Poetry for your Sunday vol. 9

Beginning

The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.   

The dark wheat listens.

Be still.

Now.

There they are, the moon's young, trying

Their wings.

Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow

Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone

Wholly, into the air.

I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe

Or move.

I listen.

The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,

And I lean toward mine.

-James Wright

Poetry for you Sunday vol 8

{Source}

The Poster Girl's Defence
It was an Artless Poster Girl pinned up against my wall, She was tremendous ugly, she was exceeding tall; I was gazing at her idly, and I think I must have slept, For that poster maiden lifted up her poster voice, and wept. She said between her poster sobs, ‘I think it’s rather rough To be jeered and fleered and flouted, and I’ve stood it long enough; I’m tired of being quoted as a Fright and Fad and Freak, And I take this opportunity my poster mind to speak. ‘Although my hair is carmine and my nose is edged with blue, Although my style is splashy and my shade effects are few, Although I’m out of drawing and my back hair is a show, Yet I have n’t half the whimseys of the maidens that you know. ‘I never keep you waiting while I prink before the glass, I never talk such twaddle as that little Dawson lass, I never paint on china, nor erotic novels write, And I never have recited “Curfew must not ring tonight”. ‘I don’t rave over Ibsen, I never, never flirt, I never wear a shirt waist with a disconnected skirt; I never speak in public on “The Suffrage”, or “The Race”, I never talk while playing whist, or trump my partner’s ace.’ I said: ‘O artless Poster Girl, you’re in the right of it, You are a joy forever, though a thing of beauty, nit!’ And from her madder eyebrows to her utmost purple swirl, Against all captious critics I’ll defend the Poster Girl.
-Carolyn Wells

Poetry for your Sunday vol 7

If The World Went Crazy
If the world was crazy, you know what I'd eat?
A big slice of soup and a whole quart of meat,
A lemonade sandwich, and then I might try
Some roasted ice cream or a bicycle pie,
A nice notebook salad, an underwear roast,
An omelet of hats and some crisp cardboard toast,
A thick malted milk made from pencils and daisies,
And that's what I'd eat if the world was crazy. 

If the world was crazy, you know what I'd wear?
A chocolate suit and a tie of eclair,
Some marshmallow earmuffs, some licorice shoes,
And I'd read a paper of peppermint news.
I'd call the boys "Suzy" and I'd call the girls "Harry,"
I'd talk through my ears, and I always would carry
A paper umbrella for when it grew hazy
To keep in the rain, if the world was crazy. 

If the world was crazy, you know what I'd do?
I'd walk on the ocean and swim in my shoe,
I'd fly through the ground and I'd skip through the air,
I'd run down the bathtub and bathe on the stair.
When I met somebody I'd say "G'bye, Joe,"
And when I was leaving--then I'd say "Hello."
And the greatest of men would be silly and lazy
So I would be king...if the world was crazy. 


-Shel Silverstein


A silly poem for this week. I've been reading so many heavy goings on on the news I thought it would be nice to have a goofy take on the end of the world. Leave   it up to Shel Silverstein.

Poetry for your Sunday vol 6

{Source}

Fairyland

Dim vales- and shadowy floods-

And cloudy-looking woods,

Whose forms we can't discover

For the tears that drip all over!

Huge moons there wax and wane-

Again- again- again-

Every moment of the night-

Forever changing places-

And they put out the star-light

With the breath from their pale faces.

About twelve by the moon-dial,

One more filmy than the rest

(A kind which, upon trial,

They have found to be the best)

Comes down- still down- and down,

With its centre on the crown

Of a mountain's eminence,

While its wide circumference

In easy drapery falls

Over hamlets, over halls,

Wherever they may be-

O'er the strange woods- o'er the sea-

Over spirits on the wing-

Over every drowsy thing-

And buries them up quite

In a labyrinth of light-

And then, how deep!- O, deep!

Is the passion of their sleep.

In the morning they arise,

And their moony covering

Is soaring in the skies,

With the tempests as they toss,

Like- almost anything-

Or a yellow Albatross.

They use that moon no more

For the same end as before-

Videlicet, a tent-

Which I think extravagant:

Its atomies, however,

Into a shower dissever,

Of which those butterflies

Of Earth, who seek the skies,

And so come down again,

(Never-contented things!)

Have brought a specimen

Upon their quivering wings. 

-Edgar Allen Poe

Poetry for your Sunday vol. 5

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;        5

 Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,        10

 And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.        15

 I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood,

 and I—I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.        20 

-Robert Frost

This is a total cliche I know, but I think it's because I hear this poem so much in the fall that I've been thinking about it so much this past week.

