Hi...haven't been around these parts in awhile. But in days of yore we used to get some pretty good poetry threads going from time to time where folks posted some of their favorite poems, or whatever happened to catch their fancy at the time as per emotional or seasonal relevance. So I had a hankerin' to kick one off again...and with hope lookin' towards Spring after too many blizzards I'd like to start it off with one of my all-time favorite works (note: Hyla is a breed of frog that inhabited the brook):
HYLA BROOK
by Robert Frost
BY June our brook’s run out of song and speed.
Sought for much after that, it will be found
Either to have gone groping underground
(And taken with it all the Hyla breed
That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)—
Or flourished and come up in jewel-weed,
Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent
Even against the way its waters went.
Its bed is left a faded paper sheet
Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat—
A brook to none but who remember long.
This as it will be seen is other far
Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song.
We love the things we love for what they are.
Hello,
We've had too many blizzards here too: 100 days of continual
snow, so I appreciated your poem contribution. Thanks.
A Ceremonie in Glocester
Robert Herrick
Ile to thee a simnell bring,
'Gainst thou go'st a mothering;
Si that, when she blesseth thee,
Half that blessing thou'lt give me.
From: Words on the window-pane
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Spring
SOFT-LITTERED is the new-year's lambing-fold
And in the hollowed haystack at its side
The shepherd lies o'nights now, wakeful-eyed
At the ewes' travailing call through dark and cold
The young rooks cheep 'mid the thick caw o'the old:
And near unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground,
By her spring-cry the moorhen's nest is found,
Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold.
Chill are the gusts to which the pastures cower,
And chill the current where the young reeds stand
As green and close as the young wheat on land:
Yet there the cuckoo and the cuckoo-flower
Plight to the heart Spring's perfect imminent hour
Whose breath shall soothe you like your dear one's hand.
@Father Steve, I wish I understood the second line of your poem and simnell is a sort of fruitbread special for Easter?
I took gost thout mothering to mean when you go looking for your mother...
In the above poem 'plight' is used as a verb?
as in (the idiomatic) plight (one's) troth.
as in (the idiomatic) plight (one's) troth.
Tsorry tsu - I did not understand this. ETA: Okay now I do. I just looked up the dictionary.
From OE plihtan, 'to imperil, compromise'.
Okay now I don't understand it all over again. The dictionary says plight as a verb means to pledge... and risk and danger. I think in poem it means pledge.
I see it now I think, Father Steve.
Someone gives a simnell to another one to take it to a or maybe their mother. And asks for a half of the blessing she will give.
Never heard of Robert Herrick before, but I found some more in an anthology I have. Nice poem called: To Daffodils.
@Avvy. In the Rossetti poem plight means promise, not compromise.
Anyone else for poems related to lent/spring that are to your liking and might please others?
A Ceremonie in Glocester
Robert Herrick
Ile to thee a simnell bring,
'Gainst thou go'st a mothering;
Si that, when she blesseth thee,
Half that blessing thou'lt give me.
Already -
by Piet Hein
We now approach the season
when hope, in spite of reason,
.. proclaims that Spring is on the way
.... and Winter almost past;
when expectations flower
with every passing shower,
.. and anxious hearts begin to say:
.... already! and: at last!
edited so it looks like the original spacing
My wife and I write Love letters to each other everyday. Ocsionally I try to write them as poems.
May Day
by Myself 2008
Oh! How sweet
The smell
Of the clean spring air.
The scent of tulips
Pansies and forsythia
Is intoxicating,
Like the bouquet of
New spring wine.
Oh so filling
To my senses,
The rising sunlight
Shimmers on the morning dew
Making a thousand tiny rainbows dance
On top of the blades of new mown grass.
Oh how beautiful,
Oh how great,
Oh how wonderful,
This day, oh this day
So like the one, now many years past,
My lover, my lady, my joy
Entered my life
Changing it forever.
She is all the sweetness of springtime,
The sweetness of the new blooms;
The aroma of new life she is.
Her kisses so sweet,
Sweeter than wine,
Awe me.
An Anti-Limerickby W S Gilbert (
attributed)
There was an old man of St. Bees,
Who was stung in the arm by a wasp;
When they asked, "Does it hurt?"
He replied, "No, it doesn't,
But I thought all the while 't was a Hornet."
This here aint' limericks. That's Spartye's sin. This is big P poetry.
