than a Patriarchal God that is the head of a Pyramid. With that change of perception many words are inappropriate and funny enough the word Joy comes up because, if we are all a part of a Cosmic God and God is the core of everything we are then what we call bad only because our free will has blocked the God within and without. As opposed to Thanks which is a word that goes with a God who is separate from us and controls the universe. A God who we must please or who we turn out backs and so bad is without God.

I am not suggesting this theory is for everyone rather I am giving in a nutshell the theory.  What brings a smile to my face is - I recognize the views we hold often since childhood color our instint reaction to the very words that we hear and read. - I love it - that so much of what we read in Poetry strikes our inner core that has been built since our childhood  coloring even our personal view of our God.  

I think at this time  in history many of us are looking at a simpler life acknowledging the beauty in what is free - it is as if  we are taking a deep breath allowing ourselves to look and be grateful - thank goodness we are not living on the streets but even at that a street person can see some bits of daily life scattering joy like pepper on scrambled eggs

Great poem to have shared Babi - gets us all thinking about what really matters doesn't it.

[mrssherlock]

Barb:  Wasn't one of Henry's arguments, that the people should have access to the bible rather than getting dribbles of it as the priests chose?  Also, didn't Luther oppose that view?  Seems as if the Rome learns slowly if at all. 

Joy is what was so profoundly fundamental to the poem, Barb, and why it resonated so deeply within me.  Thanks is almost subservient.  I suppose if I had survived the voyage of the Mayflower I would have been thankful, too.  Perhaps I have too much a pragmatic mind and lack the spiritual element.  The world is such a marvel and it's core truths so beautifully clear that I don't feel the need for intercession.

[BarbStAubrey]

This is poetry but it touches so many of our deeply held beliefs and our feelings, how we respond to the world around  us - Yep, have to agree Jackie, Rome learns slowly or not at all - however, being fair, by learn we mean change - more precisely change to a more educated western point of view - and bottom line I do not think any religious are 'change agents' - regardless the church leaders of Judism, Buddhism, Orthodox, Latin, Byzantine or Greek Catholic, Anglican, on and on... they all have their official dogma and views but within each religious body are groups and individuals who celebrate their God with theology other than the official. Some become saints or revered names and others are asked to leave...ah so...and so it goes.

I see the concept of Joy falling in line with a spirituality that reminds me of the Native American sacred view of the universe and our place in the universe. There are many web sites of Jews and Christians Thanking God for the sun, the universe as a whole, all that is on this earth, mostly the good that is on this earth. Bottom line, it appears we have our own personal views and as long as we can hold and practice our own view that is all that matters.

The poem said Joy and if that translates to Thanks for some then they are simply sharing how the poem affected them given their belief system.

Personally, like you Jackie, I like Joy. But more important like you it was a treat to be reminded of all the Joy in my life.

Gerard Manley Hopkins, Catholic ex-priest says it this way...

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

And James Patrick Dunne, a musician and writer says it...

JOY TO LIFE

How fragile this world that we live in
I get caught in the fight of the day
I can't see the gifts I've been given
So much is clouding my way

But sometimes your voice speaks so loudly
Yet you whisper right into my soul
To look for the miracles everywhere
As the truth of life unfolds

Joy to life
Joy to life
Joy to all you have given me
Everywhere I look I see
The joy of life

Tranquil my heart to the rhythm
Of your beauty that's inside of me
I'm learning to trust your sweet vision
And to be all that I'm meant to be

Joy to life
Joy to life
Joy to all you have given me
Everywhere I look, I see
The joy of life

So much time that I've been wasting
So much yet to be done
There are new fruits I've been tasting
My journey has just begun

Joy to life
Joy to life
Joy to all you have given me
Everywhere I look I see
The joy of life

And finally, Joseph Bruchac, Native American (Abenaki, from central New York state) gives us a Micmac prayer...

The Circle of Thanks

As I play my drum
I look around me
and I see the trees.
The trees are dancing
in a circle about me
and they are beautiful.

As I play my drum
I look around me
and I see the sun and moon.
The sun and moon are dancing
in a circle about me
and they are beautiful.

As I play my drum
I look around me
and I see the stars.
The stars are dancing
in a circle about me
and they are beautiful.

As I play my drum
I look around me
and I see my people.
All my people are dancing
in a circle about me
and my people, they are beautiful.

[mrssherlock]

I am deeply moved.

