Poem of the Day

I’ve finally finished reading The Vicomte de Bragelonne by Alexandre Dumas. La Fontaine was depicted in the novel, among other prominent figures from history. I thought I’d post a poem of his. Since I don’t speak French, I snagged this from poemhunter.com.

The Jealous Husband
By Jean de la Fontaine

A certain husband who, from jealous fear,
With one eye slept while t’other watched his dear,
Deprived his wife of every social joy,
(Friends oft the jealous character annoy,)
And made a fine collection in a book,
Of tricks with which the sex their wishes hook.
Strange fool! as if their wiles, to speak the truth,
Were not a hydra, both in age and youth.

His wife howe’er engaged his constant cares;
He counted e’en the number of her hairs;
And kept a hag who followed every hour,
Where’er she went, each motion to devour;
Duenna like, true semblance of a shade,
That never quits, yet moves as if afraid.

This arch collection, like a prayer-book bound;
Was in the blockhead’s pocket always found,
The form religious of the work, he thought,
Would prove a charm ‘gainst vice whenever sought!

One holy day, it happened that our dame,
As from the neighb’ring church she homeward came;
And passed a house, some wight, concealed from view;
A basket full of filth upon her threw.

With anxious care apologies were made;
The lady, frightened by the frolick played,
Quite unsuspicious to the mansion went;
Her aged friend for other clothes she sent,
Who hurried home, and ent’ring out of breath;
Informed old hunks—what pained him more than death

Zounds! cried the latter, vainly I may look
To find a case like this within my book;
A dupe I’m made, and nothing can be worse:—
Hell seize the work—’tis thoroughly a curse!

Not wrong he proved, for, truly to confess;
This throwing dirt upon the lady’s dress
Was done to get the hag, with Argus’ eyes
Removed a certain distance from the prize.
The gay gallant, who watched the lucky hour,
Felt doubly blessed to have her in his power.

How vain our schemes to guard the wily sex!
Oft plots we find, that ev’ry sense perplex.
Go, jealous husbands, books of cases burn;
Caresses lavish, and you’ll find return.

This is to go with a friend’s new favorite shirt. The poem is from Written in Stone.

It’s Simpler Than You Think
By Adrienne Jones

Back at home, Americans
argue the infinite complexities
of war, while

coalition trucks rumble
through a small village
chased by children shouting
for water.

Karen posted this a long time ago and I liked it so I put it in my file. Though it’s neither winter nor Sunday, I thought I’d post it anyway.

Those Winter Sundays
By Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

We haven’t heard from Vassar Miller in a while.

In Consolation
By Vassar Miller

Do I love you? The question might be well
Rephrased. What do I love? Your face?
Suppose it twisted to a charred grimace.
Your mind? But if it turned hospital cell,
Though pity for its inmate might compel
Sick calls from time to time, I should embrace
A staring stranger whom I could not place.
So, cease demanding what I cannot tell

Till He who made you shows me where He keeps you,
And not some shadow of you I pursue
And, having found, have only flushed a wraith.
Nor am I Christ to cleave the dark that steeps you.
He loves you then, not I—Or if I do,
I love you only by an act of faith.

My third acquisition at Half Price Books was The Collected Poems of William Wordsworth, from which I took today’s selection.

Beggars
By William Wordsworth

She had a tall man’s height or more;
Her face from summer’s noontide heat
No bonnet shaded, but she wore
A mantle, to her very feet
Descending with a graceful flow,
And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow.

Her skin was of Egyptian brown:
Haughty, as if her eye had seen
Its own light to a distance thrown,
She towered, fit person for a Queen
To lead those ancient Amazonian files;
Or ruling Bandit’s wife among the Grecian isles.

Advancing, forth she stretched her hand
And begged an alms with doleful plea
That ceased not; on our English land
Such woes, I knew, could never be;
And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature
Was beautiful to see—a weed of glorious feature.

