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Post by mikef6 on Jul 27, 2022 16:13:46 GMT
anyone lived in a pretty how town by e.e. cummings
anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did.
Women and men (both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain
children guessed (but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then) they said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men (both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain
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Post by Carl LaFong on Aug 1, 2022 12:00:07 GMT
Sonnet LXX On Being Cautioned Against Walking on an Headland Overlooking the Sea, Because it was Frequented by a Lunatic Is there a solitary wretch who hies To the tall cliff, with starting pace or slow, And, measuring, views with wild and hollow eyes Its distance from the waves that chide below; Who, as the sea-born gale with frequent sighs Chills his cold bed upon the mountain turf, With hoarse, half-uttered lamentation, lies Murmuring responses to the dashing surf? In moody sadness, on the giddy brink, I see him more with envy than with fear; He has no nice felicities that shrink From giant horrors; wildly wandering here, He seems (uncursed with reason) not to know The depth or the duration of his woe. www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2022/aug/01/poem-of-the-week-sonnet-lxx-by-charlotte-smith
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Post by Nalkarj on Sept 8, 2022 14:37:27 GMT
Autumn Movement by Carl Sandburg
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.
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Post by theravenking on Sept 19, 2022 11:41:00 GMT
Éalá Éarendel Engla Beorhtast by J.R.R. Tolkien
Éarendel arose where the shadow flows at Ocean's silent brim; through the mouth of night as a ray of light where the shores are sheer and dim he launched his bark like a silver spark from the last and lonely sand; then on sunlit breath of day's fiery death he sailed from Westerland.
He threaded his path o'er the aftermath of the splendour of the Sun, and wandered far past many a star in his gleaming galleon. On the gathering tide of darkness ride the argosies of the sky, and spangle the night with their sails of light as the streaming star goes by.
Unheeding he dips past these twinkling ships, by his wayward spirit whirled on an endless quest through the darkling West o'er the margin of the world; and he fares in haste o'er the jewelled waste and the dusk from whence he came with his heart afire with bright desire and his face in silver flame.
The Ship of the Moon from the East comes soon from the Haven of the Sun, whose white gates gleam in the coming beam of the mighty silver one. Lo! with bellying clouds as his vessel's shrouds he weighs anchor down the dark, and on shimmering oars leaves the blazing shores in his argent-timbered bark.
Then Éarendel fled from that Shipman dread beyond the dark earth's pale, back under the rim of the Ocean dim, and behind the world set sail; and he heard the mirth of the folk of earth and the falling of their tears, as the world dropped back in a cloudy wrack on its journey down the years.
Then he glimmering passed to the starless vast as an isléd lamp at sea, and beyond the ken of mortal men set his lonely errantry, tracking the Sun in his galleon through the pathless firmament, till his light grew old in abysses cold and his eager flame was spent.
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Post by Nalkarj on Sept 24, 2022 13:44:22 GMT
I could have sworn I posted this here before, but I’m not finding it. I think of it every September.
Why We Don’t Die by Robert Bly
In late September many voices Tell you you will die. That leaf says it, that coolness. All of them are right.
Our many souls—what Can they do about it? Nothing. They’re already Part of the invisible.
Our souls have been Longing to go home Anyway. “It’s late,” they say, “Lock the door, let’s go.”
The body doesn’t agree. It says “We buried a little iron Ball under that tree. Let’s go get it.”
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Post by Nalkarj on Oct 28, 2022 3:55:59 GMT
Hallowe’en by Eleanor Farjeon
On Hallowe’en the old ghosts come About us, and they speak to some. To others they are dumb. They haunt the hearts that loved them best; In some they are by grief possessed; In other hearts they rest. They have a knowledge they would tell; To some of us it is a knell; To some, a miracle. They come unseen and go unseen; And some will never know they’ve been. And some know all they mean.
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Post by Feologild Oakes on Nov 3, 2022 22:11:19 GMT
Spring by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
Young lovers, greeting the spring fling themselves downhill, making cobblestones ring with their wild leaps and arcs, like ecstatic sparks struck from coal.
What is their brazen goal?
They grab at whatever passes, so we can only hazard guesses. But they rear like prancing steeds raked by brilliant spurs of need, Young lovers.
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Post by Feologild Oakes on Nov 3, 2022 22:11:47 GMT
Winter has cast his cloak away by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
Winter has cast his cloak away of wind and cold and chilling rain to dress in embroidered light again: the light of day—bright, festive, gay! Each bird and beast, without delay, in its own tongue, sings this refrain: "Winter has cast his cloak away!" Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play, wear, with their summer livery, bright beads of silver jewelry. All the Earth has a new and fresh display: Winter has cast his cloak away!
