| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| Alee |
Posted - Jun 22 2007 : 7:20:02 PM
Hi Ladies! Frannie posted a great poem and I loved reading it- So I thought maybe we would all like to post a few here! I have some running around in my head that I had to memorize back in High School and I loved them now as I loved them then. So I hope you enjoy them just as much as I.
W. Wordsworth
"My heart leaps up when I behold"
MY heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old 5
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
And my next favorite!
DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Alee
The amazing one handed typist! One hand for tying, one hand to hold Nora! |
| 18 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
| Amie C. |
Posted - Oct 16 2007 : 5:42:11 PM
Tasting the Wild Grapes (Mary Oliver)
The red beast
who lives in the side of these hills
won't come out for anything you have:
music or money. Still, there are moments
heavy with light and good luck. Walk
quietly under these tangled vines
and pay attention, and one morning
something will explode underfoot
like a branch of fire; one afternoon
something will flow down the hill
in plain view, a muscled sleeve the color
of all October! And forgetting
everything you will leap to name it
as though for the first time, your lit blood
rushing not to a word but a sound
small-boned, thin-faced, in a hurry,
lively as the dark thorns of the wild grapes
on the unsuspecting tongue!
The fox! The fox! |
| Marybeth |
Posted - Oct 09 2007 : 8:50:11 PM
One of my very favorite poems from 'A Child's Garden of Verses' by Robert Louis Stevenson
It is called 'The Swing"
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
River and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside--
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown--
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
www.strawberryhillsfarm.blogspot.com
www.day4plus.blogspot.com www.holyhouses-day4plus.blogspot.com
"Life may not be the party we hoped for...but while we are here we might as well dance!" |
| KYgurlsrbest |
Posted - Sep 04 2007 : 10:52:17 AM
This is my favorite--actually, I'm hard pressed to dislike any of Auden's work, but still, this one absolutely sends me!!!
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good
W.H Auden
"She was built like a watch, a study in balance ... with a neck and head so refined, like a drawing by DaVinci"...
NY Newsday sportswriter Bill Nack describing filly, Ruffian. |
| joyfulmama |
Posted - Sep 04 2007 : 10:52:09 AM
Patsy, thank you for sharing.. I was a victim of child abuse.. your poem spoke volumes.
Blessings, Debra
Psalms 23:1 "The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want."
http://myvintagehome.com
http://debbieknits.net |
| Hideaway Farmgirl |
Posted - Sep 04 2007 : 10:27:53 AM
Oh Patsy, what eloquence and emotion in your poem. Thank you for sharing that and being able to verbalize what so many others cannot begin to understand if they haven't been through it. I feel so badly for the little girl you once where, and so proud of the brave and talented person you have become. May you continue to heal through therapy.
Hugs to you,
Jo
"Wish I had time to work with herbs all day!" |
| CountryBorn |
Posted - Sep 01 2007 : 7:18:31 PM
Patsy,
Your poem is indeed very moving.It captures the terror and helplessness and the anger that a child feels. It must of helped you to write this out and bring it into the light. In the depth of our souls and the dark corners of our mind these things only fester and can truly cripple our spirit. When they are brought into the light they no longer have the power over us they once did. I applaud you for this excellent work. I hope healing and peace comes to your spirit and soul.
Mary Jane
There can be no happiness if the things we believe in are different from the things we do. Freya Stark |
| Patsy |
Posted - Sep 01 2007 : 07:07:03 AM
I am a poet and am in therapy. One of the things we are working on it child abuse and she encouraged me to write a poem about my experience. It isn't my favorite poem but others have said it impacted them.
To My Attacker
The day began okay I remember
An appointment for your wife,
As we dropped her off, I didn’t realize,
You would soon change my life.
As we drove back to your house
I felt nervous and uneasy,
I didn’t know exactly what it was
But it made my stomach queasy.
When we arrived, the uneasiness grew,
I didn’t want to get out in the cold.
You yelled “Don’t be silly, get in this house!”
And I did as I was told.
As soon as I was in the door
My instincts began to shout.
I knew that I was trapped inside
And needed to get out.
You came towards me and made a lunge
And grabbed both of my wrists,
But I was small, wiry and quick
And I slipped out of your grip.
The backdoor I thought, If I can get there
Then I will be okay,
My only chance of freedom now
And I dashed off that way.
Into the yellow kitchen I ran,
Past the sunshine tile and chairs,
I had to escape, had to find help
There was nothing but danger there.
The window was too high for me
Draped in yellow daisy cheer,
I reached up and screamed and banged on the glass,
But there was no one to hear.
I grabbed the knob with both small hands,
I twisted and I turned,
It wouldn’t open, I couldn’t get out,
Dead bolted I would learn.
I heard your footsteps coming up behind
And I held on for dear life,
You had to peel my fingers off the knob
I was gripping it so tight.
I pleaded and fought and scratched and bit
But I was way too small,
You lifted me up, my feet off the floor
And my tears began to fall.
