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Each Friday we provide the link to the blogger-host of a weekly celebration of poetry around the blogosphere. Enjoy the festivities!
“Always be a poet, even in prose.” ~ Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867), French poet
Click on the pictures to see enlarged versions of the images.
WELCOME TO THE MONTH OF MARCH
CONTEMPLATION
Each day this month we take the time for some quiet contemplation, guided by poetry.
“To contemplate,” writes the poet Denise Levertov, “comes from [the Latin] ‘templum, temple, a place, a space for observation, marked out by the augur.’”
She goes on to say that “to meditate is ‘to keep the mind in a state of contemplation’; its synonym is to ‘muse,’ and to muse comes from a word meaning ‘to stand with open mouth’ — not so comical if we think of ‘inspiration’ — to breathe in.”
Poetry can aid contemplation and meditation. Rhymes and rhythms and rhetorical tools like similes, metaphors, and alliteration elevate words that would sound merely mundane as prose and turn them into music as poetry. Because poetry is not quite natural speech, it makes the reader pause and invites him to reflect.
In the verse below, it is precisely the poetic expression of what would otherwise be a prosaic truism that lends itself to contemplation.
RE-REVELATION WHILE MOVING TO VANCOUVER ISLAND
“All our lives we work for that
which at the last gate
we simply give away.”
~ Charles Van Gorkom, Canadian poet (to visit his blog, please click here)
Each day this month we take the time for some quiet contemplation, guided by poetry.
“To contemplate,” writes the poet Denise Levertov, “comes from [the Latin] ‘templum, temple, a place, a space for observation, marked out by the augur.’”
She goes on to say that “to meditate is ‘to keep the mind in a state of contemplation’; its synonym is to ‘muse,’ and to muse comes from a word meaning ‘to stand with open mouth’ — not so comical if we think of ‘inspiration’ — to breathe in.”
Poetry can aid contemplation and meditation. Rhymes and rhythms and rhetorical tools like similes, metaphors, and alliteration elevate words that would sound merely mundane as prose and turn them into music as poetry. Because poetry is not quite natural speech, it makes the reader pause and invites him to reflect.
In the verse below, it is precisely the poetic expression of what would otherwise be a prosaic truism that lends itself to contemplation.
RE-REVELATION WHILE MOVING TO VANCOUVER ISLAND
“All our lives we work for that
which at the last gate
we simply give away.”
~ Charles Van Gorkom, Canadian poet (to visit his blog, please click here)
A FEW HELPFUL BOOKS FOR THIS MONTH:
Ralph Harper, Nostalgia: An Existential Exploration of Longing and Fulfillment in the Modern Age
Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea
Henri J. M. Nouwen, A Restless Soul: Meditations from the Road
Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Robert Waldron, Poetry as Prayer: Thomas Merton
Ralph Harper, Nostalgia: An Existential Exploration of Longing and Fulfillment in the Modern Age
Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea
Henri J. M. Nouwen, A Restless Soul: Meditations from the Road
Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Robert Waldron, Poetry as Prayer: Thomas Merton
Each Friday we provide the link to the blogger-host of a weekly celebration of poetry around the blogosphere. Enjoy the festivities!
Search This Blog
Homepage of the George Hail Free Library in Warren, Rhode Island
Followers
MARIA HORVATH
THE EDITOR
More than eight years ago, I began emailing a different poem every morning to my friends and friends of my friends.
I’m a freelance editor. In June, 2003, I was working with a graduate student who was having problems with writer’s block. His sentences had become stiff, stuck in academic jargon. I suggested he read poetry for inspiration and to get a feel for the rhythm of language, and I offered to provide him with a poem every day. It worked.
That was more than 2500 different poems ago, allowing for some repetitions around Christmas and Easter.
The original reader has been joined by more than two hundred others on my list, and now, by the readers of this blog, which I started at the invitation of the local public library in March, 2010.