Here, this ain't no stinking limerick ...
Todesfuge
by Paul Celan
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends
wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts
wir trinken und trinken
wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne er pfeift seine Rüden herbei
er pfeift seine Juden hervor läßt schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde
er befiehlt uns spielt auf nun zum Tanz
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern singet und spielt
[Vortrag: Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf]
er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau
stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen
Er ruft spielt süßer den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft
dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken
der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau
er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er hetzt seine Rüden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft
er spielt mit den Schlangen und träumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith
would Magritte agree?
ç:¬ )
No certainly not a limerick. I would like to get the translation of this. I'm not sure english would get all the imagery. This is very dark.
There is a lot to this poem.
get the the translation of thisTry
this; the site has some translations into other languages and commentary. Celan was one of the great 20th century poets. He was a German-speaking Romanian Jew.
And in the spirit of the day:
THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
by William Butler Yeats
I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
By Broad Potomac's Shore
by: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
By broad Potomac's shore, again old tongue,
(Still uttering, still ejaculating, canst never cease this babble?)
Again old heart so gay, again to you, your sense, the full flush
spring returning,
Again the freshness and the odors, again Virginia's summer sky,
pellucid blue and silver,
Again the forenoon purple of the hills,
Again the deathless grass, so noiseless soft and green,
Again the blood-red roses blooming.
Perfume this book of mine O blood-red roses!
Lave subtly with your waters every line Potomac!
Give me of you O spring, before I close, to put between its pages!
O forenoon purple of the hills, before I close, of you!
O deathless grass, of you!
By Broad Potomac's Shore
I have always loved how Whitman gave up strict meter and rhyme and went for something else in his poetry. His Leaves of Grass was roundly attacked by the supposed guardians of poetry and morality of the day. This shortly before our great social experiment, the Civil War.
Evergreen Yeats. Thanks for posting the lake. I can never read it too many times. He writes magic.
Nice poem Kah. Lucky wife. Lucky you.
ETA: I wonder why nine bean rows.
In the limerick, above the rhyming of lines 3 and 4 does not fit in with the scheme of lines 1, 2, and 5.
Hence the title An Anti-Limerick.
Be 'anti', but be consistent.
I think there's a dual element in the "anti-" of the title. Not just "opposed to" but also "the opposite of," as in "antipode." By superficially preserving the limerick structure but totally ignoring the 1-2-5 rhyming requirement, I think the Anti-Limerick meets both definitions, and does so very well. I like it (although I disagree with the man.)
get the the translation of thisTry
this;
These are really good translations as far as I can follow.
In the limerick, above the rhyming of lines 3 and 4 does not fit in with the scheme of lines 1, 2, and 5.
Not quite sure I understand you. None of the lines in the poem rhyme: Bees, wasp, hurt, doesn't, or hornet. The number of syllables per line does vary a bit: 9 or 10 and 6 or 7.
e.e.cummings
a pretty a day
(and every fades)
is here and away
(but born are maids
to flower an hour
in all,all)
o eyes to flower
until so blithe
a doer a wooer
some limber and lithe
some very fine mower
a tall;tall
some jerry so very
(and nellie and fan)
some handsomest harry
(and sally and nan
they tremble and cower
so pale:pale)
for betty was born
to never say nay
but lucy could learn
and lily could pray
and fewer were shyer
than doll. .. doll
( flowers and pretty scenery?)
@ Z: if the writer/poet has used bees, wasp, and hornet for a, he should have used hurt and stung (or something similar) for b. Alternatively, he could have kept doesn't and hurt as b, but then used totally unconnected words for a ---
IM(not so in this case)HO
that seems to me like over-analysis for what was surely intended as a joke, on what is already a joke poetry form. in fact, it reminds me of those folks who 'workshop' limericks in an attempt to perfect the form. 8-)
-joe (reactionary? who says I'm reactionary?) friday
I reacted not to the post, but the 'making fun of a form' sense of the limerick. Maybe I came on a bit too strong, but... Over analysis? Is the pot calling the saucepan names, I ask you? ":)" not a single person on this board can be accused of over analysis.
It is amazing how many people will find something to pick at.
I am really enjoying the poetry. Keep it up despite the
criticism.
Anhedonic comes to mind.
I'm sorry if my analysis bothered people. That was not my aim. Again apologies.
It does not bother me.
