tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42498041886829054472024-03-08T09:54:13.363-06:00A Few Reasonable Words<b>"One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words."</b> <i>
Goethe</i>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-58197957233790264252012-02-22T06:26:00.000-06:002012-02-22T06:26:19.688-06:00A Modern-Major GeneralI am the very model of a modern Major-General,<br />
I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral,<br />
I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical<br />
From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;a<br />
I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,<br />
I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,<br />
About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news,<br />
With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.<br />
<br />
I'm very good at integral and differential calculus;<br />
I know the scientific names of beings animalculous:<br />
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,<br />
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.<br />
<br />
I know our mythic history, King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's;<br />
I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox,<br />
I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,<br />
In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous;<br />
I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,<br />
I know the croaking chorus from The Frogs of Aristophanes!b<br />
Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore,c<br />
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.<br />
<br />
Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform,<br />
And tell you ev'ry detail of Caractacus's uniform:d<br />
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,<br />
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.<br />
<br />
In fact, when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin",<br />
When I can tell at sight a Mauser rifle from a Javelin,e<br />
When such affairs as sorties and surprises I'm more wary at,<br />
And when I know precisely what is meant by "commissariat",<br />
When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,<br />
When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery—<br />
In short, when I've a smattering of elemental strategy—<br />
You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee.<br />
<br />
For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,<br />
Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century;<br />
But still, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,<br />
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.<br />
<br />
W. S. GilbertTeri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-71299183190933467372011-03-04T14:04:00.002-06:002011-03-04T14:04:36.456-06:00Emily Dickenson on SpringA Light exists in Spring<br />
Not present on the Year<br />
At any other period --<br />
When March is scarcely here<br />
<br />
A Color stands abroad<br />
On Solitary Fields<br />
That Science cannot overtake<br />
But Human Nature feels.<br />
<br />
It waits upon the Lawn,<br />
It shows the furthest Tree<br />
Upon the furthest Slope you know<br />
It almost speaks to you.<br />
<br />
Then as Horizons step<br />
Or Noons report away<br />
Without the Formula of sound<br />
It passes and we stay --<br />
<br />
A quality of loss<br />
Affecting our Content<br />
As Trade had suddenly encroached<br />
Upon a Sacrament.Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-52184351473002937262011-03-02T16:19:00.001-06:002011-03-02T16:20:24.693-06:00Lines Written In Early SpringSpring doesn't arrive till March 20, but since when does the heart care about the calendar? Here are some lines by Wordsworth on the beginning of the season.<br />
<br />
"I heard a thousand blended notes,<br />
While in a grove I sate reclined,<br />
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts<br />
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.<br />
<br />
To her fair works did Nature link<br />
The human soul that through me ran;<br />
And much it grieved my heart to think<br />
What man has made of man.<br />
<br />
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,<br />
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;<br />
And 'tis my faith that every flower<br />
Enjoys the air it breathes.<br />
<br />
The birds around me hopped and played,<br />
Their thoughts I cannot measure:--<br />
But the least motion which they made<br />
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.<br />
<br />
The budding twigs spread out their fan,<br />
To catch the breezy air;<br />
And I must think, do all I can,<br />
That there was pleasure there.<br />
<br />
If this belief from heaven be sent,<br />
If such be Nature's holy plan,<br />
Have I not reason to lament<br />
What man has made of man?"Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-86175073580542809362011-02-12T11:59:00.002-06:002011-02-12T14:33:45.910-06:00Odes to Abraham Lincoln on His BirthdayWalt Whitman lived in Washington, and had at least a nodding acquaintance with Abraham Lincoln, whom he admired tremendously. Lincoln's assassination devastated the poet, inspiring him to write a series of pieces mourning the slain president. Unlike the experimental style of most of his writing, <i>O Captain, My Captain!</i> was written in lyric style and became instantly popular, embraced by a grieving nation. Later, in <i>Leaves of Grass</i>, he published several other elegies, including the famous<i> When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloomed.</i><br />