[ANNIE]

And I think is was mentioned that there are many groups inside religious groups who do their own thing but still stay inside the larger group practicing their faith.  INHO, I think we all need not to forget that community includes all of us--be we Catholic, Christian, Jew, Muslim, Orthodox, Hindu, Coptic or Atheist. We all have a place in this world.

[Babi]

 

scattering joy like pepper on scrambled eggs. 

 JACKIE, now that's an image that would never have occurred to me. I'm still grinning.

  That view of God as existing in everything is not new. Pantheism goes
way back. I find it exciting to know that everything in creation has the
same basis...energy! Whether stone or flesh, at the core of every atom is pure energy, held together God only knows how! Literally. So, for me, God created and holds together everything, but is also more..and beyond. The impulse to gratitude and thankfulness is, for me, too deep an impulse to be denied.

  I love the Gerard Manley Hopkins poem. All that truly infinite variety
is one of the things that still inspires me with awe. I can simply step
outside and marvel and all the different shades of green in view to be
filled with wonder.  There is a song called, I think, "Master Artist"; it
expressed my feelings so well. I tried to find it, but couldn't. I suspect I
have the title wrong.

[BarbStAubrey]

Thanksgiving

For each new morning with its light,
For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food,
For love and friends,
For everything Thy goodness sends.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

[BarbStAubrey]

THE 53 PILGRIMS AT THE FIRST THANKSGIVING :

4 MARRIED WOMEN : Eleanor Billington, Mary Brewster, Elizabeth Hopkins, Susanna White Winslow.

5 ADOLESCENT GIRLS : Mary Chilton (14), Constance Hopkins (13 or 14), Priscilla Mullins (19), Elizabeth Tilley (14 or15) and Dorothy, the Carver's unnamed maidservant, perhaps 18 or 19.

9 ADOLESCENT BOYS : Francis & John Billington, John Cooke, John Crackston, Samuel Fuller (2d), Giles Hopkins, William Latham, Joseph Rogers, Henry Samson.

13 YOUNG CHILDREN : Bartholomew, Mary & Remember Allerton, Love & Wrestling Brewster, Humility Cooper, Samuel Eaton, Damaris & Oceanus Hopkins, Desire Minter, Richard More, Resolved & Peregrine White.

22 MEN : John Alden, Isaac Allerton, John Billington, William Bradford, William Brewster, Peter Brown, Francis Cooke, Edward Doty, Francis Eaton, [first name unknown] Ely, Samuel Fuller, Richard Gardiner, John Goodman, Stephen Hopkins, John Howland, Edward Lester, George Soule, Myles Standish, William Trevor, Richard Warren, Edward Winslow, Gilbert Winslow

1621 - Pilgrims and Native Americans celebrated a harvest feast in Plymouth, Massachusetts. There are  only 2 primary sources for the events of autumn 1621 in Plymouth: Edward Winslow writing in Mourt's Relation and William Bradford writing in Of Plymouth Plantation

1630 - Settlers observed the first Thanksgiving of the Massachusetts Bay Colony in New England on July 8..

1777 - George Washington and his army on the way to Valley Forge, stopped in blistering weather in open fields to observe the first Thanksgiving of the new United States of America.

1789 - President Washington declared November 26, 1789, as a national day of "thanksgiving and prayer."

1800s - The annual presidential thanksgiving proclamations ceased for 45 years in the early 1800s.

1863 - President Abraham Lincoln resumed the tradition of Thanksgiving proclamations in 1863. Since this date, Thanksgiving has been observed annually in the United States.

1941 - President Roosevelt established the fourth Thursday in November as Thanksgiving Day.

Information from: The Pilgrim Hall Museum

[BarbStAubrey]

She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms
     Emily Dickinson

She sweeps with many-colored brooms,
And leaves the shreds behind;
Oh, housewife in the evening west,
Come back, and dust the pond!

You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of emerald!

And still she plies her spotted brooms,
And still the aprons fly,
Till brooms fade softly into stars -
And then I come away.

[BarbStAubrey]

When the Frost is on the Punkin
          by James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—
I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

[fairanna]

After reading the last two pages and being moved by the poetry and the thoughts expressed i am hesitant to share a poem I wrote some years ago....poetry speaks to me ..it is a language until itself ..no matter where , or who, or what it is written about ..there is something in even the smallest poetic thought that leaves the page and enters me...and i know from reading the words of all who come here ..enters you...