I left her, and pursued my way;
And soon before me did espy
A pair of little Boys at play,
Chasing a crimson butterfly;
The taller followed with his hat in hand,
Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land.

The other wore a rimless crown
With leaves of laurel stuck about;
And, while both followed up and down,
Each whooping with a merry shout,
In their fraternal features I could trace
Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant’s face.

Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit
For finest tasks of earth or air:
Wings let them have, and they might flit
Precursors to Aurora’s car,
Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween,
To hunt their fluttering game o’er rock and level green.

They dart across my path—but lo,
Each ready with a plaintive whine!
Said I, “not half an hour ago
Your Mother has had alms of mine.”
“That cannot be,” one answered—”she is dead:”—
I looked reproof—they saw—but neither hung his head.

“She has been dead, Sir, many a day.”—
“Hush, boys! you’re telling me a lie;
It was your Mother, as I say!”
And, in the twinkling of an eye,
“Come! Come!” cried one, and without more ado,
Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew!

Another of my acquisitions at Half Price Books was The Collected Poems of Lord Byron. I thought this one appropriate for Friday.

Fill the Goblet Again
A SONG
By George Gordon, Lord Byron

Fill the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;
Let us drink!—who would not?—since, through life’s varied round,
In the goblet alone no deception is found.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
I have bask’d in the beam of a dark rolling eye;
I have loved!—who has not?—but what heart can declare
That pleasure existed while passion was there?

In the days of my youth, when the heart’s in its spring,
And dreams that affection can never take wing,
I had friends!—who has not?—but what tongue will avow,
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam—thou never canst change;
Thou grow’st old—who does not?—but on earth what appears,
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,
We are jealous!—who’s not?—thou hast no such alloy;
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.

Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;
There we find—do we not?—in the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

When the box of Pandora was opened on earth,
And Misery’s triumph commenced over Mirth,
Hope was left,—was she not?—but the goblet we kiss,
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.

Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:
We must die—who shall not?—May our sins be forgiven,
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.

I went to Half Price Books yesterday and among my acquisitions was a book of poetry by Herman Melville. Sadly, The Swamp Angel is not in the collection (despite the large section of Civil War poems), but Monody is.

Lone Founts
By Herman Melville

Though fast youth’s glorious fable flies,
View not the world with worldling’s eyes;
Nor turn with weather of the time.
Foreclose the coming of surprise:
Stand where Posterity shall stand;
Stand where the Ancients stood before,
And, dipping in lone founts thy hand,
Drink of the never-varying lore:
Wise once, and wise thence evermore.

Thanks to George for suggesting today’s poem. WARNING: If you are a mother, this may make you sad…

Her Door
FOR MY DAUGHTER SARA MARIE
By Mary Leader

There was a time her door was never closed.
her music box played “Für Elise” in plinks.
Her crib new-bought—I drew her sleeping there.

The little drawing sits beside my chair.
These days, she ornaments her hands with rings.
She’s seventeen. Her door is one I knock.

There was a time I daily brushed her hair
By window light—I bathed her, in the sink
In sunny water, in the kitchen, there.

I’ve bought her several thousand things to wear,
And now this boy buys her silver rings.
He goes inside her room and shuts the door.

Those days, to rock her was a form of prayer.
She’d gaze at me, and blink, and I would sing
Of bees and horses, in the pasture, there.

The drawing sits as still as nap-time air—
Her curled-up hand—that precious line, her cheek…
Next year her door will stand, again, ajar
But she herself will not be living there.

I can remember my mother picking Japanese beetles off the roses and putting them in a jar with gasoline. Gross!

Roses
By Rita Dove

It’s time you learned something.
Halfway outdoors
he pauses, the flat dark fury of
his jaw, one eye, a shoulder in torn
blue cloth, the pruning shears
a mammoth claw resting
between meals.

                         I scramble
up, terrified and down
the drive, the gravel’s
brittle froth
and stand completely
helpless as he parts
a thousand pinkish eyelids
to find the beetles nested
at the root, teeming
disease.