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Post by Feologild Oakes on Nov 3, 2022 22:14:04 GMT
Salmacis and Hermaphroditus by Ovid
Salmacis with weak enfeebling streams Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs, And what the secret cause shall here be shown; The cause is secret, but the effect is known.
The Naiads nurst an infant heretofore, That Cytherea once to Hermes bore; From both the illustrious authors of his race The child was named; nor was it hard to trace Both the bright parents through the infant's face; When fifteen years, in Ida's cool retreat, The boy had told, he left his native seat, And sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil; The pleasure lessened the attending toil. With eager steps the Lycian fields he crossed, And fields that border on the Lycian coast; A River here he viewed so lovely bright, It showed the bottom in a fairer light, Nor kept a sand concealed from human sight. The stream produced, nor slimy ooze, nor weeds, Nor miry rushes nor the spiky reeds: But dealt encircling moisture all around, The fruitful banks with cheerful verdure crowned, And kept the spring eternal on the ground A nymph presides, nor practised in the chase, Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race; Of all the blue-eyed daughters of the main. The only stranger to Diana's train; Her sisters, often, as 'tis said, would cry, "Fie, Salmacis, what, always idle! Fie! Or take thy quiver or thy arrows seize, And mix the toils of hunting with thy ease." But oft would bathe her in the crystal tide, Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide; Now in the limpid streams she viewed her face, And drest her image in the floating glass: On beds of leaves she now reposed her limbs, Now gathered flowers that grew about her streams; And then by chance was gathering, as she stood To view the boy, and longed for what she viewed.
Fain would she meet the youth with hasty feet, She fain would meet him, but refused to meet Before her looks were set with nicest care, And well deserved to be reputed fair. "Bright youth," she cries, "whom all thy features prove A God, and, if a God, the God of Love; But if a mortal, blest thy nurse's breast, Blest are thy parents, and thy sisters blest: But, oh! how blest! how more than blest thy bride, Allied in bliss, if any get allied: If so, let mine the stolen enjoyment be; If not, behold a willing bride to me."
The boy knew nought of love, and, touched with shame, He strove, and blushed, but still the blush became; In rising blushes still fresh beauties rose; The sunny side of fruit such blushes shows, And such the moon, when all her silver white Turns in eclipses to a ruddy light. The Nymph still begs, if not a nobler bliss, A cold salute at least, a sister's kiss; And now prepares to take the lovely boy Between her arms. He, innocently coy, Replies, "Oh leave me to myself alone, You rude, uncivil nymph, or I'll begone." "Fair stranger then," says she; "it shall be so"; And, for she feared his threats, she feigned to go; But hid within a covert's neighboring green, She kept him still in sight, herself unseen. The boy now fancies all the danger o'er, And innocently sports about the shore, Playful and wanton to the stream he trips, And dips his foot, and shivers as he dips, The coolness pleases him, and with eager haste His airy garments on the banks he cast; His godlike features and his heavenly hue, And all his beauties were exposed to view. His naked limbs the nymph with rapture spies, While hotter passions in her bosom rise, Flush in her cheeks, and sparkle in her eyes. She longs, she burns to clasp him in her arms, And loves, and sighs, and kindles at his charms.
Now all undrest upon the banks he stood, And clapt his sides and leapt into the flood: His lovely limbs the silver waves divide, His limbs appear more lovely through the tide; As lilies shut within a crystal case, Receive a glossy lustre from the glass. "He's mine, he's all my own," the Naiad cries, And flings off all, and after him she flies. And now she fastens on him as he swims, And holds him close, and wraps about his limbs. The more the boy resisted and was coy, The more she kissed and clipt the strippling boy. So when the wriggling snake is hatched on high In eagle's claws, and hisses in the sky, Around the foe his twirling tail he flings, And twists her legs, and writhes about her wings. The restless boy still obstinately strove To free himself and still refused her love. Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs entwined, "And why, coy youth," she cries, "why thus unkind! Oh, may the Gods thus keep us ever joined! Oh, may we never, never part again!" So prayed the nymph, nor did she pray in vain: For now she finds him, as his limbs she prest, Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast; Till, piercing each the other's flesh, they run Together, and incorporate in one: Last in one face are both their faces joined, As when the stock and grafter twig combined Shoot up the same, and wear a common mind:
Both bodies in a single body mix, A single body with a double sex. The boy, thus lost in woman, now surveyed The river's guilty stream, and thus he prayed. (He prayed, but wondered at his softer tone, Surprised to hear a voice but half his own.) You parent gods, whose heavenly names I bear, Hear your Hermaphrodite, and grant my prayer; Oh, grant that--whom so'er these streams contain, If man he entered, he may rise again Supple, unsinewed, and but half a man!