<br />
<b><i>O Captain, My Captain!</i> <br />
<br />
O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,<br />
</b><b>The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,<br />
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,<br />
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;<br />
But O heart! heart! heart!<br />
O the bleeding drops of red,<br />
Where on the deck my Captain lies,<br />
Fallen cold and dead.<br />
<br />
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;<br />
Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,<br />
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,<br />
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;<br />
Here Captain! dear father!<br />
This arm beneath your head!<br />
It is some dream that on the deck,<br />
You've fallen cold and dead.<br />
<br />
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;<br />
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;<br />
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;<br />
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;<br />
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!<br />
But I, with mournful tread,<br />
Walk the deck my Captain lies,<br />
Fallen cold and dead. <i><br />
</b><br />
<b>When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloomed</i><br />
<br />
WHEN lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d, <br />
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, <br />
I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. <br />
</b> <br />
<b>O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring; <br />
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west, <br />
And thought of him I love. <br />
<br />
2<br />
<br />
O powerful, western, fallen star! <br />
O shades of night! O moody, tearful night! <br />
O great star disappear’d! O the black murk that hides the star! <br />
O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me! <br />
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul! <br />
</b><i><br />
<br />
Click here to continue.<a href="http://www.bartleby.com/142/192.html"></a></i>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-30532821066803336452011-02-06T12:11:00.000-06:002011-02-06T12:11:17.667-06:00Valentine Parodies<b><i>If Walt Whitman were a Greeting Card Writer</i> by Anon<br />
<br />
O Valentine! My Valentine!<br />
Your face is everywhere;<br />
</b>I see it in the dead leaves;<br />
I see it in the toadstools in the wood;<br />
I see it in the lake sum and the swamp moss;<br />
But I do not see it in the peat bogs;<br />
O Valentine!<br />
You are the bullfrog croaking and the jackal<br />
howling and the buzzard screaming,<br />
And occasionally the gopher thinking;<br />
My heart is nature's toothpaste tube, and <br />
you are the force eternal that squeezes <br />
out the final, itsy-bitsy sweetness;<br />
O me!<br />
O you!<br />
O me! O you!<br />
O you! O Me!<br />
O us!<br />
O Valentine!<br />
<br />
<i><b>While I'm in a silly mood:</b></i><br />
"If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?"<br />
Anonymous<br />
"Love is the thing that enables a woman to sing while she mops up the floor after her husband has walked across it in his barn boots."<br />
Hoosier Farmer<br />
"Falling in love is so hard on the knees."<br />
AerosmithTeri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-87728616707879725802011-02-04T09:39:00.000-06:002011-02-04T10:43:27.903-06:00Nonsense, EdwardToday on <i>a book with a view</i> I published the famous Edward Lear poem, <i>The Owl and the Pussycat.</i> So this seems a wonderful time to present a few other favorites by the British writer/illustrator. Known for his limericks, I find the real delight of Lear to be his playful use of language. Reading him is fun; reading him aloud is even better. Try it and see.<br />
<br />
<i><b>The Jumblies </b></i><br />
I<br />
"They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,<br />
In a Sieve they went to sea:<br />
In spite of all their friends could say,<br />
On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,<br />
In a Sieve they went to sea!<br />
And when the Sieve turned round and round,<br />
And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"<br />
They called aloud, "Our Sieve ain't big,<br />
But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig!<br />
In a Sieve we'll go to sea!"<br />
Far and few, far and few,<br />
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;<br />
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,<br />
And they went to sea in a Sieve.<br />
<br />
II<br />
They sailed in a Sieve, they did,<br />
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,<br />
With only a beautiful pea-green veil<br />
Tied with a ribbon by way of a sail,<br />
To a small tobacco-pipe mast;<br />
And every one said, who saw them go,"<br />
0 won't they be soon upset, you know!<br />
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,<br />
And happen what may, it's extremely wrong<br />
In a Sieve to sail so fast!"<br />
Far and few, far and few,<br />
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;<br />
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,<br />
And they went to sea in a Sieve.<br />
<br />
III<br />
The water it soon came in, it did,<br />
The water it soon came in;<br />
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet<br />
In a pinky paper all folded neat,<br />
And they fastened it down with a pin.<br />
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,<br />
And each of them said, "How wise we are!<br />
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,<br />
