Saturday, July 28, 2012

Over Hill, Over Dale

A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act II, Scene I [Over hill, over dale] by William Shakespeare

A wood near Athens. A Fairy speaks.

Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I'll be gone;
Our queen and all her elves come here anon.

Let The Day Go

Let The Day Go - by Grace Paley

     who needs it
I had another day in mind
something like this one
     sunny green the earth
just right having suffered
the assault of what is called
torrential rain the pepper
the basil sitting upright
in their little boxes waiting
I suppose for me also the
cosmos the zinnias nearly
blooming a year too late
forget it let the day go
the sweet green day let it
take care of itself

Thanks to The Writers Almanac

Sunday, July 15, 2012

A Boat Beneath A Sunny Sky

By Lewis Carroll

A boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July—

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear—

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream—
Lingering in the golden gleam—
Life, what is it but a dream?

Saturday, July 14, 2012

A Man Lost by a River



There is a voice inside the body.

There is a voice and a music,
a throbbing, four-chambered pear
that wants to be heard, that sits
alone by the river with its mandolin
and its torn coat, and sings
for whomever will listen
a song that no one wants to hear.

But sometimes, lost,
on his way to somewhere significant,
a man in a long coat, carrying
a briefcase, wanders into the forest.

He hears the voice and the mandolin,
he sees the thrush and the dandelion,
and he feels the mist rise over the river.

And his life is never the same,
for this having been lost---
for having strayed from the path of his routine,
for no good reason.

Michael Blumenthal

Friday, July 13, 2012

Gravity

Kim Addonizio

Carrying my daughter to bed
I remember how light she once was,
no more than a husk in my arms.
There was a time I could not put her down,
so frantic was her crying if I tried
to pry her from me, so I held her
for hours at night, walking up and down the hall,
willing her to fall asleep. She'd grow quiet,
pressed against me, her small being alert
to each sound, the tension in my arms, she'd take
my nipple and gaze up at me,
blinking back fatigue she'd fight whatever terror
waited beyond my body in her dark crib. Now
that she's so heavy I stagger beneath her,
she slips easily from me, down
into her own dreaming. I stand over her bed,
fixed there like a second, dimmer star,
though the stars are not fixed: someone
once carried the weight of my life.

Times two for the words in this poem - For my granddaughters on their 5th birthday

Monday, July 9, 2012

Departed

Departed by Grahame Davies

They touch our lives much less than we suppose,
the dead. The ones who swore they'd never leave,
but did so. Those who slipped away and those
we said we'd miss, but didn't really grieve.

The ones who, with their patience or their pain,
left us resolved we'd live a different way;
to never lie, or slander, or complain;
although we did so, almost the next day.

The great ones, even, known or by report,
whose spirits wrote in stars across the sky;
they count for little, or the truths they taught;
they bring us no new wisdom when they die.

We don't admit it, even when it's clear,
the way the least beloved human face
is more to us than those no longer here,
the ones we said no others could replace.

It's not the tragic, but the trivial things
that bury sadness deeper every day;
not how creation sighs, but how it sings
though that itself is tragic, in a way.

The daily sunlight staring through the glass.
The portrait fading in the painted frame.
The wind that goes, ungrieving, through the grass.
The loved one's lonely, lichen-covered name.

Thanks to The Guardian Poem Of The Week

Pre-Order his book Lightning Beneath the Sea from Amazon

Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking,

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

John Masefield

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Emily Dickinson



A SERVICE OF SONG.

Some keep the Sabbath going to church;
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.
 Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;
I just wear my wings,
And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.
 God preaches, -- a noted clergyman, --
And the sermon is never long;
So instead of getting to heaven at last,
I'm going all along!

Emily Dickinson