Poem of the Day

COMPLAINT
They call me and I go.
It is a frozen road
past midnight, a dust
of snow caught
in the rigid wheeltracks.
The door opens.
I smile, enter and
shake off the cold.
Here is a great woman
on her side in the bed.
She is sick,
perhaps vomiting,
perhaps laboring
to give birth to
a tenth child. Joy! Joy!
Night is a room
darkened for lovers,
through the jalousies the sun
has sent one golden needle!
I pick the hair from her eyes
and watch her misery
with compassion.
......................................by William Carlos Williams

To......

MUSIC, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory-
Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

THE LIVING FLAME
THEY pass before me, these Eyes full of light,
Eyes made magnetic by some angel wise;
The holy brothers pass before my sight,
And cast their diamond fires in my dim eyes.

They keep me from all sin and error grave,
They set me in the path whence Beauty came;
They are my servants, and I am their slave,
And all my soul obeys the living flame.

Beautiful Eyes that gleam with mystic light
As candles lighted at full noon; the sun
Dims not your flame phantastical and bright.

You sing the dawn; they celebrate life done;
Marching you chaunt my soul's awakening hymn,
Stars that no sun has ever made grow dim!

Robert Frost's "October" :)

http://www.online-literature.com/frost/boys-will/30/

O HUSHED October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
To-morrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know;
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the wall.

.
.

I made up my own poem see if its good or not.

That single moment
when we look into eachothers eyes
we get closer and closer
everything around us turns into an invisble suprise

Your eyes close
right when mine do
closing the world outside
I tilt my head
and wonder when the fireworks subside

out lips touch
I do not worry when our hands clutch
*KiSs*

Deliver me from the usual thing,
The clever inevitability of the conversation,
The brilliant platitudes and the second-hand
Remarks about life...
O for the tangent terror
Of the metaphor no one has used --
The keenness of cutting edges
On the fresh green ice of thought.


Spring 1939

I got into trouble posting stuff today, but I'm feeling bold
and would like to nominate a pre-1923 poem by Helen Hunt Jackson, in honor of the 20th anniversary of the Great Northeast (U.S.) Snowstorm of October 4, 2007.
(incidentally, it is also the Feast Day of St. Francis of Assisi.)

Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)
October's Bright Blue Weather

O SUNS and skies and clouds of June,
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather;

When loud the bumble-bee makes haste,
Belated, thriftless vagrant,
And Golden-Rod is dying fast,
And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

When Gentians roll their fringes tight
To save them for the morning,
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
Without a sound of warning;

When on the ground red apples lie
In piles like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbine twining;

When all the lovely wayside things
Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
And in the fields, still green and fair,
Late aftermaths are growing;

When springs run low, and on the brooks,
In idle golden freighting,
Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
Of woods, for winter waiting;

When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,
And count like misers, hour by hour,
October's bright blue weather.

O suns and skies and flowers of June,
Count all your boasts together,
Love loveth best of all the year
October's bright blue weather.

A Poem For Friday 10/5

Conscience

Conscience is instinct bred in the house,
Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin
By an unnatural breeding in and in.
I say, Turn it out doors,
Into the moors.
I love a life whose plot is simple,
And does not thicken with every pimple,
A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it,
That makes the universe no worse than 't finds it.
I love an earnest soul,
Whose mighty joy and sorrow
Are not drowned in a bowl,
And brought to life to-morrow;
That lives one tragedy,
And not seventy;
A conscience worth keeping;
Laughing not weeping;
A conscience wise and steady,
And forever ready;
Not changing with events,
Dealing in compliments;
A conscience exercised about
Large things, where one may doubt.
I love a soul not all of wood,
Predestinated to be good,
But true to the backbone
Unto itself alone,
And false to none;
Born to its own affairs,
Its own joys and own cares;
By whom the work which God begun
Is finished, and not undone;
Taken up where he left off,
Whether to worship or to scoff;
If not good, why then evil,
If not good god, good devil.
Goodness! you hypocrite, come out of that,
Live your life, do your work, then take your hat.
I have no patience towards
Such conscientious cowards.
Give me simple laboring folk,
Who love their work,
Whose virtue is song
To cheer God along.

