Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . . 

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . . 

I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . . 

I am water rushing to the wellhead, 
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . . 

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . . 

I am the heart contracted by joy. . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . . 

I am there in the basket of fruit 
presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening 
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . . 

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . . .

--Jane Kenyon

A poem about poetry to end our month-long celebration...

Somewhere or Other

Somewhere or other there must surely be
    The face not seen, the voice not heard,
The heart that not yet -- never yet -- ah me!
    Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;
    Past land and sea, clean out of sight;
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star
    That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;
    With just a wall, a hedge between;
With just the last leaves of the dying year
    Fallen on a turf grown green.

--Christina Rosetti

Heaney Two-fer

The Diviner


Cut from the green hedge a forked hazel stick
That he held tight by the arms of the V:
Circling the terrain, hunting the pluck 
Of Water, nervous, but professionally


Unfussed. The pluck came sharp as a sting.
The rod jerked with precise convulsions,
Spring water suddenly broadcasting
Through a green hazel its secret stations.


The bystanders would ask to have a try.
He handed them the rod without a word.
It lay dead in their grasp till nonchalantly
He gripped expectant wrists. The hazel stirred.


Scaffolding


Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;


Make sure that planks won't slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.


And yet all this comes down when the job's done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.


So if, my dear, there sometimes seems to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me


Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.


If you are interested in poetry, and don't know Seamus Heaney, acquaint yourself. His use of language, both figurative and literal, is utterly incredible. You won't regret it. 

Sonnet CXLI

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that love what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards my pain.

--Shakespeare

I'm fairly sure that only Shakespeare could make, "You're not cute, but I love you anyway" sound this good...

Let us go then

through the trip
wired minefield

hand in hand
eyes for nothing

but ourselves
alone

undaunted by
the traps and pits

of wasted land
until

you stop
and pluck

a stem
of eyebright

--Ciaran Carson

Abduction

The fairy woman walked

into my poem.

She closed no door

She asked no by-your-leave.

Knowing my place

I did not tell her to go.

I played the woman-of-no-welcomes trick

and said:

"What's your hurry, here's your hat.

Pull up to the fire,

eat and drink what you get --

but if I were in your house

as you are in my house

I'd go home straight away

but anyway, stay."

She stayed. Got up and pottered

round the house. Dressed the beds,

washed the ware. Put the dirty clothes

in the washing machine.

When my husband came home for his tea

he didn't know what he had wasn't me.

For I am in the fairy field

in lasting darkness

and frozen with the cold there,

dressed only in white mist.

And if he wants me back

there is a solution -- 

get the sock of a plough

smear it with butter

and redden it with fire.

And then let him go to the bed

where lies the succubus

and press her with red iron.

"Push it into her face,

burn and brand her,

and as she fades before your eyes

I'll materialise,

and as she fades before your eyes

I'll materialise."

--Nuala ni Dhomhnaill, trans. by Michael Hartnett (Original poem written in Irish)

Celtic folk tales are rife with stories of faerie abduction, changelings, and situations like this: a faerie taking over your life. The solution usually was violent, and not always effective. You have to watch out for faeries; they're mischievous...

The Tree

The fairy woman came
with a Black & Decker.
She cut down my tree.
I watched her like a fool
cut the branches one by one.

My husband came in in the evening.
He saw the tree.
He was furious -- no wonder.
He said: "Why didn't you stop her?
What's she up to?
What would she think
If we got a Black & Decker
went to her house
and cut down one of the trees
in her garden?"

She came back next morning.
I was still breakfasting.
She asked me what my man had said.
I told her
He said: "Why didn't you stop her?
What's she up to?
What would she think
If we got a Black & Decker
went to her house
and cut down one of the trees
in her garden?"

"Oh," she said, "that's very interesting."
With a stress on the 'very'
and a ring from the '--ing'
though she spoke very quietly.
Well, that was my day,
such as it was,
turned upside down.

The bottom fell out of my stomach
and as if I got a good kick
or a punch in the guts
a weakness came over me
that made me so feeble
I couldn't lift a finger
for three whole days.
Unlike the tree
which happily, healthily grew away.

--Nuala ni Dhomhnaill, trans. by Michael Hartnett (Original poem written in Irish)

Song Selection

Jeremiah has posted the lyrics to one of the songs from  the musical Spring Awakening on his blog. We, Jeremiah and I, saw Spring Awakening a few months ago, and it was one of the most powerful, amazing things I've ever seen. So, I'm poaching his idea:

Song of Purple Summer

And all shall fade
the flowers of spring
the world and all the sorrows
at the heart of everything

but still it stays
the butterfly sings
and opens purple summer
with a flutter of its wings

the earth will wave with corn
the grey-fly choir will mourn
and mares will neigh
with stallions that they mate
foals they've borne

and all shall know the wonder
of purple summer...