I am praying that whatever is keeping me from finding the peace  that directed me to the poetry section here will return ...

Here is my offering and may Thanksgiving be a special day for you..with family, with friends, with memories .....

NOVEMBER

According to astrology 
November people have a lot of special traits
The one that seems to suit me
Says we are unpredictable
That makes sense for November is just that unpredictable
Weather is always varied , too warm or too cold
One day I am raking leaves in short sleeves
And the next day sitting close to my little stove
Shivering and wondering what happened overnight
Here the first of the month brings a glory to the land
Trees are sporting colors , flaunting their vivid hues
The gold a dazzling display in brilliant sunlit day
Ruby , topaz, amethyst even peridot
Are worn like jewels on every branch and limb
The first rain will bring them down ,
Raining leaves you could say
Until the ground is covered with them
No grass can be seen in that blanket of brown
So we rake them , heap them, toss them in the air
Exuberant in the cool November air
And when the lawn is bare  and we are tired
Pleased with our autumn chore
Those trees just shake themselves
And deposit more …and once again we set
Ourselves to the now onerous task
Raking leaves, soggy and wet
This time there is less joy and complaints fill the air
And still from my window I see my trees are not bare
But full of leaves again! Don’t they know the time has come
To let them go? And one day before November ends
In the sharp cutting sun of a November morn
I look out and see the leaves have gone
The ground is bare and the grass is old and dry
The squirrels only come to eat the corn
Then disappear until the next bleak morn
Too cold they are like me huddled in their nest
While the birds at my feeders never rest
For they need  a lot of nourishment to survive
The coming cold, the darker days and early nights
Like me they hunker down to wait for December to arrive
For the shortest day to come and go
For the first snowflakes to arrive , swirling now
Blowing  winds that seek to find entry to my house
Unpredictable November I am ready to see you go
Bring me dreams of spring and let me see robins in my yard
You have my permission to depart ..I need to think of crocus in my heart

anna alexander
thoughts on one November day in my life



these were the way Scorpios were described I thought you might like to see what astrology says  and see how many are in you...
* Has a lot of ideas
* Difficult to fathom
* Thinks forward
* Unique and brilliant
* Extraordinary ideas
* Sharp thinking
* Fine and strong clairvoyance
* Can become good doctors
* Careful and cautious
* Dynamic in personality
* Secretive
* Inquisitive
* Knows how to dig secrets
* Always thinking
* Less talkative but amiable
* Brave and generous
* Patient
* Stubborn and hard-hearted
* If there is a will, there is a way
* Determined
* Never give up
* Hardly become angry unless provoked
* Loves to be alone
* Thinks differently from others
* Sharp-minded
* Motivates oneself
* Does not appreciates praises
* High-spirited
* Well-built and tough
* Deep love and emotions
* Romantic
* Uncertain in relationships
* Homely
* Hardworking
* High abilities
* Trustworthy
* Honest and keeps secrets
* Not able to control emotions
* Unpredictable

[ALF43]

Anna, that is beautiful and as a Scorpio, allow me to add one more trait-
fiercely LOYAL!

It must be because I am born on the cusp because there a couple that do not fit me.

[fairanna]

Barbara you were posting while I was doing the same and now I see one of the poets I read early in my life...I love the folksy way Riley writes .. having many aunts and uncles who lived on farms  I heard a lot of sayings and words as Riley writes..they didnt speak that way all the time but when you were with a group at an auction ..a farm sale, a disposable sale  that quaint speech could be heard  I often thought it came into being from the immigrants who left the varied countries and without education spoke what they heard and it became these and of course there was also the difficulty of speaking with tobacco or snuff in ones mouth...and broken and lost teeth...//words come out different then  but for me it was fascinatin' to hear   not what I heard at my home or school but more interesting .that is just me . I am going to make a punkin' pie for Thanksgiving and THANK GOD for all the blessings HE has bestowed and I believe HE is in every atom ..of what we see and know When the Bible says GOD CREATED then HE had to use everything we know and guess and hope  HAVE A GREAT THANKSGIVING>>>love to all

[Babi]

  Wow!, BARB, I didn't realize that detailed information was available.
I hadn't realized there were so many children. I love the names of the
children! Can you imagine being named "Remember" or "Humility", "Resolved"
or, heaven help us, "Desire"?

You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of emerald!
 Ah, how can one not love Emily Dickinson?