Henry David Thoreau

- Wallace Stevens

In the weed of summer, comes this green sprout why.
The sun aches and ails and then returns halloo
Upon the horizon amid adult enfantillages.

Its fire fails to pierce the vision that beholds it,
Fails to destroy the antique acceptances,
Except that the grandson sees it as it is,
Peter the voyant who says, "Mother what is that" —
The object that rises with so much rhetoric,
But not for him. His question is complete.
It is the question of what he is capable
It is the extreme, the expert aetat. 2.
He will never ride the red horse she describes.

His question is complete because it contains
His utmost statement. It is his own array,
His own pageant and procession and display,

As far as nothingness permits . . . Hear him.
He does not say, "Mother, my mother, who are you,"
The way the drowsy, infant, old men do.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by quasimodo1

To......

MUSIC, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory-
Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

---

It was a pleasure to see this one here. It was, and remains, one of my favorite poems. Of all times. Thanks for posting it. :)

I have been with the trees all day.
I don't think they will remember what I said.
The wind came between us
And we dreamt a little on either side of it
And our dreams may have met.
I think I felt a tremor in the leaves once
While my fingers dreamt of playing them.....
I have been with the trees all day,
Learning to forget.

Now I may go.
I have removed all trace of me.
Where I sat, where I walked, where I slept,
Where a corner I loved resembled me too much,
In my most private places I have set
Something unlike me,
Something to make them strange to themselves again,
Something to make them forget.

With you, I have done none of these things,
Sure if I went out quietly enough
You would not miss me more than yesterday,
Having forgotten so long already
That a parting sign from me
Might make you remember,
Regret my going.

I have picked up
Every bit of me scattered about
And burried all of it.....somewhere....I forget.....
Over the wall!
I am going out
As somebody else!

Laura Riding

It was reading this thread that prompted me to register, such lovely posts here. Needless to say I love poetry. I'd like to add one of my favourite poets as my first post.
"Hello everyone" ;)


Madison Caiwein ~ 1865-1914

FIELD AND FOREST CALL

I

There is a field, that leans upon two hills,
Foamed o'er of flowers and twinkling with clear rills;
That in its girdle of wild acres bears
The anodyne of rest that cures all cares;
Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blent
With fragrance--as in some old instrument
Sweet chords;--calm things, that Nature's magic spell
Distills from Heaven's azure crucible,
And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well.
There lies the path, they say--
Come away! come away!

II

There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams,
Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;
That in its league-long hand of trunk and leaf
Lifts a green wand that charms away all grief;
Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,
Vague, whispering' touches, gleams and twitterings,
Dews and cool shadows--that the mystic soul
Of Nature permeates with suave control,
And waves o'er Earth to make the sad heart whole.
There lies the road, they say--
Come away! come away!

CHILDREN'S PARTY
May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party's over.
Since three o'clock I've done my best
To entertain each tiny guest. My conscience now I've left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me.
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
I kept them from each other's throats. I told them tales of magic lands,
I took them out to wash their hands.
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
I wiped their noses and dried their faces. Of similarities there's lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
I've earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages. Oh, progeny playing by itself
Is a lonely little elf,
But progeny in roistering batches
Would drive St. Francis from here to Natchez. ..........................................{first part of this poem by Ogden Nash}

1845
THE VALLEY OF UNREST

"The Valley of Unrest" was published in an
edition of 1831 under the title, "Valley of Nis." (see below)


Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sunlight lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless-
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye-
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave: — from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep: — from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.


-The End-


[This version of the poem bears only a slight
resemblance to its predecessor "The Valley Nis."]