They came from Japan, 1961.
They were nothing like the locusts
we hadn’t noticed until they
were gone, the husks
sheer tuxedos
snagged on bark, the rafters,
the dying bayberry.

                         It’s easy—
pop them between your nails.
In the tool shed’s populous
shadows, I hold the Mason jar instead
with both hands as he shakes
the flowers above
the kerosene which is shivering now
like the ocean I have never seen…

and I bear on a tray indoors
the inculpable, blushing prize.

How about another selection from Adrienne Rich?

In the North
By Adrienne Rich

Mulish, unregenerate,
   not “as all men are”
   but more than most

you sit up there in the sunset;
   there are only three
   hours of dark

in your night. You are
   alone as an old king
   with his white-gold beard

when in summer the ships
   sail out, the heroes
   singing, push off

for other lands. Only
   in winter when
   trapped in the ice

your kingdom flashes
   under the northern lights
   and the bees dream

in their hives, the young
   men like the bees
   hang near you

for lack of another,
   remembering too, with some
   remorseful tenderness

you are their king.

Here’s another from ESVM—short, sweet, and to the point.

Souvenir
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

Just a rainy day or two
In a windy tower,
That was all I had of you—
Saving half an hour.

Marred by greeting passing groups
In a cinder walk,
Near some naked blackberry hoops
Dim with purple chalk.
I remember three or four
Things you said in spite,
And an ugly coat you wore,
Plaided black and white.

Just a rainy day or two
And a bitter word.
Why do I remember you
As a singing bird?

We haven’t heard from Patrick Brontë in a while…

The Cottager’s Hymn
By Patrick Brontë

I.

My food is but spare,
   And humble my cot,
Yet Jesus dwells there
   And blesses my lot:
Though thinly I’m clad,
   And tempests oft roll,
He’s raiment, and bread,
   And drink to my soul.

II.

His presence is wealth,
   His grace is a treasure,
His promise is health
   And joy out of measure.
His word is my rest,
   His spirit my guide:
In Him I am blest
   Whatever betide.

III.

Since Jesus is mine,
   Adieu to all sorrow;
I ne’er shall repine,
   Nor think of to-morrow:
The lily so fair,
   And raven so black,
He nurses with care,
   Then how shall I lack?

IV.

Each promise is sure,
   That shines in His word,
And tells me, though poor,
   I’m rich in my Lord.
Hence! Sorrow and Fear!
   Since Jesus is nigh,
I’ll dry up each tear
   And stifle each sigh.

V.

Though prince, duke, or lord,
   Ne’er enter my shed,
King Jesus my board
   With dainties does spread.
Since He is my guest,
   For joy I shall sing,
And ever be blest
   In Jesus my King.

VI.

With horrible din
   Afflictions may swell,–
They cleanse me from sin,
   They save me from hell:
They’re all but the rod
   Of Jesus, in love;
They lead me to God
   And blessings above.

VII.

Through sickness and pain
   I flee to my Lord,
Sweet comfort to gain,
   And health from His word;
Bleak scarcities raise
   A keener desire,
To feed on His grace,
   And wear His attire.

VIII.

The trials which frown,
   Applied by His blood,
But plait me a crown,
   And work for my good.
In praise I shall tell,
   When throned in my rest,
The things which befell
   Were always the best.

IX.

Whatever is hid
   Shall burst on my sight
When hence I have fled
   To glorious light.
Should chastisements lower,
   Then let me resign;
Should kindnesses shower,
   Let gratitude shine.

X.

Hence! Sorrow and Fear!
   Since Jesus is nigh,
I’ll dry up each tear,
   And stifle each sigh:
And clothed in His word
   Will conquer my foes,
And follow my Lord
   Wherever He goes.

XI.

My friends! let us fly
   To Jesus our King;
And still as we hie,
   Of grace let us sing.
Through pleasure and pain,
   If faithful we prove,
For cots we shall gain
   A palace above.