 Two of my childrn were born in November, ANNA. With that long list of
characteristics, it's easy to find some that fit. My two have some things
in common, and are quite different in others.
  Loved your poem. We've had a couple of absolutely perfect, gorgeous
days here this week. I was pleased to think about them again reading
your November thoughts.
 

"...of course there was also the difficulty of speaking with tobacco or snuff in ones mouth...and broken and lost teeth...//words come out different then."

  Of course! I'd never considered that before, but it does explain some
of the pronunciations one hears in country sayings.  Thank you so much, ANNA, for that insight.

[mrssherlock]

"a picture that no painter has the colorin' to mock"  words to fit most sunsets.

Anna, have you ever looked at your horoscope in the lunar calendar?  http://www.proastro.com/
Based on the cycle of 12 each year has a different animal totem and the horoscope describes the characteristics for each animal.  At one time in my life I had several people who were so attreactive I couldn't let them go but they also were very demanding and not good for me psychologically.  I am a Boar and those people, not the same age at all, were all Monkeys, almost irresistible to boars.  Not that I knew this at the time!  My two children were born in October, both Libras, yet one is a Rat and one is a Rooster, vastly different in truth.  Just another fun way to look at yourself and the people in your life. 

Please continue to share your formidable talent with us.  I am a failure at writing it but I crave poetry like a drug so it doesn't have to be only famous poets, I've always looked forward to your work and feel like it is a special day when you share it with us.

[BarbStAubrey]

A quickie - our family is riddled with horses, pigs and roosters.

Great to see your post Anna -

Rushing - my son's tomorrow over in Magnolia and then Tuesday I leave for my daughter - Ty had his surgery and all is well - he will be in the hospital till Tuesday. Happy Thanksgiving...

[BarbStAubrey]

The Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving

(Edgar Albert Guest, 1881-1959)

It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell
Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well;
But thinking of them now I wish somehow that I could know
A simple old Thanksgiving Day, like those of long ago,
When all the family gathered round a table richly spread,
With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at the head,
The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile,
With mother running in and out and laughing all the while.

It may be I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me to-day
We're too much bent on having fun to take the time to pray;
Each little family grows up with fashions of its own;
It lives within a world itself and wants to be alone.
It has its special pleasures, its circle, too, of friends;
There are no get-together days; each one his journey wends,
Pursuing what he likes the best in his particular way,
Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving Day.

I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad
To meet the way they used to do when I was but a lad;
The old home was a rendezvous for all our kith and kin,
And whether living far or near they all came trooping in
With shouts of "Hello, daddy!" as they fairly stormed the place
And made a rush for mother, who would stop to wipe her face
Upon her gingham apron before she kissed them all,
Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small.

Then laughter rang throughout the home, and, Oh, the jokes they told;
From Boston, Frank brought new ones, but father sprang the old;
All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do,
The struggles we were making and the hardships we'd gone through;
We gathered round the fireside. How fast the hours would fly--
It seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye.
Those were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew
When relatives could still be friends and every heart was true.

[BarbStAubrey]

When Father Carves the Duck

We all look on with anxious eyes
When father carves the duck,
And mother almost always sighs
When father carves the duck;

Then all of us prepare to rise,
And hold our bibs before our eyes,
And be prepared for some surprise,
When father carves the duck.

He braces up and grabs a fork
Whene'er he carves a duck,
And won't allow a soul to talk
Until he's carved the duck.

The fork is jabbed into the sides,
Across the breast the knife he slides,
While every careful person hides
From flying chips of duck.

The platter's always sure to slip
When father carves a duck,
And how it makes the dishes skip!
Potatoes fly amuck!

The squash and cabbage leap in space,
We get some gravy in our face,
And father mutters a Hindoo grace
Whene'er he carves a duck.

We then have learned to walk around
The dining room and pluck
From off the window-sills and walls
Our share of father's duck.

While father growls and blows and jaws
And swears the knife was full of flaws,
And mother laughs at him because
He couldn't carve a duck.

~By E. V. Wright

[ALF43]

Thanks Barb, that was a knee slapper.  I can just picture myself being there with "my bib before my eyes."

[mrssherlock]

From an 1844 poem by Lydia Marie Child

Over the river, and through the wood,
To Grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood—
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes and bites the nose
As over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring, "Ting-a-ling-ding",
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river, and through the wood
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground like a hunting-hound,
For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river, and through the wood—
And straight through the barnyard gate,
We seem to go extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait!