As you follow this blog, you may note from time to time a trace of a Canadian accent. I spent much of my childhood in the wind-swept prairie city of Winnipeg, Manitoba. This is located north of North Dakota, where the wind chill factor in the depths of winter can push the thermometer down to 40 degrees below Fahrenheit/Centigrade, and there are really only two seasons, winter and mosquitoes. You won't be surprised, then, by my bemused attitude toward ice, snow, cold, and the tundra.
THERE ARE THREE WAYS YOU CAN FIND POEMS POSTED ON THIS BLOG.
1. Scroll up this column to the search this blog feature and type in word(s) from the title or poem or the name of the author.
2. Scroll down to the blog archives and click on the name of a month. The themes of each month are listed directly below here.
3. Or scroll down farther to the index to look for names of artists and authors.
Each month it's a different theme.
In March, 2010, when this blog began, the poems were chosen at random, with no special topic in mind.
In April, 2010, the poems celebrated National Poetry Month. They answered the questions, What is poetry all about? and Why not just stick with prose?
In the merry month of May, 2010, the poems "sang of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers."
In June, 2010, the poems spoke of love, love, and love.
In July, 2010, the poems celebrated the spirit of America.
In August, 2010, the poems pointed to the joys of summer.
In September, 2010, the poems paused for some autumnal reflections.
In October, 2010, the poems looked at ekphrasis, the special kinship between poets and painters.
In November, 2010, the poems contemplated the "old drama" that occurs every year this month.
In December, 2010, the poems rejoiced in the season for giving.
In January, 2011, the poems listened in the snow, taking heed of the silence.
In February, 2011, the poems dropped in on childhood.
In March, 2011, the poems anticipated the arrival of spring.
In April, 2011, it was time again for the annual celebration of National Poetry Month. The selections featured poems by American poets laureate.
In May, 2011, we continued with the remaining American poets laureate and went on to some of the great poets who have held this post in Britain.
In June, 2011, we began to look at the different forms of love, featuring Storge, or family affection.
In July, 2011, we continued to look at love, in particular, Philia or friendship.
In August, 2011, we were still looking at poems about friendship before we went on to Eros, or romantic love.
In September, 2011, we continued to study poems about Eros, or romantic love.
In October, 2011, we were still looking at Eros, or romantic love.
In November, 2011, we looked at Agape, or charity, as we concluded the study of love we began in June.
December, 2011, featured the sonnet, the form of poetry named after the Italian sonetto, or "little sound" or "song."
In January, 2012, we looked at ars poetica, or the art of poetry.
In February, 2012, we paused for some quiet contemplation, guided by poetry.
This month, March, 2012, we continue our contemplations.
"This way, this way, seek delight," as the poet said.
You can reach me via the comments section here or at
horvath@fullchannel.net
THE EDITOR
More than eight years ago, I began emailing a different poem every morning to my friends and friends of my friends.
I’m a freelance editor. In June, 2003, I was working with a graduate student who was having problems with writer’s block. His sentences had become stiff, stuck in academic jargon. I suggested he read poetry for inspiration and to get a feel for the rhythm of language, and I offered to provide him with a poem every day. It worked.
That was more than 2500 different poems ago, allowing for some repetitions around Christmas and Easter.
The original reader has been joined by more than two hundred others on my list, and now, by the readers of this blog, which I started at the invitation of the local public library in March, 2010.
As you follow this blog, you may note from time to time a trace of a Canadian accent. I spent much of my childhood in the wind-swept prairie city of Winnipeg, Manitoba. This is located north of North Dakota, where the wind chill factor in the depths of winter can push the thermometer down to 40 degrees below Fahrenheit/Centigrade, and there are really only two seasons, winter and mosquitoes. You won't be surprised, then, by my bemused attitude toward ice, snow, cold, and the tundra.
THERE ARE THREE WAYS YOU CAN FIND POEMS POSTED ON THIS BLOG.
