Archive for February, 2005

Missing It by Dan Brown

My mom gave me a book of Dan Brown’s poems for my birthday. I haven’t had time to read them all yet, but here’s a selection.

Missing It
By Dan Brown

The thing about the old one about
The tree in the forest and nobody’s around
And how it falls maybe with a sound,
Maybe not, is you throw the part out
About what there isn’t or there is,
And the part of it that haunts is still there.
Still there in that the happening, the clear
Crashing there, still encompasses
Everyone condemned to missing it
By being out of the immediate
Vicinity. Out of it the way
You’re out of all vicinities but one
All the time. Till presently you’ve gone
Out of all vicinities to stay.

Little Paul by Louisa May Alcott

Though I wasn’t a huge fan of LMA’s poetry, I have a couple poems in my file. Also, I’m currently reading An Old-Fashioned Girl, the last of her “children’s” books.

Little Paul
By Louisa May Alcott

Cheerful voices by the sea-side
   Echoed through the summer air,
Happy children, fresh and rosy,
   Sang and sported freely there,
Often turning friendly glances,
   Where, neglectful of them all,
On his bed among the gray rocks,
   Mused the pale child, little Paul.

For he never joined their pastimes,
   Never danced upon the sand,
Only smiled upon them kindly,
   Only waved his wasted hand.
Many a treasured gift they bore him,
   Best beloved among them all.
Many a childish heart grieved sadly,
   Thinking of poor little Paul.

But while Florence was beside him,
   While her face above him bent,
While her dear voice sounded near him,
   He was happy and content;
Watching ever the great billows,
   Listening to their ceaseless fall,
For they brought a pleasant music
   To the ear of little Paul.

“Sister Floy,” the pale child whispered,
   ”What is that the blue waves say?
What strange message are they bringing
   From that shore so far away?
Who is dwelling in that country
   Whence a low voice seems to call
Softly, through the dash of waters,
   ’Come away, my little Paul’?”

But sad Florence could not answer,
   Though her dim eyes tenderly
Watched the wistful face, that ever
   Gazed across the restless sea,
While the sunshine like a blessing
   On his bright hair seemed to fall,
And the winds grew more caressing,
   As they kissed frail little Paul.

Ere long, paler and more wasted,
   On another bed he lay,
Where the city’s din and discord
   Echoed round him day by day;
While the voice that to his spirit
   By the sea-side seemed to call,
Sounded with its tender music
   Very near to little Paul.

As the deep tones of the ocean
   Linger in the frailest shell,
So the lonely sea-side musings
   In his memory seemed to dwell.
And he talked of golden waters
   Rippling on his chamber wall,
While their melody in fancy
   Cheered the heart of little Paul.

Clinging fast to faithful Florence,
   Murmuring faintly night and day,
Of the swift and darksome river
   Bearing him so far away,
Toward a shore whose blessed sunshine
   Seemed most radiantly to fall
On a beautiful mild spirit,
   Waiting there for little Paul.

So the tide of life ebbed slowly,
   Till the last wave died away,
And nothing but the fragile wreck
   On the sister’s bosom lay.
And from out death’s solemn waters,
   Lifted high above them all,
In her arms the spirit mother
   Bore the soul of little Paul.

An Enigma by Edgar Allan Poe

This poem cracks me up and makes me think of a passage from a Charlotte Perkins Gilman story.

Never in all her life had she imagined that this idolized millinery could look, to those who paid for it, like the decorations of an insane monkey.
—Charlotte Perkins Gilman, “If I Were a Man” from The Yellow Wallpaper and Other Stories

An Enigma
By Edgar Allan Poe

“Seldom we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce,
     ”Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
     As easily as through a Naples bonnet—
     Trash of all trash!—how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff—
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
     Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.”
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles—ephemeral and so transparent—
     But this is, now—you may depend upon it—
Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint
Of the dear names that he concealed within ‘t.

Inscription for the Ceiling of a Bedroom by Dorothy Parker

Great poem.

Inscription for the Ceiling of a Bedroom
By Dorothy Parker

Daily dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Learn a little, here and there,
Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,
Hear a song, or watch a stage,
Leave some words upon a page,
Claim a foe, or hail a friend—
Bed awaits me at the end.

Though I go in pride and strength,
I’ll come back to bed at length.
Though I walk in blinded woe,
Back to bed I’m bound to go.
High my heart, or bowed my head,
All my days but lead to bed.
Up, and out, and on; and then
Ever back to bed again,
Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall—
I’m a fool to rise at all!