The heavenly parents answered, from on high Their two-shaped son, the double votary; Then gave a secret virtue to the flood, And tinged its source to make his wishes good.
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Post by mikef6 on Nov 4, 2022 15:57:54 GMT
Sonnet 65 by William Shakespeare Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack, Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O, none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright. Abandoned House. Artist : Mathieu Gasperin
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Post by Feologild Oakes on Nov 5, 2022 10:37:26 GMT
Remember, remember, the 5th of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent
To blow up the King and the Parliament
Three score barrels of powder below
Poor old England to overthrow
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match
Holler boys, holler boys, let the bells ring
Holler boys, holler boys
God save the King!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I think it was John Milton who wrote it, but i am to lazy to look it up
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Post by Nalkarj on Nov 7, 2022 18:03:22 GMT
1926 by Weldon Kees
The porchlight coming on again, Early November, the dead leaves Raked in piles, the wicker swing Creaking. Across the lots A phonograph is playing Ja-Da.
An orange moon. I see the lives Of neighbors, mapped and marred Like all the wars ahead, and R. Insane, B. with his throat cut, Fifteen years from now, in Omaha.
I did not know them then. My airedale scratches at the door. And I am back from seeing Milton And Doris Kenyon. Twelve years old. The porchlight coming on again.
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Post by mikef6 on Nov 15, 2022 20:04:16 GMT
Bredon Hill by AE Housman
From "A Shropshire Lad"In summertime on Bredon The bells they sound so clear; Round both the shires they ring them In steeples far and near, A happy noise to hear. Here of a Sunday morning My love and I would lie, And see the coloured counties, And hear the larks so high About us in the sky. The bells would ring to call her In valleys miles away; "Come all to church, good people; Good people come and pray." But here my love would stay. And I would turn and answer Among the springing thyme, "Oh, peal upon our wedding, And we will hear the chime, And come to church in time." But when the snows at Christmas On Bredon top were strown, My love rose up so early And stole out unbeknown And went to church alone. They tolled the one bell only, Groom there was none to see, The mourners followed after, And so to church went she, And would not wait for me. The bells they sound on Bredon, And still the steeples hum, "Come all to church, good people," -- Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you. I will come. The Summit of Bredon Hill
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Post by Nalkarj on Dec 6, 2022 22:31:25 GMT
Stairways by Hazel Hall
Why do I think of stairways With a rush of hurt surprise? Wistful as forgotten love In remembered eyes; And fitful as the flutter Of little draughts of air That linger on a stairway As though they loved it there.
New and shining stairways, Stairways worn and old, Where rooms are prison places And corridors are cold, You intrigue with fancy, You challenge with a lore Elusive as a moon’s light Shadowing a floor.
You speak to me not only With the lure of storied art — For wonder of old footsteps Lies lightly on my heart; And more than the reminiscence Of yesterday’s renown — Laughter that might have floated up, Echoes that should drift down.
N.B. I’d never even heard of Hazel Hall before today, but a Redditor posted “Stairways” and I thought it was excellent. I’m going to have to delve more into her work.
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Post by Nalkarj on Dec 12, 2022 18:14:37 GMT
Miller’s End by Charles Causley
When we moved to Miller’s End, Every afternoon at four A thin shadow of a shade Quavered through the garden-door.
Dressed in black from top to toe And a veil about her head, To us all it seemed as though She came walking from the dead.
With a basket on her arm, Through the hedge-gap she would pass, Never a mark that we could spy On the flagstones or the grass.
When we told the garden-boy How we saw the phantom glide, With a grin his face was bright As the pool he stood beside.
‘That’s no ghost-walk,’ Billy said, ‘Nor a ghost you fear to stop – Only old Miss Wickerby On a short cut to the shop.’
So next day we lay in wait, Passed a civil time of day, Said how pleased we were she came Daily down our garden-way.
Suddenly her cheek it paled, Turned, as quick, from ice to flame. ‘Tell me,’ said Miss Wickerby, ‘Who spoke of me, and my name?’
‘Bill the garden-boy.’ She sighed, Said, ‘Of course, you could not know How he drowned – that very pool – A frozen winter – long ago.’
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Post by Nalkarj on Dec 14, 2022 21:29:22 GMT
Note: The following is part of another essay (in prose) by the poet A.E. Stallings, rather than a poem. Forgive the digression, but I wanted to share this essay with people interested in poetry. (I think Stallings is always worth reading, and as fits a poet she writes so well.)She then segues to an analysis of the Edward Thomas poem “The Owl.”
The three poems (all excellent) Stallings cites at the end of the above passage, by the way, are William Butler Yeats’s “The Magi,” T.S. Eliot’s “Journey of the Magi,” and Thomas Hardy’s “The Oxen,” in that order.