1. Scroll up this column to the search this blog feature and type in word(s) from the title or poem or the name of the author.
2. Scroll down to the blog archives and click on the name of a month. The themes of each month are listed directly below here.
3. Or scroll down farther to the index to look for names of artists and authors.
Each month it's a different theme.
In March, 2010, when this blog began, the poems were chosen at random, with no special topic in mind.
In April, 2010, the poems celebrated National Poetry Month. They answered the questions, What is poetry all about? and Why not just stick with prose?
In the merry month of May, 2010, the poems "sang of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers."
In June, 2010, the poems spoke of love, love, and love.
In July, 2010, the poems celebrated the spirit of America.
In August, 2010, the poems pointed to the joys of summer.
In September, 2010, the poems paused for some autumnal reflections.
In October, 2010, the poems looked at ekphrasis, the special kinship between poets and painters.
In November, 2010, the poems contemplated the "old drama" that occurs every year this month.
In December, 2010, the poems rejoiced in the season for giving.
In January, 2011, the poems listened in the snow, taking heed of the silence.
In February, 2011, the poems dropped in on childhood.
In March, 2011, the poems anticipated the arrival of spring.
In April, 2011, it was time again for the annual celebration of National Poetry Month. The selections featured poems by American poets laureate.
In May, 2011, we continued with the remaining American poets laureate and went on to some of the great poets who have held this post in Britain.
In June, 2011, we began to look at the different forms of love, featuring Storge, or family affection.
In July, 2011, we continued to look at love, in particular, Philia or friendship.
In August, 2011, we were still looking at poems about friendship before we went on to Eros, or romantic love.
In September, 2011, we continued to study poems about Eros, or romantic love.
In October, 2011, we were still looking at Eros, or romantic love.
In November, 2011, we looked at Agape, or charity, as we concluded the study of love we began in June.
December, 2011, featured the sonnet, the form of poetry named after the Italian sonetto, or "little sound" or "song."
In January, 2012, we looked at ars poetica, or the art of poetry.
In February, 2012, we paused for some quiet contemplation, guided by poetry.
This month, March, 2012, we continue our contemplations.
"This way, this way, seek delight," as the poet said.
You can reach me via the comments section here or at
horvath@fullchannel.net
Blog Archives by Month
- April 2012 (1)
- March 2012 (13)
- February 2012 (29)
- January 2012 (31)
- December 2011 (31)
- November 2011 (30)
- October 2011 (31)
- September 2011 (30)
- August 2011 (30)
- July 2011 (31)
- June 2011 (30)
- May 2011 (31)
- April 2011 (30)
- March 2011 (31)
- February 2011 (28)
- January 2011 (31)
- December 2010 (31)
- November 2010 (30)
- October 2010 (31)
- September 2010 (30)
- August 2010 (31)
- July 2010 (31)
- June 2010 (30)
- May 2010 (31)
- April 2010 (30)
- March 2010 (10)
Blog Etiquette
Please feel free to add your thoughts about today’s poem or to share a favorite poem of your own in the comments section.
We have only one rule: "Do nothing that would make your mother blush," to quote the poet John Betjeman.
We have only one rule: "Do nothing that would make your mother blush," to quote the poet John Betjeman.
BLOGS I LIKE
INDEX OF ARTISTS AND AUTHORS
9-11
(2)
Abbey
(1)
Abbott
(1)
Abū Bakr al-Turtūshī
(1)
Achebe
(1)
Adams
(3)
Addonizio
(1)
Aiken
(1)
Akhmatova
(2)
Akroyd
(1)
al-Ghuzzi
(1)
Albers
(2)
Alcott
(2)
Alexander
(1)
Alma-Tadema
(1)
Amichai
(1)
Amman
(2)
Ammons
(2)
Anderson
(1)
Aniksak
(1)
Aristotle
(7)
Arlen
(1)
Arnold
(3)
Arrupe
(1)
Ashbery
(1)
Ashevak
(2)
Atget
(1)
Atkins
(2)
Auden
(6)
Audubon
(1)
Augustin
(2)
Augustine
(1)
Auslander
(1)
Austen
(4)
Australian Aboriginal art
(1)
Autrey
(1)
Avercamp
(1)
Award
(1)
B.T.B.