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,<br />
While round in our Sieve we spin!"<br />
Far and few, far and few,<br />
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;<br />
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,<br />
And they went to sea in a Sieve.<br />
<br />
IV<br />
And all night long they sailed away;<br />
And when the sun went down,<br />
They whistled and warbled a moony song<br />
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,<br />
In the shade of the mountains brown.<br />
"0 Timballo! How happy we are,<br />
When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar,<br />
And all night long in the moonlight pale,<br />
We sail away with a pea-green sail,<br />
In the shade of the mountains brown!"<br />
Far and few, far and few,<br />
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;<br />
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,<br />
And they went to sea in a Sieve.<br />
<br />
V<br />
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,<br />
To a land all covered with trees,<br />
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,<br />
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,<br />
And a hive of silvery Bees.<br />
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,<br />
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,<br />
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,<br />
And no end of Stilton Cheese.<br />
Far and few, far and few,<br />
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;<br />
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,<br />
And they went to sea in a Sieve.<br />
<br />
VI<br />
And in twenty years they all came back,<br />
In twenty years or more,<br />
And every one said, "How tall they've grown!<br />
For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,<br />
And the hills of the Chankly Bore;"<br />
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast<br />
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;<br />
And every one said, "If we only live,<br />
We too will go to sea in a Sieve,--<br />
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!"<br />
Far and few, far and few,<br />
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;<br />
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,<br />
And they went to sea in a Sieve."<br />
<br />
<i><b>The Quangle Wangle's Hat</b></i><br />
I<br />
On the top of the Crumpetty Tree<br />
The Quangle Wangle sat,<br />
But his face you could not see,<br />
On account of his Beaver Hat.<br />
For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide,<br />
With ribbons and bibbons on every side<br />
And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace,<br />
So that nobody ever could see the face<br />
Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.<br />
<br />
<br />
II<br />
The Quangle Wangle said<br />
To himself on the Crumpetty Tree,--<br />
'Jam; and jelly; and bread;<br />
'Are the best food for me!<br />
'But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree<br />
'The plainer that ever it seems to me<br />
'That very few people come this way<br />
'And that life on the whole is far from gay!'<br />
Said the Quangle Wangle Quee.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.nonsenselit.org/Lear/ll/quangle.html">Click here to read on. You wouldn't want to miss the pobble who has no toes, would you?</a>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-12362684869188436192011-02-03T09:56:00.000-06:002011-02-04T09:53:46.269-06:00Langston HughesPoet Langston Hughes was born in Joplin, Missouri, Feb. 1, 1902. As a child I first encountered him with this well known poem...<b><br />
"Hold fast to dreams</b><br />
For if dreams die<br />
Life is a broken-winged bird<br />
That cannot fly<br />
Hold fast to dreams<br />
For when dreams go<br />
Life is a barren field<br />
Frozen with snow."<br />
<br />
His first poem is still one of his most famous.<br />
<b>"I've known rivers:</b><br />
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the<br />
flow of human blood in human rivers<br />
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.<br />
<br />
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young<br />
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.<br />
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.<br />
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln<br />
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy<br />
bosom turn all golden in the sunset<br />
<br />
I've known rivers:<br />
Ancient, dusky rivers.<br />
<br />
My soul has grown deep like the rivers."<br />
<br />
Hughes gave us the titles of two other famous pieces, <i>Black like Me</i> and <i>Raisin in the Sun. </i><br />
<br />
Finally, showing his lighter side and fine word use, <i>Daybreak in Alabama.</i><br />
<b>"When I get to be a composer</b><br />
I'm gonna write me some music about<br />
Daybreak in Alabama<br />
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it<br />
Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist<br />
And falling out of heaven like soft dew.<br />
I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it<br />
And the scent of pine needles<br />
And the smell of red clay after rain<br />
And long red necks<br />
And poppy colored faces<br />
And big brown arms<br />
And the field daisy eyes<br />
Of black and white black white black people<br />
And I'm gonna put white hands<br />
And black hands and brown and yellow hands<br />
And red clay earth hands in it<br />
Touching everybody with kind fingers<br />
And touching each other natural as dew<br />