God’s World by Edna St. Vincent Millay

This is one of my favorite ESVM poems, so I thought it appropriate to post it today.

God’s World
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
   Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
   Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,
   But never knew I this;
   Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear
Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me,—let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

I Would I Were a Careless Child by George Gordon, Lord Byron

I’ve never posted anything by Byron before, so I looked him up. This was the first poem I clicked on. It fits with my theme of feeling old.

I Would I Were a Careless Child
By George Gordon, Lord Byron

I would I were a careless child,
   Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
   Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
   Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,
   And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

Fortune! take back these cultured lands,
   Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
   I hate the slaves that cringe around.
Place me among the rocks I love,
   Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar;
I ask but this - again to rove
   Through scenes my youth hath known before.

Few are my years, and yet I feel
   The world was ne’er designed for me:
Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal
   The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
   A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth! - wherefore did thy hated beam
   Awake me to a world like this?

I loved - but those I love are gone;
   Had friends - my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
   When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o’er the bowl
   Dispel awhile the sense of ill’
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
   The heart - the heart - is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those
   Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
   Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
   In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
   Where boist’rous joy is but a name.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,
   My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
   When e’en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign
   This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
   Which virtue know, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men -
   I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
   Whose gloom may suit a darken’d mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given
   Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,
   To flee away, and be at rest.

Difference by Stephen Vincent Benét

I also got a book of Stephen Vincent Benét’s stories and poems at the library. I haven’t had a chance to read them all, but I came across this one and I had to post it. It seems my mind has been working overtime lately and making me think about things I’d rather leave alone.

Difference
By Stephen Vincent Benét

My mind’s a map. A mad sea-captain drew it
Under a flowing moon until he knew it;
Winds with brass turmpets, puffy-cheeked as jugs,
And stars bright-patterned like Arabian rugs.
“Here there be tygers.” “Here we buried Jim.”
Here is the strait where eyeless fishes swim
About their buried idol, drowned so cold
He weeps away his eyes in salt and gold.
A country like the dark side of the moon,
A cider-apple country, harsh and boon,
A country savage as a chestnut-rind,
A land of hungry sorcerers.
                                          Your mind?

—Your mind is water through an April night,
A cherry-branch, plume-feathery with its white,
A lavender as fragrant as your words,
A room where Peace and Honor talk like birds,
Sewing bright coins upon the tragic cloth
Of heavy Fate, and Mockery, like a moth,
Flutters and beats about those lovely things.
You are the soul, enchanted with its wings,
The single voice that raises up the dead
To shake the pride of angels.
                                          I have said.

As Weary Pilgrim by Anne Bradstreet

I was reading some of Anne Bradstreet’s poems last night, so I thought I’d post one. She had smallpox when she was 16 and suffered from ill health most of the rest of her life.

As Weary Pilgrim
By Anne Bradstreet

As weary pilgrim, now at rest,
   Hugs with delight his silent nest
His wasted limbs, now lie full soft
   That mirey steps, have trodden oft,
Blesses himself to think upon
   His dangers past, and travails done.
The burning sun no more shall heat
   Nor stormy rains on him shall beat.
The briars and thorns no more shall scratch,
   Nor hungry wolves at him shall catch.
He erring paths no more shall tread,
   Nor wild fruits eat, instead of bread.
For waters cold he doth not long
   For thirst no more shall parch his tongue.
No rugged stones his feet shall gall,
   Nor stumps nor rocks cause him to fall.
All cares and fears he bids farwell
   And means in safety now to dwell.
A pilgrim I, on earth, perplexed
   With sins wth cares and sorrows vext,
By age and pains brought to decay,
   And my clay house mould’ring away.
Oh, how I long to be at rest
   And soar on high among the blest.
This body shall in silence sleep,
   Mine eyes no more shall ever weep,
No fainting fits shall me assail,
   Nor grinding pains my body frail,
With cares and fears ne’er cumb’red be
   Nor losses know, nor sorrows see.
What though my flesh shall there consume,
   It is the bed Christ did perfume,
And when a few yeares shall be gone,
   This mortal shall be clothed upon.
A corrupt carcass down it lays,
   A glorious body it shall rise.
In weakness and dishonour sown,
   In power ’tis raised by Christ alone.
Then soul and body shall unite
   And of their Maker have the sight.
Such lasting joys shall there behold
   As ear ne’er heard nor tongue e’er told.
Lord make me ready for that day,
   Then come, dear Bridgroom, come away.