(1)
Baca
(1)
Bacon
(1)
Bail
(1)
Baker
(3)
Balzac
(1)
Barbauld
(1)
Bashō
(2)
Baumann
(3)
Beard
(1)
Bearden
(2)
Beaux
(1)
Beckett
(1)
Bell
(1)
Belloc
(4)
Benét
(1)
Benton
(1)
Berkeley
(1)
Bernstein
(1)
Berrigan
(1)
Berry
(6)
Berryman
(1)
Bethell
(1)
Betjeman
(1)
Bhartṛhari
(1)
Bible
(2)
Bierstadt
(1)
Bignell
(1)
Billingsley
(1)
Bishop
(5)
Blackwell
(1)
Blair-Leighton
(1)
Blake
(8)
Bleyl
(1)
Blum
(2)
Bogan
(1)
Bök
(1)
Boland
(3)
Bonhoeffer
(3)
Bonnard
(1)
Borges
(1)
Boss
(1)
Bourgeois
(3)
Bowering
(1)
Bradstreet
(1)
Brandtner
(1)
Brassaï
(1)
Bratton
(1)
Brautigan
(1)
Brawne
(1)
Brébeuf
(1)
Bremen
(1)
Brendan
(1)
Bridges
(1)
Briggs
(1)
Bringhurst
(1)
Brittain
(1)
Brodsky
(2)
Brontë
(1)
Brooke
(2)
Brooks
(1)
Brothers Grimm
(1)
Brown
(1)
Browning
(5)
Bruegel the Elder
(6)
Bruegel the Younger
(1)
Bruggen
(1)
Brunton
(1)
Bukowski
(2)
Bullett
(1)
Burns
(3)
Buson
(2)
Cagney
(1)
Caillebotte
(1)
Callaghan
(1)
Campbell
(1)
Campi
(1)
Campion
(1)
Carmichael
(1)
Carr
(2)
Carroll
(1)
Carver
(2)
Cassatt
(3)
Casson
(3)
Causley
(1)
Cézanne
(4)
Ch’eng-Kung Sui
(1)
Chad Mitchell Trio
(1)
Chagall
(11)
Chardin
(1)
Chartres
(3)
Chase
(1)
Chaucer
(2)
Chávez
(1)
Chee Chee
(1)
Chesterton
(2)
Churchill
(1)
Cicero
(1)
Clare
(10)
Clarke
(1)
Clough
(1)
Cobbe
(1)
Cocteau
(1)
Codrescu
(1)
Cohan
(1)
Cohen
(2)
Cole
(1)
Coleridge
(6)
Collins
(9)
Colville
(1)
Connett
(1)
Connors
(1)
Cook
(1)
Cookson
(1)
Coolidge
(2)
Cornell
(1)
Cosby
(1)
Coward
(2)
Craik
(1)
Crane
(3)
Crapsey
(2)
Cross
(1)
Cruz
(1)
Cuddeback
(4)
cummings
(6)
Curtis
(6)
da Vinci
(2)
Daddi
(1)
Dale
(2)
Dali
(3)
Darin
(1)
David
(1)
Davies
(2)
Day
(1)
Day-Lewis
(2)
de Botton
(1)
de Gasztold
(1)
De La Cruz
(1)
de la Mare
(4)
de la Tour
(2)
Dear Abby
(1)
Defoe
(1)
Degas
(1)
del Valle
(1)
Demuth
(1)
Di Cicco
(1)
Dickens
(3)
Dickey
(1)
Dickinson
(20)
Dietrich
(1)
Dix
(1)
Djanikian
(1)
Dodgson
(1)
Doisneau
(1)
Donne
(10)
Dooley
(1)
Doré
(1)
Douglass
(1)
Dove
(3)
Doyle
(1)
Drummond
(2)
Dryden
(1)
Dubic
(1)
Duchamp
(1)
Duffy
(1)
Dufy
(1)
Dumas
(1)
Dunbar
(2)
Dürer
(5)
Durrell
(1)
Dyer
(1)
Dylan
(1)
Eberhart
(1)