Poetry of your Sunday vol. 4

The Murderer

"I push my boat among the reeds;

I sit and stare about;

Queer slimy things crawl through the weeds

Put to a sullen rout.

I paddle under cypress trees;

All fearfully I peer

Through oozy channels when the breeze

Comes rustling at my ear.

"The long moss hangs perpetually;

Gray scalps of buried years;

Blue crabs steal out and stare at me,

And seem to gauge my fears;

I start to hear the eel swim by;

I shudder when the crane

Strikes at his prey; I turn to fly,

At drops of sudden rain.

"In every little cry of bird

I hear a tracking shout;

From every sodden leaf that's stirred

I see a face frown out;

My soul shakes when the water rat

Cowed by the blue snake flies;

Black knots from tree holes glimmer at

Me with accusive eyes.

"Through all the murky silence rings

A cry not born of earth;

An endless, deep, unechoing thing

That owns not human birth.

I see no colors in the sky

Save red, as blood is red;

I pray to God to still that cry

From pallid lips and dead.

"One spot in all that stagnant waste

I shun as moles shun light,

And turn my prow to make all haste

To fly before the night.

A poisonous mound hid from the sun,

Where crabs hold revelry;

Where eels and fishes feed upon

The Thing that once was He.

"At night I steal along the shore;

Within my hut I creep;

But awful stars blink through the door,

To hold me from my sleep.

The river gurgles like his throat,

In little choking coves,

And loudly dins that phantom note

From out the awful groves.

"I shout with laughter through the night:

I rage in greatest glee;

My fears all vanish with the light

Oh! splendid nights they be!

I see her weep; she calls his name;

He answers not, nor will;

My soul with joy is all aflame;

I laugh, and laugh, and thrill.

"I count her teardrops as they fall;

I flout my daytime fears;

I mumble thanks to God for all

These gibes and happy jeers.

But, when the warning dawn awakes,

Begins my wandering;

With stealthy strokes through tangled brakes,

A wasted, frightened thing."

-O. Henry

This is the first O. Henry poem I've read ever. It's creepy and it makes my skin crawl. I can picture the river where he dumps the body. I love the imagery in this poem and the feeling of furtiveness that it conveys. 

Poetry for your Sunday- vol. 3

{Summer Roses, Jonathan Hayter}

Summer Roses

A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master, 

With doors that none but the wind ever closes, 

Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster; 

It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses. 

                                                I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;

   'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.' 

     'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy, 

     'But one we must ask if we want any roses.' 

        So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly 

                                              There in the hush of the wood that reposes, 

                                              And turn and go up to the open door boldly, 

 And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses. 

                            'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?' 
                             'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses. 
                            'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you! 
                             'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses. 

                              'A word with you, that of the singer recalling-- 
                            Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is 
                             A flower unplucked is but left to the falling, 
                             And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.' 

                            We do not loosen our hands' intertwining 

                             (Not caring so very much what she supposes), 

                            There when she comes on us mistily shining 

                            And grants us by silence the boon of her roses. 

-Robert Frost

As a teenager I didn't care much for Robert Frost, but reading him now as an adult I appreciate the imagery of his words. I wanted a poem that reflected the feeling of this last week. It's been hot, heavy and still like almost every late July. The rose bush on the east side of our house is blooming and the woods around us are loud with the cicadas crying songs.

Poetry for your Sunday- vol 2.

Homage to My Hips

these hips are big hips

they need space to 

move around in.

they don’t fit into little

petty places.  these hips

are free hips.

they don’t like to be held back.

these hips have never been enslaved.

they go where they want to go

they do what they want to do.

these hips are mighty hips.

these hips are magic hips.

i have known them

to put a spell on a man and

spin him like a top!

-Lucille Clifton

I made the mistake of Googling "hips." I'm not quite sure why I thought that would turn out well. Wonder Woman was the only appropriate image I found on that search. I still want to learn a thing or two about poetry, but I'm not sure where to begin. Yesterday, at the the bookstore I picked up many poetry books only to put them right back down. The genre is a little overwhelming to me. I think the best way to go about this is to pick one poet and study them for awhile. Which poet, now that is the question...

Poetry for your Friday vol. 1

The Laughing Heart
your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

-Charles Bukowski

I'm on the fence about Bukowski. Sometimes I think his writing is fantastic and other times I feel like he's whiny and pretentious. I supposed it depends on my mood. Today I seem to be I the right mood for him because this poem really spoke to me. I've been struggle with some life stuff, you know the normal 'who am I and where is my life going' so these words were a comfort today.