Are you a poetry lover?
9 years ago
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Poetry time?
Comments (48)My God Joe, how sad, how dolorous, what a lament. Another one from Mary Oliver: Isn't it plain the sheets of moss, except that they have no tongues, could lecture all day if they wanted about spiritual patience? Isn't it clear the black oaks along the path are searching as though they were the most fragile of flowers? Every morniing I walk like this around the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart ever close, I am as good as dead. Every morning so far, I'm alive. And now the crows break off from the rest of the darkness and burst up into the sky--as though all night they had thought of what they would like their lives to be, and imagined their strong, thick wings. ****** One or Two Things I Don't bother me. I've just been born. 2 the butterfly's loping flight carries it through the country of the leaves delicately and well enough to get it where it wants to go, whereever that is stopping here and there to fuzzle the damp throats of flowers and the black, mud: up and down it swiings, frenzied and aimless, and sometimes for long delicious moments it is perfectly lazy , riding motionless in the breeze on the soft stalk of some ordinary flower. 3 The god of dirt came up to me many times and said so masny wise and delectable things, I lay on the grass listening to his dog voice, crow voice, frog voice,now, he said and now, and never once mentioned forever, 4 which has nevertheless always been, like a sharp iron hhood, in the center of my mind. 5 One or two things are all you need to travel oveer the blue pond, over the deep roughage of the trees and through the stiff flowers of lightening--some deep memory of pleasure, some cutting knowledge of pain. 6 But to lift the hoof! For that you need an idea. 7 For years and years I sturggled just to love my life. And then the butterfly rose, weightless, in the wind, "Don't love your life too much," it said. and vanished into the world. ****** And there are so many more from a book inscribed to a woman with love, respect and admiration...from some guy who thought she was walking the spiritual journey beside him. Perhaps she was, and wearied of his slow pace, or she needed the money she could get from selling this slim volume or the poems rankled or...but it is mine now and I'm glad of it. I most regret the loss of friends I shared poetry with. la...See MoreMarch/April FOTESS Round Robin Poetry Swap!
Comments (150)Evening All! It was the same here, Tuesday, Margo, overcast and windy but the wind wasn't bitterly cold, which was a welcome change. My mini daffs are starting to bloom! The crocuses are still going strong. And I too am still tired. Bummer! I was reading back thro the posts on this thread and way back at the beginning of this swap, I promised to keep the Robin's flight plan posted. You may have noticed, I haven't done that! So here it is, a little late, and I'll try my best to keep it updated! I sent to Peggy in Washington; Peggy sent it on to Heidi in Nebraska; Heidi mailed it on to Annie in California; Annie mailed it to Ruth in Texas; Ruth sent it flying to Melinda in Arkansas; Melinda just sent it to Diane/Moonfire; Diane sends it to Jeanne/sandlapper_rose in South Carolina; Jeanne sends it to Alana/poisondartfrog in Kentucky; Alana sends it to Robin in Virginia; Robin sends it to Vina/flowergirl134 in New York; Vina sends it to Janine/Jaynine in Connecticut; Janine sends it to Suzanne/hibiscusfan in Ohio; Suzanne sends it to Margo/smitties in Ohio; and Margo will send it to Katie in Mississippi, who will send the completed poem back to me! Hope I didn't skip anyone! Have a great day tomorrow! Shirley!...See MoreDo you like "serious poetry"?
Comments (33)friedag--is one of the following Mary Oliver poems the "climbing" one you had in mind? Of the handful of poems by Oliver that I know, these are the only ones that feature climbing--but there is no ladder, unless you want to count the tree as a ladder. Happiness In afternoon I watched the she-bear; she was looking For the secret bin of sweetness-- honey, that the bees store in the trees' soft caves. Black block of gloom, she climbed down tree after tree and shuffled on through the woods. And then she found it! The honey-house deep as heartwood, and dipped into it among the swarming bees--honey and comb she lipped and tongued and scooped out in her black nails, until maybe she grew full, or sleepy, or maybe a little drunk, and sticky down the rugs of her arms, and began to hum and sway. I saw her let go of the branches, I saw her lift her honeyed muzzle into the leaves, and her thick arms, as though she would fly-- an enormous bee all sweetness and wings-- down into the meadows, the perfection of honeysuckle and roses and clover-- to float and sleep in the sheer nets swaying from flower to flower day after shining day. That final image always cracks me up--the big shaggy bear, drunk on honey, fantasizing about being a tiny little bee flying around in ectasy as she gathers the pollen for making honey all day long! Don't we sometimes long to be the exact opposite of what we really are--in this case, a bear's version of Cinderella at the ball, perhaps. LOL The Honey Tree And so at last I climbed the honey tree, ate the bodies of bees that could not get out of my way, ate the dark hair of the leaves, the rippling bark, the heartwood. Such frenzy! But joy does that, I'm told, in the beginning. Later, maybe, I'll come here only sometimes and with a middling hunger. But now I climb like a snake, I clamber like a bear to the nuzzling place, to the light salvaged by the thighs of bees and racked up in the body of the tree. Oh, anyone can see how I love myself at last! how I love the world! climbing by day or night in the wind, in the leaves, kneeling at the secret rip, the cords of my body stretching and singing in the heaven of appetite May we all discover the "secret bin of sweetness" --joy and love--and find within ourselves a "heaven of appetite" for the honey of life! I like to pair these two poems (don't know if Oliver intended that or not)--the second poem showing what she learned from the bear (from nature) about living life to the fullest ("gathering rosebuds" while we may, as our favorite 17th century poet might put it?) as she figuratively climbs the tree of sweetness that the bear literally climbed. If neither is the right poem, they are still a couple of my favorite contemporary nature poems. Maybe this is why I'm fond of bears in nature poems. Kate...See More"Serious Poetry" Part Two
Comments (26)Yes, Dido--I am familiar with that poem and have taught it many times in the past--but strangely enough, had forgotten it. Thank you for reminding me. Impressive imagery. It chokes me up--the old lie! Since we are on anti-war poems, here are a couple more that I used to teach along with Owen. The Jarrell poem--WWII-- leaves us gasping because it is pure horrifying image with no commentary. The shortest and maybe most realistic war poem I know--and a fitting postscript to Owen: "The old Lie: dulce et decorum est/ Pro patria more." The second one--WWI poem--, with its repetitions and wandering, circling thoughts that take us no where but leave us caught in an endlessly pointless repeating maze, also leaves us gasping with its final pointed question--what are "patterns" for? The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner By Randall Jarrell From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life, I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose. Patterns By Amy Lowell I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths. My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime-tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden-paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her. What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid. ......See More- 9 years ago
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