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Post by Nalkarj on Dec 20, 2022 17:50:27 GMT
Falling Leaves and Early Snow by Kenneth Rexroth
In the years to come they will say, “They fell like the leaves In the autumn of nineteen thirty-nine.” November has come to the forest, To the meadows where we picked the cyclamen. The year fades with the white frost On the brown sedge in the hazy meadows, Where the deer tracks were black in the morning. Ice forms in the shadows; Disheveled maples hang over the water; Deep gold sunlight glistens on the shrunken stream. Somnolent trout move through pillars of brown and gold. The yellow maple leaves eddy above them, The glittering leaves of the cottonwood, The olive, velvety alder leaves, The scarlet dogwood leaves, Most poignant of all.
In the afternoon thin blades of cloud Move over the mountains; The storm clouds follow them; Fine rain falls without wind. The forest is filled with wet resonant silence. When the rain pauses the clouds Cling to the cliffs and the waterfalls. In the evening the wind changes; Snow falls in the sunset. We stand in the snowy twilight And watch the moon rise in a breach of cloud. Between the black pines lie narrow bands of moonlight, Glimmering with floating snow. An owl cries in the sifting darkness. The moon has a sheen like a glacier.
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Post by Nalkarj on Dec 21, 2022 20:58:14 GMT
The Shortest Dayby Susan Cooper So the shortest day came, and the year died, And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world Came people singing, dancing, To drive the dark away. They lighted candles in the winter trees, They hung their homes with evergreen, They burned beseeching fires all night long To keep the year alive. And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake, They shouted, reveling. Through all the frosty ages you can hear them Echoing behind us—listen! All the long echoes sing the same delight, This shortest day, As promise wakens in the sleeping land: They carol, feast, give thanks, And dearly love their friends, And hope for peace. And so do we, here, now, This year and every year. Welcome Yule!
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Post by Nalkarj on Dec 25, 2022 3:13:55 GMT
The Oxen by Thomas Hardy
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock. “Now they are all on their knees,” An elder said as we sat in a flock By the embers in hearthside ease.
We pictured the meek mild creatures where They dwelt in their strawy pen, Nor did it occur to one of us there To doubt they were kneeling then.
So fair a fancy few would weave In these years! Yet, I feel, If someone said on Christmas Eve, “Come; see the oxen kneel,
“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb Our childhood used to know,” I should go with him in the gloom, Hoping it might be so.
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Post by Nalkarj on Jan 26, 2023 18:04:53 GMT
American Triptych by Jane Kenyon
AT THE STORE
Clumps of daffodils among the storefront bend low this morning, late snow pushing their bright heads down. The flag snaps and tugs at the pole beside the door.
The old freezer full of Maine blueberries and breaded scallops mumbles along. A box of fresh bananas on the floor, luminous and exotic… I take what I need from the narrow aisles.
Cousins arrive like themes and variations. Ansel leans the counter, remembering other late spring snows, the blue snow of ’32: Yes, it was, it was blue. Forrest comes and goes quickly with a length of stovepipe, telling about the neighbors’ chimney fire.
The store is a bandstand. All our voices sound from it, making the same motley American music Ives heard; this piece starting quietly, with the repeated clink of a flagpole pulley in the doorway of a country store.
DOWN THE ROAD
Early summer. Sun low over the pond. Down the road the neighbors’ children play baseball in the twilight. I see the ball leave the bat; a moment later the sound reaches me where I sit.
No deaths or separations, no disappointments in love. They are throwing and hitting the ball. Sometimes it arcs higher than the house, sometimes it tunnels into tall grass at the edge of the hayfield.
POTLUCK AT THE WILMOT FLAT BAPTIST CHURCH
We drive to the Flat on a clear November night. Stars and planets appear in the eastern sky, not yet in the west. Voices rise from the social hall downstairs, the clink of silverware and plates, the smell of coffee. As we walk into the room faces turn to us, friendly and curious. We are seated at the speakers’ table, next to the town historian, a retired schoolteacher who is lively and precise. The table is decorated with red, white and blue streamers, and framed Time and Newsweek covers of the President, just elected. Someone has tied peanuts to small branches with red, white and blue yarn and set the branches upright in lumps of clay at the center of each table. After the meal everyone clears food from the tables and tables from the hall. Then we go up to the sanctuary, where my husband reads poems from the pulpit. One woman looks out the window continually. I notice the altar cloth, tasseled and embroidered in gold thread; Till I Come. There is applause after each poem. On the way home we pass the white clapboard faces of the library and town hall, luminous in the moonlight, and I remember the first time I ever voted—in a township hall in Michigan. That same wonderful smell of coffee was in the air, and I found myself among people trying to live ordered lives… And again I am struck with love for the Republic.
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