Over the river, and through the wood—
Now Grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

[Babi]

?>  I checked out that Chinese calendar, JACKIE. I am also a Libra, and the calendar said I am a Pig.  So, if there are 12 animals dividing up a
year, how do a Rat, a Rooster and a Pig all wind up in October??  I'll
stick to Libra; it fits me perfectly.

 Oho! I wonder what the 'Hindu grace' consisted of? I have my suspicions. 

[mrssherlock]

Babi:  Puleeze, I prefer "Boar" to "Pig".  You and I share our place in the twelve year cycle.  What year you are born in is what counts.  My birthday is Feb. 13 and February is usually the time of the new year in lunar calendars.  Just like birthdays one day apart can fall into separate signs such as Aquarius and Pisces both sharing February dates so too can the lunar calendar result in separate animals for birthdays today and tomorrow.  Some years my birthday is before the new year, some years it is after.  That is part of the fun.  My two libras are as different as day and night; in addition to being different genders one is pure logic, numbers, the other is art, emotions.  Three years and seven days separate my rooster from my rat's birthdays. 

[fairanna]

I took time this am to check and see if I had another poem about autumn and I did...by the way MrsSherlock Three years and seven days separate my rooster from my rat's birthday is a funny line ...I wonder what a newcomer here would think about that...I did have a great Thanksgiving day with my oldest son and his extended family...his mother and father in law and a sister in law...but I really appreiciate how mother must have felt .. when the six of us lived in different places...and when she had a holiday she could only be with one of us..I am grateful my children live near but in some ways I was also depressed a bit because the days when we celebrated can never be again,...any way here is the poem I spoke of...

Autumn Thoughts

the summer’s heat has pressed me down
and only my thoughts of cooler days
allowed me to survive

just thinking of Autumn with her jaunty dress
eases the heat along my arms
and spreads down to my wiggling toes

the heat seared my skin , kidnapped my breath
held me hostage in my room
where fans fooled me with their air

hibernating, my body still
waiting for some weather man to say
tomorrow will be a cooler day

it is time for summer’s heat
to give way, to autumn’s turn at the wheel
so I can leave my home

inhale fresh air cool beneath the trees
see my flowers lift their blooms
offer their beauty again to me

anna    alexander
July 30, 2005, 12:16 PM
©

May every day be Thanksgiving 

[mrssherlock]

Anna:  A perfect description of the effects of too much heat:  "the heat seared my skin , kidnapped my breath
held me hostage in my room".  Thank you for the gift of your poem.

[Babi]

 Okay, thanks, JACKIE.  I can see how different years would change the
animals for that month.  (And I must say I like 'boar' much better, too.)

  I don't think I've ever posted this Robert Frost poem, and perhaps this post-holiday aura is the time for it.

  RELUCTANCE

Out through the fields and the woods
  And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
   And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home, 
  And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
  Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
  And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
  When others are sleeping.

And the ded leaves lie huddled nd still,
  No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
  The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
  But the feet question, "Whither?"

Ah, when to the heart of man
  Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
  To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
  Of a love or a season?

[mrssherlock]

Babi:  Perfect.

[fairanna]

Since I was a child poetry spoke to me...it clarifies my thoughts, my way of knowing what otherwise I wouldnt know and every poet has something to share..when we read the words they speak we are with them,, seeing what they see and feel and share
and all the poems shared here give me that special gift..Right now I am not writing and not reading ...but my mind still needs the poetry you post.

I am going through a lifetime of papers...and I MEAN a lifetime ..being in the military we never had time to sort things out so we ended up with a lot of STUFF  Pictures forgotten ,people and places remembered and to come across a picture of someone you once knew and cared for is uncovering jewels. 

One thing I uncovered was a poem.of mine ..no date, but I remember why I wrote the poem...it tells me I was sad ..

To a Kite Caught in A Tree

How came you to this spot---
Careless lad who failed,
To guide your flight afar--
Leaving you thus impaled.

How sad you should be- 
Caught by earthly bars--
Imprisoned by a tree---
When destined for the stars.

anna alexander
a poem from long ago

[mrssherlock]

Brava!

[Babi]

  Ah, ANNA, that is a sad poem. You conveyed it so well in just a few lines.

[BarbStAubrey]

oh Anna the Kite poem is just too perfect as I see so many whose lives are on hold because of earthly bare tree branches that snagged them on the way to their stars.  Many are caught not be design or careless choices but sometimes life is abut bad things happening to good people. I think the poem is just Wonderful...!