Here’s another one from Garrison Keillor’s Good Poems.

Lending Out Books
By Hal Sirowitz

You’re always giving, my therapist said.
You have to learn how to take. Whenever
you meet a woman, the first thing you do
is lend her your books. You think she’ll
have to see you again in order to return them.
But what happens is, she doesn’t have the time
to read them, & she’s afraid if she sees you again
you’ll expect her to talk about them, & will
want to lend her even more. So she
cancels the date. You end up losing
a lot of books. You should borrow hers.

We haven’t heard from good old Henry in a while…

It Is Not Always May
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.
Spanish Proverb

The sun is bright,—the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing.
And from the stately elms I hear
The bluebird prophesying Spring.

So blue you winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky,
Where waiting till the west-wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new;—the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest,
And even the nest beneath the eaves;—
There are no birds in last year’s nest!

All things rejoice in youth and love,
The fulness of their first delight!
And learn from the soft heavens above
The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For oh, it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,
To some good angel leave the rest;
For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year’s nest!

Reading Rilke’s poetry really makes me wish I knew German so I could get the full effect. It’s amazing that his work is this incredible, even when I know that something must be lost in translation.

The Song the Widow Sings
By Rainer Maria Rilke

At first life was good to me.
It kept me warm, it gave me courage.
Of course it does that to all the young,
but how could I have known that?
I had no idea what life was—
suddenly it was nothing but year after year,
not good anymore, not fresh anymore, not wonderful anymore,
as if torn in two pieces down the center.

It wasn’t his fault, and it wasn’t mine;
neither of us had much except patience,
and death didn’t have any.
I saw him come (what an ugly sight),
and I watched him, while he took and took:
of course what he took wasn’t mine.

What did belong to me then, what did I have that was mine?
Wasn’t even my grief
only a loan from Fate?
Fate wants not only the happiness,
he wants the pain and the screaming back,
and he buys it all secondhand.

Fate was there and got for almost nothing
every expression on my face,
everything except the way I walk.
Every day he had a clearance sale,
and when I was empty, he walked out
and left the door open.

Sara Teasdale really writes lovely poetry.

Those Who Love
By Sara Teasdale

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile inconsequent things.

And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.

I could never get enough of Mary Oliver!

Mockingbird
By Mary Oliver

Always there is something worth saying
     about glory, about gratitude.
But I went walking a long time across the dunes
     and in all that time spoke not a single word,
nor wrote one down, nor even thought anything at all
     at the window of my heart.

Speechless the snowy tissue of clouds passed over, and more came,
     and speechless they passed also.
The beach plums hung on the hillsides, their branches
     heavy with blossoms; yet not one of them said a word.

And nothing there anyway knew, don’t we know, what a word is,
     or could parse down from the general liquidity of feeling
to the spasm and bull’s eye of the moment, or the logic,
     or the instance,
trimming the fingernails of happiness, entering the house
     of rhetoric.

And yet there was one there eloquent enough,
     all this time,
and not quietly but in a rhapsody of reply, though with
     an absence of reason, of querulous pestering. The mockingbird
was making of himself
     an orchestra, a choir, a dozen flutes,

a tambourine, an outpost of perfect and exact observation,
     all afternoon rapping and whistling
on the athlete’s lung-ful of leafy air. You could not
     imagine a steadier talker, hunched deep in the tree,
then floating forth decorative and boisterous and mirthful,
     all eye and fluttering feathers. You could not imagine
a sweeter prayer.

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming…

Venetian Air
By Thomas Moore

Row gently here, my gondolier; so softly wake the tide,
That not an ear on earth may hear, but hers to whom we glide.
Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well as starry eyes to see,
Oh! think what tales ‘twould have to tell of wandering youths like me!
Now rest thee here, my gondolier; hush, hush, for up I go,
To climb yon light balcony’s height, while thou keep’st watch below.
Ah! did we take for Heaven above but half such pains as we
Take day and night for woman’s love, what angels we should be!