And yet, I wait
the swallow brings
a song to hard to follow
that no one else can sing

the fences sway
the porches swing
the clouds begins to thunder
crickets wander, murmuring

the earth will wave with corn
the grey-fly choir will mourn
and mares will neigh
with stallions that they mate
foals they've borne

and all shall know the wonder
I will sing the song of purple summer

and all shall know the wonder
I will sing the song of purple summer

all shall know the wonder
of purple summer...

You can also visit my regular blog (here) where I'm participating in a 30 day Song Challenge. Go listen to some good music!

Miracles

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under the trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

--Walt Whitman

                                                                                                   *Picture via Letters to Dead People

The Pasture

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;

I'll only stop to rake the leaves away

(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):

I sha'n't be gone long. --You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf

That's standing by the mother. It's so young,

It totters when she licks it with her tongue.

I sha'n't be gone long. --You come too.

--Robert Frost

This poem exemplifies on of the things I love most about poetry: it can elevate the mundane into art through the power and wonder and beauty of words. It's amazing.

Burning of the Three Fires

i
I set the cookbook on fire
by holding it close to the
reading lamp

ii
I began the reading lamp fire
by holding it close
to romance

iii
I lit the romance by
holding it
close to the cookbook

--Jeanne Marie Beaumont

Because Sometimes we need Ridiculous

Eletelephony

Once there was an elephant,

Who tried to use the telephant--

No! No! I mean an elephone

Who tried to use the telephone--

(Dear me! I am not certain quite

That even now I've got it right.)

Howe'er it was, he got his trunk

Entangled in the telephunk'

The more he tried to get it free,

The louder buzzed the telephee--

(I fear I'd better drop the song

Of elephop and telephong!)

--Laura Elizabeth Richards

Refusal

Beloved,

In what other lives or lands

Have I known your lips

Your Hands

Your Laughter brave

Irreverent.

Those sweet excesses that

I do adore.

What surety is there

That we will meet again,

On other worlds some

Future time undated.

I defy my body's haste.

Without the promise

Of one more sweet encounter

I will not deign to die. 

--Maya Angelou 

9.

there are so many tictoc
clocks everywhere telling people
what toctic time it is for
tictic instance five toc minutes toc
past six tic

Spring is not regulated and does
not get out of order nor do
its hands a little jerking move
over numbers slowly

we do not
wind it up it has no weights
springs wheels inside of
its slender self no indeed dear
nothing of the kind.
(So, when kiss spring comes
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
lips because tic clocks toc don't make
a toctic difference
to kisskiss you and to
kiss me)

--ee cummings

It's Spring! Kiss someone!

Making a Fist

For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.

"How do you know if you are going to die?"
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
"When you can no longer make a fist."

Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.

--Naomi Shihab Nye

The Straightener

Even as a boy I was a straightener.
On a long table near my window
I kept a lantern, a spyglass, and my tomahawk.

Never tomahawk, lantern, and spyglass.
Always lantern, spyglass, tomahawk.

You could never tell when you would need them,
but that was the order you would need them in.

On my desk: pencils at attention in a cup,
foreign coins stacked by size,

a photograph of my parents,
and under the heavy green blotter,
a note from a girl I was fond of.

These days I like to stack in pyramids
the cans of soup in the pantry
and I keep the white candles in rows like logs of wax.

And if I can avoid doing my taxes
or phoning my talkative aunt
on her eighty-something birthday,

I will use a ruler to measure the space
between the comb and brush on the dresser,
the distance between shakers of salt and pepper.

Today, for example, I will devote my time
to lining up my shoes in the closet,
pair by pair in chronological order

and lining up my shirts on the rack by color
to put off having to tell you, dear,
what I really think and what I now am bound to do.

--Billy Collins

This is from Collins' recently published 9th collection called "Horoscopes for the Dead"

In Honor of Spring (Finally!)

It's Poem in Your Pocket day, and this is the one that I'll be handing out:

Afternoon On A Hill

I will be the gladdest thing
     Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
     And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
     With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
     And the grass rise.

And when the lights begin to show
     Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
     And then start down!

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

El Dorado

Gaily bedight,
   A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
   Had journeyed long,
   Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

   But he grew old,
   This knight so bold,
And o'er his heart a shadow
   Fell as he found
   No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

   And, as his strength
   Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow;
   "Shadow," said he,
   "Where can it be,
This land of Eldorado?"