Edwards
(1)
Eliot
(4)
Elizabeth of Hungary
(1)
Elliott
(1)
Emerson
(2)
Erdrich
(1)
Escher
(2)
Esolen
(2)
Evans
(1)
Fainlight
(1)
Fanthorpe
(2)
Farrell
(1)
Fearing
(1)
Feliz
(1)
Ferlinghetti
(4)
Finch
(1)
Finkel
(1)
Fisher
(2)
Fitzgerald
(5)
Fletcher
(3)
Fletcher the Younger
(1)
Flint
(1)
Foggie
(1)
Foster
(1)
Foucault
(1)
Fra Angelico
(2)
Frame
(2)
Francis
(1)
Frank
(1)
Franklin
(2)
Franzen
(1)
French
(2)
Frieseke
(1)
Fromm
(1)
Frost
(7)
Frye
(1)
Galvin
(1)
Garber
(2)
Gauguin
(1)
Gearhart
(3)
Gee's Bend Alabama
(4)
Genthe
(1)
Gerstler
(2)
Gildner
(1)
Gilot
(1)
Gioia
(1)
Glaser
(1)
Glűck
(1)
Godden
(1)
Goethe
(1)
Gomez
(1)
Górecki
(1)
Gorky
(1)
Gould
(2)
Goya
(1)
Graham
(1)
Grahame
(1)
Grandma Moses
(5)
Graves
(1)
Gray
(1)
Greenberg
(1)
Greenfield
(1)
Gregg
(1)
Gregory I
(1)
Griffin
(1)
Grimké
(1)
Guest
(1)
Guston
(1)
Gwynn
(2)
H.D.
(1)
Haapanen
(1)
Haas
(1)
Haddon
(1)
Hadewijch
(1)
Hagan
(1)
Hajnal
(1)
Hall
(2)
Hallie
(1)
Hamlet
(1)
Hammerstein
(2)
Hanh
(1)
Hardin
(1)
Hardy
(6)
Haring
(1)
Harisson
(1)
Harris
(5)
Harrison
(1)
Hart
(1)
Hartford
(1)
Haskins
(1)
Hassam
(4)
Hassell
(1)
Hayden
(1)
Hazlitt
(1)
Heade
(4)
Heaney
(2)
Hearon
(1)
Hecht
(1)
Heckel
(1)
Hein
(2)
Hemingway
(1)
Hennig
(1)
Henri
(1)
Herbert
(5)
Hermes
(1)
Herrick
(4)
Herriman
(1)
Hesse
(2)
Heywood
(1)
Higley
(1)
Hill
(1)
Hilton
(2)
Hingham
(1)
Hiroshige
(1)
Hirshfield
(1)
Hoagland
(1)
Hoberman
(1)
Hodgson
(2)
Hoffman
(2)
Hoffmann
(2)
Hofmannsthal
(1)
Holden
(1)
Holmes
(1)
Holstein
(1)
Holston
(1)
Holtby
(1)
Holub
(2)
Homer
(10)
Hopkins
(8)
Hopper
(2)
Horace
(1)
Horne
(1)
Housman
(1)
Howitt
(1)
Hughes
(5)
Humperdinck
(1)
Hundertwasser
(1)
Hunt
(2)
Hurtado de Mendoza
(1)
Hypothetical
(5)
Icon
(2)
Ipeelee
(1)
Irving
(1)
Issa
(1)
Jackson
(3)
Jacobsen
(3)
James
(2)
Jarrell
(2)
Jeffers
(1)
Jennings
(2)
Joan of Arc
(1)
Johns
(2)
Johnson
(3)
Jones
(2)
Jonson
(2)
Joyce
(1)
Justice
(3)
Kandinsky
(1)
Kaplinski
(1)
Kass
(2)
Katz
(1)
Keats
(9)
Kelley
(1)
Kennedy
(2)
Kennelly
(1)
Kenyon
(5)
Kern
(2)
Kerouac
(3)
Kertész
(18)
Kierkegaard
(1)
King
(1)
King James Bible
(1)
King Jr.