It shows interest and caring, and I actually sort of enjoyed
following your process. Don't apologize for what you post
on this site, others don't.
I think I dated her in high school.
you shall above all things be glad and young
for if you're young, whatever life you wear
it will become you; and if you are glad
whatever's living will yourself become.
girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
i can entirely her only love
whose any mystery makes every man's
flesh put space on; and his mind take off time
that you should ever think, may god forbid
and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:
for that way knowledge lies, the foetal grave
called progress, and negation's dead undoom.
i'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings
Hello,
We've had too many blizzards here too: 100 days of continual
snow, so I appreciated your poem contribution. Thanks.
And we've just had 100 consecutive days above 20 C (68 F).
Another American favorite: William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
The Poem
It's all in
the sound. A song
Seldom a song. It should
be a song - made of
particulars, wasps,
a gentian - something
immidiate, open
scissors, a lady's
eye - waking
centrifugal, centripetal
I reacted not to the post, but the 'making fun of a form' sense of the limerick.
Don't get me wrong, I happened to enjoy a limerick or two, especially if well written and witty (with just a touch of salacity). I don't mind analysis or even over-analysis, but my question was innocent. I did not understand what you were saying. Now that I do, I have no problem with it.
Now, for my limerick story. Years ago, the founder of Oedilf (the Omniscient (née Oxford) English Dictionary in Limerick Form and I found ourselves to be the only two participants on a fortnightly words-related chat. He had very strong opinions on modern poetry (as in it not really being poetry at all) and the superior verse form which is the limerick. I started out on my task of twitting him: first, by mentioning that I particularly liked the limericks of Edward Leary, and had never quite gotten used to the fifth line not have the same rhyme word (and usually a identical construction) as the first one. He soon disabused me of my fantastically absurd notion. The we moved on to a factoid which I found highly amusing. many people who take poetry seriously (and that includes folks from the only if it rhymes and scans school as well as dyed in the wool free verse modernists and posts) dismissed the limerick as a minor poetic form at best. This was enough to launch the fellow into the atmosphere, and I feared for my life upon his re-entry. He raged and raged for many minutes, which is a difficult thing to do in chat form. I quickly began trying to extract myself from the situation. I assured him these were not my feelings, as I found the occasional well-written limerick a momentary joy, and I was not very passionate about them either way in the Grand Scheme of Things. It was then that he uttered an expletive or two, and we stood there (on our fingertips as it were) silently mouthing our despair like fish out of water before deciding that the day was getting on without us and we departed. It was the last time we were to speak.
in fact, it reminds me of those folks who 'workshop' limericks in an attempt to perfect the form. 8-)
thanks for the 'limerick story', zmjezhd; I'm afraid I despaired of having to try to explain my somewhat snarky comment (smiley notwithstanding), but you've rather done that for me.
-
joe (enigmas 'Я us) friday
Hello,
We've had too many blizzards here too: 100 days of continual
snow, so I appreciated your poem contribution. Thanks.
And we've just had 100 consecutive days above 20 C (68 F).
It was 60degF yesterday, but snow predicted tonight and tomorrow.
get the the translation of thisTry
this; the site has some translations into other languages and commentary. Celan was one of the great 20th century poets. He was a German-speaking Romanian Jew.
Thanks so much, he really is a great poet.
This has always been on of my favorites.
God's Grandeur
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge |&| shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs --
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast |&| with ah! bright wings.
Yes, very nice, thanks much.
Gerard Manley HopkinsHopkins is one of my favorites. he even coined a great poetic term,
sprung rhythm. Here's my favorite:
The WindhoverI caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
Nice, the two poems by a new to me poet.
A favorite of mine
(Frost, I believe)
Nature's first green is gold
her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower
but only so an hour.
The leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief.
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.
Song by Rupert Brooke
All suddenly the wind comes soft,
And Spring is here again;
And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green,
And my heart with buds of pain.
My heart all Winter lay so numb,
The earth so dead and frore,
That I never thought the Spring would come,
Or my heart wake any more.
But Winter's broken and earth has woken,
And the small birds cry again;
And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds,
And my heart puts forth its pain.
Rupert Brooke, 1912
This Dylan Thomas part from Fern Hill is more about the springtime of life than about the actual season:
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
.....In the sun that is young once only,
..........Time let me play and be
.....Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
..........And the sabbath rang slowly
.....In the pebbles of the holy streams.