   "Over the mountains
   Of the moon,
Down the valley of the shadow,
   Ride, boldly ride,"
   The shade replied,--
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

--Edgar Allen Poe

This is the first poem I ever memorized. My dad also has this one memorized,

and is one of his favorites. 

Sonnet IV

I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And vows were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Barter

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder in a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give you have been, or could be.

--Sara Teasdale

Window

Night from a railroad car window
Is a great, dark, soft thing
Broken across with slashes of light.


--Carl Sandburg

On today's episode of Shameless Self Promotion:

Love or Otherwise


You are the smell of rain,
the spiced breeze,
the apple-tang fog,
the strange, familiar scratch of wool,
the bitter note of wood-fire smoke, 
the sound of leaves,
the red-gold pallet.

You are the autumn damp through my window.

You are all these things,
whether I am in love or
otherwise.


--by Me


I know it isn't Autumn (although the weather says differently), but I like this poem (even if saying so toots my own horn). I fell in love, once, in Autumn...

#254

"Hope" is the thing with feathers--
That perches in the soul--
And sings the tune without the words--
And never stops -- at all --

And sweetest -- in the Gale -- is heard--
And sore must be the storm--
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm--

I've heard it in the chillest land--
And on the strangest Sea--
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb -- of Me.

--Emily Dickinson

This was the first Emily Dickinson poem I heard, and remains one of my favorites. I have always valued hope, and have been able to find some, even if -- and perhaps, especially when -- faith was harder. 

Little Lion Face

Little lion face
I stopped to pick
among the mass of thick
succulent blooms, the twice

streaked flanges of your silk
sunwheel relaxed in wide
dilation, I brought inside,
placed in a vase.  Milk

of your shaggy stem
sticky on my fingers, and
your barbs hooked to my hand,
sudden stings from them 

were sweet.  Now I'm bold
to touch your swollen neck,
put careful lips to slick
petals, snuff up gold

pollen in your navel cup.
Still fresh before night
I leave you, dawn's appetite
to renew our glide and suck.

An hour ahead of sun
I come to find you.  You're
twisted shut as a burr,
neck drooped unconscious,

an inert, limp bundle,
a furled cocoon, your
sun-streaked aureole
eclipsed and dun.

Strange feral flower asleep
with flame-ruff wilted,
all magic halted,
a drink I pour, steep

in the glass for your
undulant stem to suck.
Oh, lift your young neck,
open and expand to your

lover, hot light.
Gold corona, widen to sky.
I hold you lion in my eye
sunup until night.

--May Swenson

This is a delightful homage to the homely dandylion, by a Utah native: 

May Swenson was born in Logan, received a Bachelor's from Utah State in 1934, and spoke English 

as a second language. Her parents were Swedish immigrants. 

Love Sonnet XI

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
I hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barren wilderness.

--Pablo Neruda

A little tip, folks: if you need some help wooing your love, turn to Neruda. It'll work; I promise...

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

--William Carlos Williams 

And, an accompanying picture, courtesy of Married to the Sea.com:

Casey at the Bat

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that--
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.

--Ernest Lawrence Thayer

They Flee From Me

Rumor has it that this was written for Anne Boleyn after she became involved with Henry VIII; she was, perhaps, Wyatt's lover prior to that.

They flee from me, that sometime did me seek,
With naked foot stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them, gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild, and do not remember
That sometime they put themselves in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.

Thanked be Fortune it hath been otherwise,
Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array, after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small,
And therewith all sweetly did me kiss
And softly said, "Dear heart, how like you this?"

It was no dream, I lay broad waking.
But all is turned, thorough my gentleness,
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go, of her goodness,
And she also to use newfangleness.
But since that I so kindely am served,
I would fain know what she hath deserved.

--Thomas Wyatt 

The Rose Family

The rose is a rose,
And was always a rose.
But the theory now goes
That the apple's a rose,
And the pear is, and so's
The plum, I suppose.
The dear only knows
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose --
But were always a rose.

--Robert Frost

Eating Poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. 
There is no happiness like mine. 
I have been eating poetry. 

The librarian does not believe what she sees. 
Her eyes are sad 
and she walks with her hands in her dress. 

The poems are gone. 
The light is dim. 
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up. 

Their eyeballs roll, 
their blond legs burn like brush. 
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
 
She does not understand. 
When I get on my knees and lick her hand, 
she screams. 

I am a new man. 
I snarl at her and bark. 
I romp with joy in the bookish dark. 

--Mark Strand 

National Poetry Month 2011

National Poetry Month, my favorite month-long celebration, begins today! Hooray! Check back for daily (ish) poetry updates, and enjoy!