In that dawn of music when I<br />
Get to be a composer<br />
And write about daybreak<br />
In Alabama."<br />
<br />
Poems in Order:<i><br />
Hold Fast to Dreams<br />
The Negro Speaks of Rivers<br />
Black like Me<br />
Dream Deferred</i><br />
<a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/langston-hughes/biography/"><br />
For more about Hughes, click here.</a>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-2141079091089716112011-02-01T22:06:00.000-06:002011-02-01T22:37:53.943-06:00Groundhog Salute<b>"Away in a meadow all covered with snow<br />
The little old groundhog looks for his shadow<br />
The clouds in the sky determine our fate<br />
If winter will leave us all early or late."<br />
<br />
</b>- Don Halley<br />
<br />
<b>"There's only one day the whole long year, that I hope the pray the sun won't appear.<br />
The second of February, you all know, the ground hog goes searching for his shadow.<br />
If he should find it, the story is told, we'll have six more weeks of winter's cold.<br />
But if it's cloudy, his shadow's not there. There'll soon be warm weather and days ill be fair.<br />
So please, Sun, for just this one day, find a big dark cloud--and stay away!"<br />
<br />
</b>- AnonTeri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-28564840198901428042011-01-22T20:18:00.000-06:002011-01-22T20:18:15.199-06:00She Walks in Beauty, by Lord ByronShe walks in beauty, like the night<br />
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;<br />
And all that's best of dark and bright<br />
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:<br />
Thus mellow'd to that tender light<br />
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.<br />
<br />
One shade the more, one ray the less,<br />
Had half impair'd the nameless grace<br />
Which waves in every raven tress,<br />
Or softly lightens o'er her face;<br />
Where thoughts serenely sweet express<br />
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.<br />
<br />
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,<br />
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,<br />
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,<br />
But tell of days in goodness spent,<br />
A mind at peace with all below,<br />
A heart whose love is innocent!<br />
<br />
Happy Birthday, Byron.Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-60713614983589114922011-01-19T17:44:00.000-06:002011-01-19T17:47:30.774-06:00Presidential Poetry<b>January 20 is presidential inauguration day</b> every forth year. Since it isn't this year, I thought it might be fitting to post this poem, to help you remember our presidents in order. Unfortunately, it only goes so far. Ready for an update, anybody?<br />
<br />
Come, young folks all, and learn my rhyme,<br />
Writ like the ones of olden time.<br />
For linked together, name and name,<br />
The whole a surer place will claim;<br />
And firmly in your mind shall stand<br />
The names of those who've ruled our land.<br />
A noble list: George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison and James Monroe,<br />
John Quincy Adams -- and below<br />
Comes Andrew Jackson in his turn;<br />
Martin Van Buren next we learn.<br />
Then William Henry Harrison,<br />
Whom soon John Tyler followed on.<br />
And after Tyler, James K. Polk;<br />
Then Zachary Taylor ruled the folk till death. <br />
Then Millard Fillmore came; <br />
And Franklin Pierce we next must name.<br />
And James Buchanan then appears, <br />
Then Abraham Lincoln through those years <br />
Of war. And when his life was lost <br />
'Twas Andrew Johnson filled his post.<br />
then U.S. Grant and R.B. Hayes, <br />
And James A. Garfield each had place,<br />
And Chester Arthur; and my rhyme<br />
Ends now in Grover Cleveland's time.Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-81111152758713464872011-01-18T14:17:00.000-06:002011-01-18T14:17:52.538-06:00Chicago"Hog Butcher for the World,<br />
Tool maker, Stacker of Wheat,<br />
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;<br />
Stormy, husky, brawling,<br />
City of the Big Shoulders:<br />
<br />
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your<br />
painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.<br />
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: yes, it is true I have seen<br />
the gunman kill and go free to kill again.<br />
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women<br />
and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.<br />
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my<br />
city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:<br />
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be<br />
alive and coarse and strong and cunning.<br />
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall<br />
bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;<br />
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted<br />
against the wilderness,<br />
Bareheaded,<br />
Shoveling,<br />
Wrecking,<br />
Planning,<br />
Building, breaking, rebuilding,<br />
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,<br />
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,<br />
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,<br />
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his <br />
ribs the heart of the people,<br />
Laughing!<br />
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked,<br />
sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,<br />
Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation."<br />
<br />