The past few days have had such a feeling of melancholy about them - the overcaste sky plus I came down with a light case of the flu that reeked havoc on my drive home from my son's so I have been in bed all day yesterday - I need to leave for my daughter's this week but I may have to delay leaving for a day so I can get myself or actually my lungs into good condition for the long trip.

And so with  my delay I will be able to upload our Winter poem heading to start us off with our winter poems tomorrow rather than today -  I understand that areas of the nation are having a snowfall  including west Texas - so it appears that winter is really upon  us.

Well one more autumn poem - Here is Wallace Stevens.

The Region November

It is hard to hear the north wind again,
And to watch the treetops, as they sway.

They sway, deeply and loudly, in an effort,
So much less than feeling, so much less than speech,

Saying and saying, the way things say
On the level of that which is not yet knowledge:

A revelation not yet intended.
It is like a critic of God, the world

And human nature, pensively seated
On the waste throne of his own wilderness.

Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying.

[mrssherlock]

Barb: " the way things say
On the level of that which is not yet knowledge"

That is very profound. 

Take care of yourself.  Be well rested before you take off.  Long trips are stressful.  When my sister travels to California's bay area I go with her to share the driving.  Even so we both need a day in bed to recover at each end of the trip.

[JoanK]

Winter moon.
The stones on the path
Crunch underfoot.
Buson

I can't read that crunch without shivering.

[BarbStAubrey]

This links to the 75th Anniversary Booklet of Poets from the Academy of American Poets. A wonderful story of how it started - who was the originator, why, and the amazing poets that were the beneficiary of the Academy since its conception in 1934.


http://poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21209?utm_source=poetsupdate_112409&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_campaign=content&utm_content=booklet_main

[mrssherlock]

Barb:  What an exciting site to explore.

Winter Solitude

by Matsuo Basho

Winter solitude--
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.

[BarbStAubrey]

I love the poems that give life to wind - the Chinese and Japanese poets often include wind in their poems -  It catches my breath each time I read about the wind.

I need to find the symbolism in wind...

OK here is one that I have not heard in years but seems like the appropriate poem for this time of year. Reminds me of the Littlest Angle.

The Chimney-Sweeper     
by William Blake 
 
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry 'Weep! weep! weep! weep!'
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,
'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.'

And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!--
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
 

 

[BarbStAubrey]

Only two poems till the page turns - so I will add the two and upload the Winter heading.

The Mystery of Meteors    
by Eleanor Lerman  

I am out before dawn, marching a small dog through a meager park
Boulevards angle away, newspapers fly around like blind white birds
Two days in a row I have not seen the meteors
though the radio news says they are overhead
Leonid's brimstones are barred by clouds; I cannot read
the signs in heaven, I cannot see night rendered into fire

And yet I do believe a net of glitter is above me
You would not think I still knew these things:
I get on the train, I buy the food, I sweep, discuss,
consider gloves or boots, and in the summer,
open windows, find beads to string with pearls
You would not think that I had survived
anything but the life you see me living now

In the darkness, the dog stops and sniffs the air
She has been alone, she has known danger,
and so now she watches for it always
and I agree, with the conviction of my mistakes.
But in the second part of my life, slowly, slowly,
I begin to counsel bravery. Slowly, slowly,
I begin to feel the planets turning, and I am turning
toward the crackling shower of their sparks

These are the mysteries I could not approach when I was younger:
the boulevards, the meteors, the deep desires that split the sky
Walking down the paths of the cold park
I remember myself, the one who can wait out anything
So I caution the dog to go silently, to bear with me
the burden of knowing what spins on and on above our heads

For this is our reward:Come Armageddon, come fire or flood,
come love, not love, millennia of portents--
there is a future in which the dog and I are laughing
Born into it, the mystery, I know we will be saved

[BarbStAubrey]

Here is a 'wind'  poem but it just does not do it as compared the the Haiku

Four Winds     
by Sara Teasdale 

"Four winds blowing thro' the sky,
You have seen poor maidens die,
Tell me then what I shall do
That my lover may be true."
Said the wind from out the south,
"Lay no kiss upon his mouth,"
And the wind from out the west,
"Wound the heart within his breast,"
And the wind from out the east,
"Send him empty from the feast,"
And the wind from out the north,
"In the tempest thrust him forth,
When thou art more cruel than he,
Then will Love be kind to thee."