(1)
Kingsley
(1)
Kinnell
(2)
Kjarval
(1)
Klee
(3)
Klimt
(1)
Kline
(1)
Knight
(1)
Knox
(1)
Koch
(1)
Koehler
(1)
Kolwitz
(1)
Komachi
(1)
Komunyakaa
(1)
Kooser
(2)
Koriyama
(1)
Kotchoubey
(1)
Krieghoff
(1)
Krøyer
(1)
Kumin
(1)
Kunert
(1)
Kunitz
(1)
Kurelek
(6)
Kusama
(2)
Kuskin
(2)
Lamb
(1)
Lange
(2)
Larkin
(3)
Larsson
(3)
Laughlin
(1)
Lawrence
(4)
Lazarus
(2)
Lazell
(2)
Le Mée
(1)
Lear
(3)
Lee
(2)
Lefebure
(1)
Léger
(3)
Lehrer
(2)
Leip
(1)
Leiter
(1)
Lemaire
(1)
Lentfoehr
(1)
Leprince de Beaumont
(1)
Leroy
(1)
Letts
(1)
Levertov
(4)
Levi
(2)
Levine
(1)
Lewis
(12)
Libbrecht
(1)
Lichtenstein
(1)
Lincoln
(5)
Lindbergh
(1)
Lindsay
(1)
List
(1)
Longfellow
(5)
López
(1)
Lord
(1)
Lorenz
(1)
Louis
(3)
Lovelace
(1)
Lowell
(5)
Lullaby
(1)
Luong
(1)
Lynch
(1)
Lynn
(1)
MacDonald
(1)
Mackley
(1)
MacLeish
(1)
MacNeice
(1)
MacRae
(1)
Madden
(1)
Madonna and Child
(3)
Maes
(1)
Magritte
(2)
Maier
(4)
Major
(1)
Malo
(1)
Mandeldstam
(2)
Manet
(1)
Mangogna
(3)
Marceau
(1)
Marciano
(1)
Marden
(2)
Marey
(1)
Marie de France
(1)
Maritain
(2)
Markham
(2)
Marlowe
(2)
Marquis
(1)
Martin
(2)
Marvell
(1)
Marx
(2)
Masefield
(1)
Matisse
(9)
Matthews
(1)
Mayer
(1)
Mazur
(1)
McCall Smith
(1)
McCrae
(2)
McCullers
(1)
McCutcheon
(1)
McDermott
(1)
McEntyre
(3)
McKay
(1)
McLean
(1)
McLeod
(1)
Meister Eckhart
(1)
Melville
(1)
Menashe
(2)
Meredith
(1)
Merriam
(2)
Merton
(4)
Merwin
(4)
Meynell
(1)
Millais
(1)
Millay
(6)
Miller
(2)
Millet
(3)
Mills
(1)
Milne
(4)
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pathetic fallacy
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23 comments:
Am hoping that Maria's all right. I've missed the daily poem!
This blog is superb---and the daily updates are sorely missed. Maria, you and yours are in our prayers. And keep in mind, in a few days, we will say "Resurrexit, sicut dixit."
oh yes I will pray that everything is ok and all is good with you, this blog is the highlight of my day, so totally inspiring! Noelle
I hope everything is OK, Maria. I was just thinking about you and wondering why I hadn't seen a post from you lately.