I fought with you the best I could
As you dragged me to the front room,
I didn’t know what was going to happen to me,
But it was going to happen soon.
You sat down on the dusty rose chair
And put me on your lap,
You ripped off my pants and pushed me down hard
And I heard an awful snap.
The pain was intense, white hot and burning through
I couldn’t take much more,
I suppose you had found your pleasure from this
And you pushed me on the floor.
I tried to get up but my knees buckled,
Caked blood on little girl thighs.
But I found some strength I didn’t know I had
And I looked straight into your eyes.
I’m going to tell, I gasped in the air,
You’ll be sorry, You will see,
I’ll find a way to make you pay
For what you’ve done to me.
Was it a leer or a look of disgust
That came upon your face?
You stood up, zipped up your pants
And began to come my way.
Then everything went black, I don’t know what happened,
I guess it had been awhile,
The blood was gone, clothes straightened and smoothed
As we picked up your wife and child.
When we stopped for your wife, she looked back at me
Then slid into her seat.
Not a word was spoken, I knew no one cared
And we went for a bite to eat.
That was the day that changed me forever
Separated me from the rest of the world,
Not sure what had happened, But my spirit was shattered
And left me a lost little girl.
A few years ago when you passed away,
Did you stand before Our Father and His Son?
Did you hang your head or beg for mercy
When you told them what you had done?
Now your soul is on the other side
And some day mine will be too,
I wonder what you’ll say to me
And what I’ll say to you.
May God bless those who love the soil,
Patsy
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| Trace |
Posted - Aug 31 2007 : 7:16:31 PM
Thanks Kim. Glad you liked them. Here's a couple more I did awhile ago.
mirror, mirror on the wall
simply framed and hanging there
made of glass and painted wood
holds the image from one who stood
she took a minute to stop and stare
would she recongize the self so bare
could it be, she's who she sees
or just a girl, who aims to please...
--------------------------------------
an invisable girl-in
a world of beauty's
doesn't see her reflection in
the mirror, mirror on the wall
her light is lost amongst them all
*Most of what I write, is short and simple. It's based on what runs through any womens mind from time to time. Many talks, with many girlfriends.
pics from my world.. http://s4.photobucket.com/albums/y144/tra-dun/ |
| The Handmaiden |
Posted - Aug 31 2007 : 6:45:25 PM
Trace - you're a natural! I really enjoyed both poems & Oh! how I can relate!
Thanks for sharing,
Kim
"Faith shall finish all that Hope begins."
joan walsh anglund |
| Trace |
Posted - Aug 31 2007 : 3:10:56 PM
One more by Me, lol
Enough Time
I can't stop time
So I hide the clocks
Wind blows outside, just the same
Go
Listening means standing still
Don't have a watch
Don't have time
Cutting through the water
Swimming for the opposite side
Lungs ache for a deep breath
Too bad...You need to beat your old time
Funny I thought your eyes were green, maybe blue
Your license says brown
At least someone made time to look
I found my watch
And time stopped
But we didn't
We grew old
And never noticed.
Trace
pics from my world.. http://s4.photobucket.com/albums/y144/tra-dun/ |
| Trace |
Posted - Aug 31 2007 : 3:04:52 PM
Some of my very own words on the why's of time flying, lol
time can travel on the wing of a fly
but you can't keep it still between the crusts of a pie
it finds it's flight on a jet's steams trail
or can ring around a rosy like some slow to grow posey
some days you may think, that your clock has wings
or that the souls of your shoes have just sprung springs
cause the hands of your wrist watch seemed to have stood still
but how is it
you find yourself, looking back from the next hill
the last glance you had at the calendars page
leaves your jaw dropped, as you find out you've aged
so here you are, pondering as you seek
an answer to why the days merged to weeks
and not one of us, not a single I
can tell you the answer to
why time does fly.........
a seuss-a-lishish dish from your friendly neighborhood farmgirl,
Trace
pics from my world.. http://s4.photobucket.com/albums/y144/tra-dun/ |
| brightmeadow |
Posted - Jul 30 2007 : 8:56:24 PM
From Pablo Neruda
Ode to a pair of socks
Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
that she knit with her
shepherd's hands.
Two socks as soft
as rabbit fur.
I thrust my feet
inside them
as if they were
two
little boxes
knit
from threads
of sunset
and sheepskin.
My feet were
two woolen
fish
in those outrageous socks,
two gangly,
navy-blue sharks
impaled
on a golden thread,
two giant blackbirds,
two cannons:
thus
were my feet
honored
by
those
heavenly
socks.
They were
so beautiful
I found my feet
unlovable
for the very first time,
like two crusty old
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that embroidered
fire,
those incandescent
socks.
Nevertheless
I fought
the sharp temptation
to put them away
the way schoolboys
put
fireflies in a bottle,
the way scholars
hoard
holy writ.