--------------------------------------------------------------------------


1831
The Valley Nis
by Edgar Allan Poe

Far away — far away —
Far away — as far at least
Lies that valley as the day
Down within the golden east —
All things lovely — are not they
Far away — far away ?

It is called the valley Nis.
And a Syriac tale there is
Thereabout which Time hath said
Shall not be interpreted.
Something about Satan's dart —
Something about angel wings —
Much about a broken heart —
All about unhappy things:
But "the valley Nis" at best
Means "the valley of unrest."

Once it smil'd a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell,
Having gone unto the wars —
And the sly, mysterious stars,
With a visage full of meaning,
O'er the unguarded flowers were leaning:
Or the sun ray dripp'd all red
Thro' the tulips overhead,
Then grew paler as it fell
On the quiet Asphodel.

Now the unhappy shall confess
Nothing there is motionless:
Helen, like thy human eye
There th' uneasy violets lie —
There the reedy grass doth wave
Over the old forgotten grave —
One by one from the tree top
There the eternal dews do drop —
There the vague and dreamy trees

Do roll like seas in northern breeze
Around the stormy Hebrides —
There the gorgeous clouds do fly,
Rustling everlastingly,
Through the terror-stricken sky,
Rolling like a waterfall
O'er th' horizon's fiery wall —
There the moon doth shine by night
With a most unsteady light —
There the sun doth reel by day
"Over the hills and far away."



-The End-

{Two versions of "The Valley of Unrest" by Edgar Allan Poe}

'Love for Marie'
Pierre de Ronsard
Translated From The French by Rosemary Clark
I
If any lover in Anjou pass by
A pine tree overlooking Bourgueil town,
He'd mark, displayed upon its pointed crown,
My freedom, victim of a beauteous eye.
Triumphant Love, who likes my torment well,
Hung it as spoil, to vaunt my servitude
And to proclaim to travellers on the road
That loving's an exquisite prison cell.
Nor could I choose a tree of nobler mark
To hang my poor remains, for such rough bark
On Ida's slopes young Atys' skin encased.
Yet he and I conceived love differently,
For he was smitten by a wrinkled face,
I by a beauty half in infancy.
II
Marie, if men should try to twist your name
They'd find aimer – so love me then, Marie.
Your name requires it . You must loving be;
Refusal would be mortal sin and shame.
If you consent to pledge me all your heart,
I give you mine, and so we shall partake
Of all life's pleasures; and I undertake,
No other fancy shall command my thought. [End Page 167]
Mistress, to love is every mortal's share.
The man who loves not, wretchedly must bear
A Scythian's life, and all his days will spend
Without the sweetness of all sweets the height.
What! Without love, where then lies all delight?
The day I love no more, then may I meet my end.
III
Get up, Marie, you lie in bed too long.
The lark already carols high above
And the nightingale has warbled out her love
Upon the thorn in streams of plaintive song.
Up with you! Come and see the greensward bright
With dewdrops, and your pretty rose-tree crowned
With buds, your dainty pinks that deck the ground
Which with such care you watered late last night.
Last night you swore at bedtime by your eyes
Sooner than I this morning to be dressed,
But the sleep of dawn, which soft on maidens lies,
Holds you in dreams, your lashes still close pressed.
I'll kiss them, so! And your nipple rosy red
A hundred times, to get you out of bed.
IV
Hide your bright horns tonight, indulgent Moon!
So may Endymion, pillowed on your breast,
Be ever loving, ever take his rest,
And no enchanter seek to importune.
Hateful is day to me and night my boon.
By day I feel the threat of watchful eyes;
More bold at nightfall, through the camp of spies
I pass, defended by dusk's gathering gloom.
Moon, you know well how potent is Love's smart,
How Pan for a white fleece could sway your heart,
And pity me, you brilliant stars above;
Look kindly on the flame that burns in me,
And think, you constellations, it was love
That set you there, to shine eternally. [End Page 168] {only part of this long poem}