I am also hoping you are well, that things are okay, and if not, praying that you and they will be soon. This blog is wonderful and makes me wish I knew the person behind it!
Sending you healing vibes and warm wishes, Maria, for whatever is weaving through your life.
for Maria, and all other visitors, a poem by Adam Zagajewski:
+++++
ALSO VITA CONTEMPLATIVA
(in the train to Warsaw)
It can happen anywhere, sometimes in a train,
when I'm nowhere: suddenly the door
opens and forgotten figures enter,
my little nephew, who no longer is,
but approaches cheerful, laughing,
and a certain Chinese poet who loved
the leaves of autumn trees and music,
theology students from Córdoba, still beardless,
emerge from nothingness and leap into view,
resuming their debate on God's attributes,
and splendid life surges like a waterfall in spring,
until at last a ringtone sounds, importunate,
then another, and a third, and all this great, strange world
contracts and vanishes, exactly like a field mouse
who, sensing danger, draws adroitly into
its secret apartments.
OUR LADY OF VLADIMIR
by Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury (b. 1950)
Climbs the child, confident,
up over breast, arm, shoulder;
while she, alarmed by his bold thrust
into her face, and the encircling hand,
looks out imploring fearfully
and, O, she cries, from her immeasurable eyes,
O how he clings, see how
he smothers every pore, like the soft
shining mistletoe to my black bark,
she says, I cannot breathe, my eyes
are aching so.
The child has overlaid us in our beds,
we cannot close our eyes,
his weight sits firmly,
fits over heart and lungs,
and choked we turn away
into the window of immeasurable dark
to shake off the insistent pushing warmth;
O how he cleaves, no peace
tonight my lady in your bower,
you, like us, restless with bruised eyes
and waking to
a shining cry on the black bark of sleep.
THE GUTTURAL MUSE
by Seamus Heaney (b. 1939)
Late summer, and at midnight
I smelt the heat of the day:
At my window over the hotel car park
I breathed the muddied night airs off the lake
And watched a young crowd leave the discotheque.
Their voices rose up thick and comforting
As oily bubbles the feeding tench sent up
That evening at dusk – the slimy tench
Once called the ‘doctor fish’ because his slime
Was said to heal the wounds of fish that touched it.
A girl in a white dress
Was being courted out among the cars:
As her voice swarmed and puddled into laughs
I felt like some old pike all badged with sores
Wanting to swim in touch with soft-mouthed life.
out of the lie of no
rises a truth of yes
(only herself and who
illimitably is)
making fools understand
(like wintry me)that not
all matterings of mind
equal one violet
~ Edward Estlin Cummings (1894-1962)
THE FLOWER
by George Herbert (1593-1633)
How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart
Could have recover’d greennesse? It was gone
Quite under ground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an houre;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell,
We say amisse,
This or that is:
Thy word is all, if we could spell.
O that I once past changing were;
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Offring at heav’n, growing and groning thither:
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring-showre,
My sinnes and I joining together;
But while I grow to a straight line;
Still upwards bent, as if heav’n were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone,
Where all things burn,
When thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown?
And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my onely light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.
These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
Which when we once can finde and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.
Thanks, Dylan, for the poems---especially the last one. An enduring classic...
Does anyone know when this wonderful blog will return? It mustn't become an abandoned garden!
This blog is such an inspiration- I've missed the daily poem so much.... do hope and pray it will return soon.
Attention: George Hail Library
Could you do us the courtesy of giving us an update on this marvelous blog?
Still waiting!
I echo the gentleman's eagerness to know more about the likelihood that this blog will become active again! We miss Maria!
I wish that there would be an update explaining the suspension of this blog (I can't suppress the most dire conjecture), or offering some clue as to whether it will return.
I miss you, Maria..may God be with you and yours. Please update us a little...