Carl Sandburg, born Jan 6, 1878Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-25015128216009680112010-12-14T21:36:00.000-06:002010-12-14T21:37:01.038-06:00A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote"Imagine a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago. Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town. A great black stove is its main feature; but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it. Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar.<br />
<br />
A woman with shorn white hair is standing at the kitchen window. She is wearing tennis shoes and a shapeless gray sweater over a summery calico dress. She is small and sprightly, like a bantam hen; but, due to a long youthful illness, her shoulders are pitifully hunched. Her face is remarkable—not unlike Lincoln's, craggy like that, and tinted by sun and wind; but it is delicate too, finely boned, and her eyes are sherry-colored and timid. "Oh my," she exclaims, her breath smoking the windowpane, "it's fruitcake weather!"<br />
<br />
The person to whom she is speaking is myself. I am seven; she is sixty-something, We are cousins, very distant ones, and we have lived together—well, as long as I can remember. Other people inhabit the house, relatives; and though they have power over us, and frequently make us cry, we are not, on the whole, too much aware of them. We are each other's best friend. She calls me Buddy, in memory of a boy who was formerly her best friend. The other Buddy died in the 1880's, when she was still a child. She is still a child."<br />
<br />
So opens the magical short story/memoir, first published Dec., 1956.<br />
<a href="http://members.multimania.co.uk/shortstories/capotechristmas.html">Take a moment to <i>read all of it here.</i></a><br />
Then watch Piper Laurie and Patty Duke in the marvelous TV version at Netflix. And Have a Wonderful Christmas!Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-18346269515999014422010-12-13T12:53:00.000-06:002010-12-13T12:53:24.929-06:00"The First Day of Winter"<b>"On the first day of winter,</b><br />
the earth awakens to the cold touch of itself.<br />
Snow knows no other recourse except<br />
this falling, this sudden letting go<br />
over the small gnomed bushes, all the emptying trees.<br />
Snow puts beauty back into the withered and malnourished,<br />
into the death-wish of nature and the deliberate way<br />
winter insists on nothing less than deference.<br />
waiting all its life, snow says, "Let me cover you."<br />
--Laure LushTeri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-53359362297736879702010-11-07T09:05:00.000-06:002010-11-07T09:05:29.493-06:00In Flanders Field<b>"In Flanders Fields the poppies blow<br />
Between the crosses row on row,<br />
That mark our place; and in the sky<br />
The larks, still bravely singing, fly<br />
Scarce heard amid the guns below.<br />
<br />
We are the Dead. Short days ago<br />
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,<br />
Loved and were loved, and now we lie<br />
In Flanders fields.<br />
<br />
Take up our quarrel with the foe:<br />
To you from failing hands we throw<br />
The torch; be yours to hold it high.<br />
If ye break faith with us who die<br />
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow<br />
In Flanders fields."</b><br />
<br />
-- Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae<br />
McCrae, a Canadian doctor, is said to have scribbled this poem on the back of an envelope after having spent 17 days doctoring injured soldiers ourside Ypres. This was spring, 1915, during WW1 of course. <br />
Whatever your beliefs of war, take a moment to honor those who have died at the hands of others.Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-27014062318959237572010-11-01T16:55:00.001-05:002010-11-01T16:55:37.047-05:00Autumn Sonnet"This is the treacherous month when autumn days<br />
With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts.<br />
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts<br />
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze<br />
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,<br />
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,<br />
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts<br />
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays<br />
Wildly shine upon and slowly melt,<br />
Too late to bid the violet live again.<br />
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;<br />
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.<br />
What joy sufficient hath November felt?<br />
What profit from the violet's day of pain?"<br />
<br />
- Helen Hunt JacksonTeri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-2539701654282592112010-10-23T14:41:00.000-05:002010-10-23T14:41:30.033-05:00October<b>O hushed October morning mild,<br />
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;<br />
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,<br />
Should waste them all.<br />
The crows above the forest call;<br />
To-morrow they may form and go.<br />
O hushed October morning mild,<br />
Begin the hours of this day slow,<br />
Make the day seem to us less brief.<br />
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,<br />
Beguile us in the way you know;<br />
Release one leaf at break of day;<br />
At noon release another leaf;<br />
One from our trees, one far away;<br />
Retard the sun with gentle mist;<br />
Enchant the land with amethyst.<br />
Slow, slow!<br />
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,<br />
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,<br />
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--<br />
For the grapes' sake along the wall.</b><br />
<br />