The PotD will be on hiatus this week since I will be out of town and not online much (if at all). I’m reading Wuthering Heights for Bibliophyles. I’ve read this book twice (within a month), but that was about six years ago and I’ve been wanting to read it again, so I’m glad I have an excuse now. (I’ve pretty much devoured 2/3 of the book in the last 36 hours.) Anyway, a reader posted some of Emily’s poetry in Bibliophyles and there were one or two I hadn’t posted before, so I thought I’d share.

Sympathy
By Emily Brontë

There should be no despair for you
While nightly stars are burning;
While evening pours its silent dew,
And sunshine gilds the morning.
There should be no despair—though tears
May flow down like a river:
Are not the best beloved of years
Around your heart for ever?

They weep, you weep, it must be so;
Winds sigh as you are sighing,
And winter sheds its grief in snow
Where Autumn’s leaves are lying:
Yet, these revive, and from their fate
Your fate cannot be parted:
Then, journey on, if not elate,
Still, NEVER broken-hearted!

I read V for Vendetta today and was planning on posting a poem by Yeats quoted therein, but then I realized I’d already posted it. Instead, I will post another poem by Yeats, suggested by a reader.

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
By William Butler Yeats

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My county is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

Oh Shelley, how I love thee!

To a Singer
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

My soul is an enchanted boat,
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing;
And thine doth like an angel sit
Beside a helm conducting it,
Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.
It seems to float ever, forever,
Upon that many-winding river,
Between mountains, woods, abysses,
A paradise of wildernesses!
Till, like one in slumber bound,
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around,
Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading sound.

Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions
In music’s most serene dominions;
Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven.
And we sail on, away, afar,
Without a course, without a star,
But by the instinct of sweet music driven;
Till through Elysian garden islets
By thee, most beautiful of pilots,
Where never mortal pinnace glided,
The boat of my desire is guided;
Realms where the air we breathe is love,
Which in the winds on the waves doth move,
Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above.

I haven’t posted one by NSN in a while…

What He Said to His Enemies
By Naomi Shihab Nye

He could hear them off in the forest,
massive branches breaking:
you are no good, will never be any good.

Sometimes they followed him,
rubbing out his tracks.
They wanted him to get lost
in the world of trees,
stand silently forever, holding up his hands.

At night he watched
the streetlamp’s light
soaking into his lawn.
He could bathe in its cool voice,
roll over to a whole different view.
What made them think
the world’s room was so small?

On the table he laid out his clothes,
arranging the cuffs.
What he said to his enemies
was a window pushed high as it would go.
Come in, look for me where you think
I am. Then when you see no one is there,
we can talk.

Here’s another selection from Garrison Keillor’s Good Poems.

To be of use
By Marge Piercy

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

Insomnia has attacked me again. At least I’m in good company! (Today’s selection is from Walking Down the Street in the Spirit Place.

Sleep and I are strange bedfellows; true
By Adrienne Jones

Sleep and I are strange bedfellows; true,
We’ve made, for decades, our Lethean crossing
(On rare occasion, I am prone to tossing
Until the ferry’s gone) as many do;
Hand in hand we’ve yielded up the night
To Morpheus’ dark mirror; in its gleams
We parley in the lexicon of dreams
Whose wisdom cracks and shifts in morning light.
But there’s a place between the bank and deep,
A fragile state where I can sometimes hear
Tones of such aching sweetness and so clear—
“Are these the spheres in their majestic sweep,
Or—oh! Some angel, bright celestial dancer,
Sleep?” I entreat. He offers up no answer.

Today’s poem is courtesy of Katie.

Your laughter (Tu risa)
By Pablo Neruda

Take my bread from me, if you want,
take the air from me, but
do not take from me your laughter

Do not take away the rose,
the lanceflower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in your joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters,
it rises to the sky, seeking me,
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour, your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.