Mid-Day by H.D.

I got a book of H.D.’s poetry at the library the other day. I’m really looking forward to reading it!

Mid-Day
By H.D.

The light beats upon me.
I am startled—
a split leaf crackles on the paved floor—
I am anguished—defeated.

A slight wind shakes the seed-pods—
my thoughts are spent
as the black seeds.
My thoughts tear me,
I dread their fever.
I am scattered in its whirl.
I am scattered like
the hot shrivelled seeds.

The shriveled seeds
are split on the path—
the grass bends with dust,
the grape slips
under its cracked leaf:
yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,
and the blackened stalks of mint,
the poplar is bright on the hill,
the poplar spreads out,
deep-rooted among trees.

O poplar, you are great
among the hill-stones,
while I perish on the path
among the crevices of the rocks.

Ode on Melancholy by John Keats

This seems to suit my mood today.

Ode on Melancholy
By John Keats

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
   Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
   By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
      Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
   Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
      Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
   For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
      And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
   Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
   And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
   Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
      Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
   Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
      And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty–Beauty that must die;
   And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
   Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
   Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
      Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
   Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
      And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

The Grieving Ring by Naomi Shihab Nye

A friend of mine just lost someone close to him.

The Grieving Ring
By Naomi Shihab Nye

When word of his death arrived
we sat in a circle for days
crying or not crying

long ago in the other country
girls balanced buckets
on their heads

now the old sweet water
rose from the spring
to swallow us

brothers shrank
children grew old
it felt fine to say nothing
about him
or something small

the way he carried
oranges and falafel
in his pockets

the way he was always
slightly mad

what he said to each
the last time
we saw him
hurt the worst

those unwritten letters
banging each head
till it felt bruised

now he would stand at the mirror
knotting his tie
fort he rest of so many lives

A Blockhead by Amy Lowell

Wow. Just wow.

A Blockhead
By Amy Lowell

Before me lies a mass of shapeless days,
Unseparated atoms, and I must
Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust
Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays,
There are none, ever. As a monk who prays
The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust
Each tasteless particle aside, and just
Begin again the task which never stays.
And I have known a glory of great suns,
When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire!
Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire,
And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs!
Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand
Threw down the cup, and did not understand.

Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

Great poem!

Phenomenal Woman
By Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
‘Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

What the Doctor Said by Raymond Carver

I don’t really care for most of the Raymond Carver poetry I’ve read, but I like the middle of this poem. I like the moment of realization at the end, too.

What the Doctor Said
By Raymond Carver

He said it doesn’t look good
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
I quit counting them
I said I’m glad I wouldn’t want to know
about any more being there than that
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments
I said not yet but I intend to start today
he said I’m real sorry he said
I wish I had some other kind of news to give you
I said Amen and he said something else
I didn’t catch and not knowing what else to do
and not wanting him to have to repeat it
and me to have to fully digest it
I just looked at him
for a minute and he looked back it was then
I jumped up and shook hands with this man who’d just given me
something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may have even thanked him habit being so strong

Pity me not because the light of day by Edna St. Vincent Millay

This seems like the perfect day for a bitter love poem by ESVM!

Pity me not because the light of day
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

Pity me not because the light of day
At close of day no longer walks the sky;
Pity me not for beauties passed away
From field and thicket as the the year goes by;
Pity me not the waning of the moon,
Nor that the ebbing tide goes out to sea,
Nor that a man’s desire is hushed so soon,
And you no longer look with love on me.
This have I known always: Love is no more
Than the wide blossom which the wind assails,
Than the great tide that treads the shifting shore,
Strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales:
Pity me that the heart is slow to learn
What the swift mind beholds at every turn.

A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

I’ve been having really weird dreams lately, but luckily I only remember them briefly when I wake up and then only remember that they were weird. I don’t think I want to remember them!

A Dream
By Edgar Allan Poe

In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed—
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream—that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro’ storm and night,
So trembled from afar—
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth’s day-star?

Goldfin and Silvertail by Louisa May Alcott

Story time!