Robert FrostTeri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-1390323277792844122010-10-21T09:56:00.000-05:002010-10-21T09:56:27.250-05:00Two Poets Contemplate Fall<b>Autumn Movement</b><br />
Carl Sandburg<br />
<br />
"I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
This immediately reminded me of another Autumn poem, this one by Robert Frost. There are some real similarities between the two poets, I think.<br />
<br />
<b>Nothing Gold Can Stay</b><br />
<br />
"Nature’s first green is gold,<br />
Her hardest hue to hold.<br />
Her early leaf’s a flower;<br />
But only so an hour.<br />
Then leaf subsides to leaf.<br />
So Eden sank to grief,<br />
So dawn goes down to day.<br />
Nothing gold can stay."Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-89114809747485991532010-10-11T13:48:00.001-05:002010-10-11T13:48:11.186-05:00I am the Autumnal SunSometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature<br />
-- not his Father but his Mother stirs<br />
within him, and he becomes immortal with her<br />
immortality. From time to time she claims<br />
kindredship with us, and some globule<br />
from her veins steals up into our own.<br />
<br />
I am the autumnal sun,<br />
With autumn gales my race is run;<br />
When will the hazel put forth its flowers,<br />
Or the grape ripen under my bowers?<br />
When will the harvest or the hunter's moon<br />
Turn my midnight into mid-noon?<br />
I am all sere and yellow,<br />
And to my core mellow.<br />
The mast is dropping within my woods,<br />
The winter is lurking within my moods,<br />
And the rustling of the withered leaf<br />
Is the constant music of my grief...<br />
<br />
Henry David ThoreauTeri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-89862391557997133762010-10-11T13:45:00.000-05:002010-10-11T13:45:51.102-05:00Hornworm: Autumn LamentationSince that first morning when I crawled<br />
into the world, a naked grubby thing,<br />
and found the world unkind,<br />
my dearest faith has been that this<br />
is but a trial: I shall be changed.<br />
In my imaginings I have already spent<br />
my brooding winter underground,<br />
unfolded silky powdered wings, and climbed<br />
into the air, free as a puff of cloud<br />
to sail over the steaming fields,<br />
alighting anywhere I pleased,<br />
thrusting into deep tubular flowers.<br />
<br />
It is not so: there may be nectar<br />
in those cups, but not for me.<br />
All day, all night, I carry on my back<br />
embedded in my flesh, two rows<br />
of little white cocoons,<br />
so neatly stacked<br />
they look like eggs in a crate.<br />
And I am eaten half away.<br />
<br />
If I can gather strength enough<br />
I'll try to burrow under a stone<br />
and spin myself a purse<br />
in which to sleep away the cold;<br />
though when the sun kisses the earth<br />
again, I know I won't be there.<br />
Instead, out of my chrysalis<br />
will break, like robbers from a tomb,<br />
a swarm of parasitic flies,<br />
leaving my wasted husk behind.<br />
<br />
Sir, you with the red snippers<br />
in your hand, hovering over me,<br />
casting your shadow, I greet you,<br />
whether you come as an angel of death<br />
or of mercy. But tell me,<br />
before you choose to slice me in two:<br />
Who can understand the ways<br />
of the Great Worm in the Sky?<br />
<br />
Stanley KunitzTeri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4249804188682905447.post-15433446628417600792010-10-11T12:24:00.001-05:002010-10-11T17:16:59.585-05:00Ode to AutumnSeason of mists and mellow fruitfulness!<br />
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;<br />
Conspiring with him how to load and bless<br />
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;<br />
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,<br />
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;<br />
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells<br />
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,<br />
And still more, later flowers for the bees,<br />
Until they think warm days will never cease,<br />
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.<br />
<br />
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?<br />
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find<br />
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,<br />
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;<br />
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,<br />
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook<br />
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;<br />
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep<br />
Steady thy laden head across a brook;<br />
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,<br />
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.<br />
<br />
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?<br />
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -<br />
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day<br />
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;<br />
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn<br />
Among the river sallows, borne aloft<br />
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;<br />
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;<br />
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft<br />
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;<br />
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.<br />
<br />
John Keats<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15565">Hear <i>Ode to Autumn</i> read aloud by clicking here.</a>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0