ROSE-CHEEK'D LAURA
by Thomas Campion (1567-1620)
Rose-cheek'd Laura, come,
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's
Silent music, either other
Sweetly gracing.
Lovely forms do flow
From concent divinely framèd;
Heav'n is music, and thy beauty's
Birth is heavenly.
These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them;
Only beauty purely loving
Knows no discord,
But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renew'd by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-
Selves eternal.
The House of Life
Sonnet 19, Silent Noon
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-82)
Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,—
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fiy
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:—
So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.
CATULLUS: TWO PARAPHRASES
[poem 48]
O your sweetest eyes, my young one,
If I were allowed to kiss them
Up to sixty thousand kisses,
It would still not seem sufficient
Even if our osculations
Grew like golden grain abundant
To be gathered into bundles
Far more numerous than my clumsy
Reckonings can calculate!
***
[poem 85]
I hate; I love. Perhaps you ask me why.
I cannot tell. These feelings crucify.
The Dream
by Theodore Roethke (1908-63)
1
I met her as a blossom on a stem
Before she ever breathed, and in that dream
The mind remembers from a deeper sleep:
Eye learned from eye, cold lip from sensual lip.
My dream divided on a point of fire;
Light hardened on the water where we were;
A bird sang low; the moonlight sifted in;
The water rippled, and she rippled on.
2
She came toward me in the flowing air,
A shape of change, encircled by its fire.
I watched her there, between me and the moon;
The bushes and the stones danced on and on;
I touched her shadow when the light delayed;
I turned my face away, and yet she stayed.
A bird sang from the center of a tree;
She loved the wind because the wind loved me.
3
Love is not love until love's vulnerable.
She slowed to sigh, in that long interval.
A small bird flew in circles where we stood;
The deer came down, out of the dappled wood.
All who remember, doubt. Who calls that strange?
I tossed a stone, and listened to its plunge.
She knew the grammar of least motion, she
Lent me one virtue, and I live thereby.
4
She held her body steady in the wind;
Our shadows met, and slowly swung around;
She turned the field into a glittering sea;
I played in flame and water like a boy
And I swayed out beyond the white seafoam;
Like a wet log, I sang within a flame.
In that last while, eternity's confine,
I came to love, I came within my own.
A Billet Doux
by George Moses Horton
DEAR MISS: Notwithstanding the cloud of doubts which overshadows the mind of adoring fancy, when I trace that vermillion cheek, that sapphire eye of expressive softness, and that symmetrical form of grace, I am constrained to sink into a flood of admiration beneath those heavenly charms. Though, dear Miss, it may be useless to introduce a multiplicity of blandishments, which might either lead you into a field of confusion, or absorb the truth of affection in the gloom of doubts; but the bell of adulation may be told from the distance of its echo, and cannot be heard farther than seen. Dear Miss, whatever may be the final result of my adventurous progress, I now feel a propensity to embark on the ocean of chance, and expand the sail of resolution in quest of the distant shore of connubial happiness with one so truly lovely. Though, my dearest, the thunders of parental aversion may inflect the guardian index of affection from its favorite star, the deviated needle recovers its course, and still points onwards to its native poll. Though the waves of calumny may reverberate the persevering mind of the sailing lover, the morning star of hope directs him through the gloom of trial to the object of his choice.
My brightest hopes are mix'd with tears,
Like hues of light and gloom;
As when mid sun-shine rain appears,
Love rises with a thousand fears,
To pine and still to bloom.
When I have told my last fond tale
In lines of song to thee,
And for departure spread my sail,
Say, lovely princess, wilt thou fail
To drop a tear for me?
O, princess, should my votive strain
Salute thy ear no more,
Like one deserted on the main,
I still shall gaze, alas! but vain,
On wedlock's flow'ry shore.
Today's poem is in the public domain.
About this poem:
George Moses Horton holds the distinction of being the first African American to publish a book, and the only to publish while living in slavery.
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