Goldfin and Silvertail
By Louisa May Alcott

Little Bessie lay in a rocky nook,
Alone, beside the sea,
Where the sound of ever-rolling waves
To her ear came pleasantly.
Her face was dark with a gloomy frown,
Tears on her hot cheek lay;
For a willful, unkind little girl
She had been that livelong day;
And had stolen here, to the quiet shore,
To sigh and sob alone,
And to wonder how and why and where
Her happiness all had flown.
As thus she lay, with half-closed eyes,
Low voices reached her ear,
And laughter gay that seemed to flow
Like ripples sweet and clear.
She looked above, she looked below
And saw with wondering glee
Two little mermaids on the rocks,
Both singing merrily.
One combed her long and shining hair,
All wreathed with sea-weed bright;
The other caught the falling spray
That leaped into the light.
Friendly and fair both faces seemed,
With smiling lips and eyes,
And little arms and bosoms white
As sea-foam when it flies.
But Bessie wondered more and more,
And Bessie’s cheek grew pale;
For both the mermaids bore below
A graceful little tail,—
One, bright with silver scales, that shone
In every fin and fold;
The other, brighter, stranger still,
All glittering with gold.
“Come hither, little mermaids, pray,”
Cried Bessie, from her nook,
“I will not touch or trouble you,—
I only want to look.”
The startled mermaids glanced at her,
And whispered long and low;
At last, one to the other said,
“Dear Goldfin, let us go.”
Then, gliding from their rocky seat,
And floating through the sea,
They reached the nook where Bessie lay,
And looked up smilingly:
“Now, ask of us whate’er you will,
We’ll surely grant it thee,”
Bright Goldfin said unto the child,
Who watched them silently.
And Bessie answered with delight,
“You seem so blithe and gay,
And I’m so sad and lonely here,
Make me a mermaid, pray.”
“Ah! Choose again: that is not wise,”
Cried Goldfin, earnestly;
“I have no spell to change your heart,
And sadder it may be.
Our home is strange and wild to you;
Think what you leave behind,—
Sunshine and home, and, best of all,
A mother, dear and kind.”
But Bessie only frowned and cried,
“You gave the choice to me.
I’m tired of sun and home and all,
So a mermaid I will be.”
Then bitter, salt sea-drops they gave,
From out a hollow shell;
And garlands fair upon her head,
They laid, with song and spell.
A cloud arose, like sudden mist;
And, when it passed, the child
Found herself, by drop and garland
Changed to a mermaid wild.
With timid haste she glided down
Into the cold, cold, sea;
And bid her playmates show here where
Her future home would be.
Down deep into the ocean went
The mermaids, one and all,
O’er many a wondrous hill and dale,
Through may a coral hall.
The child’s heart in the mermaid’s form
Beat fast with sudden fear;
For all was gloomy, strange, and dim
Beneath the waters clear.
She missed the blessed air of heaven;
She missed the cheerful light,
She feared the monsters weird, who looked
From caverns dark as night;
Her food was now sea-apples cold,
And bitter spray she drank;
Her bed was made on barren rocks,
Of sea-mist, rough and dank;
Strange creatures floated far and near,
Or crawled upon the sand;
And soon she longed with all her heart
For the green, summery land.
Here Bessie lived; but daily grew
More restless than before,
And sighed to be a child again,—
Safe on the pleasant shore.
She often rose up to the light,
A human voice to hear;
And look upon her happy home,—
That now seemed very dear.
And children, wandering on the sands,
Saw, rising from the sea,
A little hand that beckoned them,
As if imploringly.
They often saw a wistful face
Look through the spray and foam;
And heard a sobbing voice that cried,
“O mother! take me home.”
So, drearily, poor Bessie lived,
Till to a merman old,
She one day went, when most forlorn,
And all her sorrow told.
“If you would find your happiness,’
The merman answering said,
“Forget yourself, and patiently
Cheer others’ grief instead.
Watch well the lives of your two friends,
The simple difference see;
And you will need no other help,—
No other spell from me.”
Then Bessie watched with heedful eyes,
Wondering more and more,
That she had never cared to mark
That difference before;
For Silvertail, though fair to see,
Was willful, rude, and wild.
“Ah! yes,” sighed Bessie, while she looked,
“As I was, when a child.”
She led an idle, selfish life,
Darkened by discontent;
And left a shadow or a tear
Behind, where’er she went.
But Goldfin, with her loving heart,
So cheerful and serene,
Left smiles, kind words, and happy thoughts
Where she had been.
No little fish but came to her
To heal its wounded fin;
No monster grim but opened wide
His cave to let her in.
The rough waves grew more mild to her,
Through cruel to great ships;
The sea-gulls stooped in their wild flights,
To kiss her smiling lips.
She helped the coral builders small
To shape their little cells,
And in the diver’s dangerous path
Laid heaps of pearly shells;
She guided well the fisher boats
Through many a stormy gale,
And lured away the angry winds
From many a tattered sail;
She scattered pebbles on the beach,
And sea-weed on the sands,
To gladden children’s longing eyes,
And fill their little hands.
These things she did with patient care,
Forgetful of herself,
Till in the sea she was more loved
Than mermaid, sprite, or elf;
While all the joy to others given
Came back unconsciously,
To cheer and brighten her own life,
Wherever she might be.
“Ah! now I know why I am sad,”
Cried Bessie at the sight,
“When I am good, as Goldfin is,
My heart will be as light.”
And henceforth Bessie daily grew
More cheerful and content:
In generous acts and friendly words
Her happy days were spent.
No longer lonely seemed the sea,
So full of friends it grew;
Nor longer gloomy, for the sun
Shone through the waters blue.
No more she wept beside the shore,
But floated daily there;
And hung gay garlands on the rocks,
That once were brown and bare,
Softly singing, as she looked
With dim eyes through the foam:
“When I have learned my lesson well,
I may be taken home.
Till I can rule my heart aright,
And conquer my own will,
I’ll wait and work and hope and try.
Dear mother, love me still.”
As thus the little mermaid cried,
There came a sudden gleam;
A cold drop fell upon her cheek,
And chased away the dream.
With wondering eyes did Bessie gaze
About on every side,—
The rocks whereon the mermaids sat
Were covered by the tide;
The great waves, with a solemn sound,
Came rolling slowly on;
The fresh winds played among her hair;
And all the dream was gone.
But Bessie long remembered it:
The lesson did not fail;
And all her life she followed well
Goldfin, not Silvertail.

A Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes

I remember that we read this my sophomore year in HS when we read Hansberry’s Raisin in the Sun. I don’t really remember how much I liked the play, or the poem for that matter. Now that I read the poem again, though, I do quite like it.

A Dream Deferred
By Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore—
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Mutability by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I haven’t read any Shelley for a while, though it’s on my list.

Mutability
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

 The flower that smiles to-day
   To-morrow dies;
All that we wish to stay
   Tempts and then flies.
What is this world’s delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
   Brief even as bright.

 Virtue, how frail it is!
   Friendship how rare!
Love, how it sells poor bliss
   For proud despair!
But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all
   Which ours we call.

 Whilst skies are blue and bright,
   Whilst flowers are gay,
Whilst eyes that change ere night
   Make glad the day;
Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou—and from thy sleep
   Then wake to weep.4

Making a Fist by Naomi Shihab Nye

Naomi Shihab Nye is truly amazing. She can write a poem about such a small thing and make it so beautiful and meaningful that you wonder why you never thought of it yourself.

Making a Fist
By Naomi Shihab Nye

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.

The Fossil Elephant by Mary Howitt

I’ve just finished reading Under the Lilacs by Louisa May Alcott, and in it she mentioned Mary Howitt’s poetry several times, so I thought I’d look up some of her poetry, though I previously posted The Spider and the Fly.

The Fossil Elephant
By Mary Howitt

The earth is old! Six thousand years
Are gone since I had birth
In the forests of the olden time,
And the solitudes of earth.

We were a race of mighty things
The world was all our own.
I dwelt with the Mammoth large and strong,
And the giant Mastodon.

No ship went over the waters then,
No ship with oar or sail
But the wastes of the sea were habited
By the Dragon and the Whale

And the Hydra down in the ocean caves
Abode, a creature grim
And the scaled Serpents huge and strong
Coiled up in the waters dim.

The wastes of the world were all our own
A proud, imperial lot!
Man had not then dominion given,
Or else we knew it not.

There was no city on the plain
No fortress on the hill
No mighty men of strength, who came
With armies up, to kill.

There was no iron then, no brass
No silver and no gold
The wealth of the world was in its woods,
And its granite mountains old.

And we were the kings of all the world
We knew its breadth and length
We dwelt in the glory of solitude,
And the majesty of strength.

But suddenly came an awful change!
Wherefore, ask not of me
That it was, my desolate being shews,
Let that suffice for thee.

The Mammoth huge and the Mastodon
Were buried beneath the earth
And the Hydra and the Serpents strong,
In the caves where they had birth!

There is now no place of silence deep,
Whether on land or sea
And the Dragons lie in the mountain-rock,
As if for eternity!