I fought
the mad urge
to lock them
in a golden
cage
and feed them birdseed
and morsels of pink melon
every day.
Like jungle
explorers
who deliver a young deer
of the rarest species
to the roasting spit
then wolf it down
in shame,
I stretched
my feet forward
and pulled on
those
gorgeous
socks,
and over them
my shoes.
So this is
the moral of my ode:
beauty is beauty
twice over
and good things are doubly
good
when you're talking about a pair of wool
socks
in the dead of winter.
You shall eat the fruit of the labor of your hands - You shall be happy and it shall be well with you. -Psalm 128.2
Visit my blog at http://brightmeadowfarms.blogspot.com ,web site store at http://www.watkinsonline.com/fish or my homepage at http://home.earthlink.net/~brightmeadow |
| sweetproserpina |
Posted - Jul 30 2007 : 12:10:38 AM
Here is one of my favourites, by the famous Mohawk Princess Poetess E. Pauline Johnson.
THE IDLERS
The sun's red pulses beat,
Full prodigal of heat,
Full lavish of its lustre unrepressed;
But we have drifted far
From where his kisses are,
And in this landward-lying shade we let our paddles rest.
The river, deep and still,
The maple-mantled hill,
The little yellow beach whereon we lie,
The puffs of heated breeze,
All sweetly whisper--These
Are days that only come in a Canadian July.
So, silently we two
Lounge in our still canoe,
Nor fate, nor fortune matters to us now:
So long as we alone
May call this dream our own,
The breeze may die, the sail may droop, we care not when or how.
Against the thwart, near by,
Inactively you lie,
And all too near my arm your temple bends.
Your indolently crude,
Abandoned attitude,
Is one of ease and art, in which a perfect languor blends.
Your costume, loose and light,
Leaves unconcealed your might
Of muscle, half suspected, half defined;
And falling well aside,
Your vesture opens wide,
Above your splendid sunburnt throat that pulses unconfined.
With easy unreserve,
Across the gunwale's curve,
Your arm superb is lying, brown and bare;
Your hand just touches mine
With import firm and fine,
(I kiss the very wind that blows about your tumbled hair).
Ah! Dear, I am unwise
In echoing your eyes
Whene'er they leave their far-off gaze, and turn
To melt and blur my sight;
For every other light
Is servile to your cloud-grey eyes, wherein cloud shadows burn.
But once the silence breaks,
But once your ardour wakes
To words that humanize this lotus-land;
So perfect and complete
Those burning words and sweet,
So perfect is the single kiss your lips lay on my hand.
The paddles lie disused,
The fitful breeze abused,
Has dropped to slumber, with no after-blow;
And hearts will pay the cost,
For you and I have lost
More than the homeward blowing wind that died an hour ago.
"Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makes me feel glad to be alive--it's such an interesting world."
http://theprimroseway.blogspot.com/ |
| The Handmaiden |
Posted - Jul 29 2007 : 9:20:54 PM
I was recently given a book of poems as a gift. I read alot, but confess I haven't read a book of poems in years. The author is Mary Oliver and I'm in love. She is a Pulitzer Prize winner for poetry and recognized "as an unparalleled poet of the natural world...writing with unmatched dexterity and a profound appreciation for the divergence and convergence of all living things."
So I'll give you a short one and I won't make any promises not to add one everyday. I think you'll agree.
WHY I WAKE EARLY
Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of,even,the
miserable and the crotchey-
best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light-
good morning, good morning, good morning
Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.
"Faith shall finish all that Hope begins."
joan walsh anglund |
| Alee |
Posted - Jun 27 2007 : 11:04:28 AM
LOL! I love the poems you are posting! Keep 'em coming!
Alee
The amazing one handed typist! One hand for tying, one hand to hold Nora! |
| mkmomus |
Posted - Jun 27 2007 : 09:28:12 AM
OK you found one of my big weak spots! I love poems. I swear this is the last one I'll post!
Merle
Casey at the Bat
From The Sporting News of January 20, 1906
by ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that --
We'd put up even money now with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake.
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat.
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Johnnie safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place,
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped --
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, bleak with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm waves on a worn and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone in the stands,
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clinched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville -- mighty Casey has struck out.
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| mkmomus |
Posted - Jun 27 2007 : 09:23:42 AM
This is another one my whole family loves.
Little Orphant Annie
James Whitcomb Riley
7 October 1849-22 July 1916
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away.
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other children, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,--
So when he went to bed at night, away upstairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the ratter room, an' cubbyhole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout:--
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin;
An' onc't, when they was "company", an' ole folks was there,
She mocked 'em an she shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
There was two great big black things a standin' by her side.
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squenched away,--
You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond an' dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
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| mkmomus |
Posted - Jun 27 2007 : 09:20:32 AM
This is one of my very favorites.
IF
Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream-and not make dreams your master;
If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings-nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And-which is more-you'll be a Man, my son!
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