And far in the realms of thawless ice,
Beyond each island shore,
My brethren lie in the darkness stern
To awake to life no more!

And not till the last conflicting crash
When the world consumes in fire,
Will their frozen sepulchres be loosed,
And their dreadful doom expire!

On Hearing a Symphony of Beethoven by Edna St. Vincent Millay

This is one of my favorite poems. I first came across it when I was writing a paper on ESVM in high school (must have been 10 years ago - eek!).

On Hearing a Symphony of Beethoven
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sweet sounds, oh, beautiful music, do not cease!
Reject me not into the world again.
With you alone is excellence and peace,
Mankind made plausible, his purpose plain.
Enchanted in your air benign and shrewd,
With limbs a-sprawl and empty faces pale,
The spiteful and the stingy and the rude
Sleep like the scullions in the fairy-tale.
This moment is the best the world can give:
The tranquil blossom on the tortured stem.
Reject me not, sweet sounds; oh, let me live,
Till Doom espy my towers and scatter them,
A city spell-bound under the aging sun.
Music my rampart, and my only one.

Santa Fe in Winter by Deborah Ager

I will most likely be spending the summer in Los Alamos again. The season doesn’t fit with this poem, but I knew exactly what Ager was talking about when I read it. It’s such a nice description, and the last line is so true!

Santa Fe in Winter
By Deborah Ager

The city is closing for the night.
Stores draw their blinds one by one,
and it’s dark again, save for the dim

infrequent streetlight bending at the neck
like a weighted stem. Years have built
the city in layers: balustrades filled in

with brick, adobe reinforced with steel,
and the rounded arches smoothed
with white cement. Neighborhoods

have changed the burro trails
to streets, bare at night—
no pedestrians, no cars, no dogs.

With daylight, the houses turned galleries
and stores turned restaurants open—
the Navajos wrapped in wool

crowd the Palace of the Governors plaza
to sell their handmade blankets,
silver rings, and necklaces

to travelers who will buy jewelry
as they buy everything—
another charming history for themselves.

Insomniac’s Prayer by Vassar Miller

My aunt introduced me to Vassar Miller about a year and a half ago and I absolutely love her!

Insomniac’s Prayer
By Vassar Miller

I lie with my body knotted into a fist
clenching against itself,
arms doubled against my ribs,
knees crooking into a gnarl,
legs, side by side, martialed.

My sleep is a war against waking up,
my waking up is a slow raveling again into dark
when dreams jump out of my skull
like pictures in a child’s pop-up book
onto paper if my luck can catch them
before they dribble away into dingy dawns.

Oh, who will unsnarl my body
into gestures of love?
Who will give my heart room
to fly free in its rickety cage?
Whose subtlety whisper apart my legs,
Thrusting quick like a snake’s tongue?
Who will nudge the dreams back into my head,
back into my bones, where rhyming with one another
like wind chimes,
they will make music whenever I move?

Spirits of the Dead by Edgar Allan Poe

I really do love Poe!

Spirits of the Dead
By Edgar Allan Poe

Thy soul shall find itself alone
‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness—for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

A Man Said to the Universe by Stephen Crane

I always liked this one. Short and sweet.

A Man Said to the Universe
By Stephen Crane

A man said to the universe:
“Sir I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”

The Wreck of the Hesperus by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Today we’re going with death and destruction. I really do enjoy Longfellow’s poetry!

The Wreck of the Hesperus
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his month,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailor,
Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
“I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.

“Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!”
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the Northeast.
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable’s length.

“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow.”

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.

“O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
O say, what may it be?”
“‘Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”—
And he steered for the open sea.

“O father! I hear the sound of guns,
O say, what may it be?”
“Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!”

“O father! I see a gleaming light
O say, what may it be?”
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow’rds the reef of Norman’s Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman’s Woe!

all which isn’t singing is mere talking by e e cummings

Since a friend just got a book of poetry by e e cummings, I thought I’d find a poem by him to post.

all which isn’t singing is mere talking
by e e cummings

all which isn’t singing is mere talking

and all talking’s talking to oneself
(whether that oneself be sought or seeking
master or disciple sheep or wolf)

gush to it as diety or devil
-toss in sobs and reasons threats and smiles
name it cruel fair or blessed evil-
it is you (ne i)nobody else

drive dumb mankind dizzy with haranguing
-you are deafened every mother’s son-
all is merely talk which isn’t singing
and all talking’s to oneself alone

but the very song of(as mountains
feel and lovers)singing is silence