Blossoms: Poems Archives

September 9, 2008

This morning, the scent of autumn

It is a very crisp morning ~ the slant of sunlight and the fragrance in the air is unmistakably that of autumn. I'm not sure I can let go of summer just yet!

This from one of my favorite poets...

Growth

At what instant does the summer change?
What subtle chemistry of air
and sunlight on the clean and windsmooth sand?
The small birds at the water's edge -
yesterday they were not there.
So suddenly the magic door is shut,
the trio suddenly is done,
the clasped hands inexplicably apart;
however dear, however bright,
the road we traveled on is gone.

Jane Tyson Clement

Posted by Carol at 10:16 AM | Comments (0)

May 26, 2008

In Observance of Decoration Day

In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Inspiration for the Poem
On 2 May, 1915, in the second week of fighting during the Second Battle of Ypres Lieutenant Alexis Helmer was killed by a German artillery shell. He was a friend of the Canadian military doctor Major John McCrae. It is believed that John began the draft for his famous poem 'In Flanders Fields' that evening.

Posted by Carol at 3:16 PM | Comments (0)

December 11, 2007

Spam Poem

This "poem" came along with a spam email for an online drugstore ~ as if adding this would make a person want to place an order?! I wonder if it is a poor translation of a real poem?

A row of country cottages,
but with front walls only.
I stand at the window,
and try to look homely.
Our lives are not our details,
our eyes see not our diaries.
I knew you well with zero tell,
because I only drew the ironies.
Poetry as the frog that cannot jump,
art as the frog that tried.
There is a distance no words can trump,
that anchor of the heard inside.
Like fifteen nuns riding a single motorcycle, on a road trip to find the best printing shop.
I hear physical world maintainers find the go, and spiritual world maintainers find the stop.

Funny thing is, I sort of like this poem:)

Posted by Carol at 9:21 AM | Comments (0)

June 8, 2007

#318 ~ Emily Dickinson

#318

I'll tell you how the Sun rose —
A Ribbon at a time —
The Steeples swam in Amethyst —
The news, like Squirrels, ran —
The Hills untied their Bonnets —
The Bobolinks — begun —
Then I said softly to myself —
"That must have been the Sun"!
But how he set — I know not —
There seemed a purple stile
That little Yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while —
Till when they reached the other side,
A Dominie in Gray —
Put gently up the evening Bars —
And led the flock away —

Posted by Carol at 11:15 AM | Comments (0)

January 26, 2007

Work, when laid aside...

Have been going through the "save pile" and trying to sort out what goes where. I came across the little funeral paper for my Aunt Carol who died last June, so this poem printed there is probably meant more for summertime. It can describe me at any time of the year!

I Meant To Do My Work Today

I meant to do my work today,
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.
And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand,
So what could I do but laugh and go?

Richard LaGalliene

Posted by Carol at 1:58 PM | Comments (1)

December 29, 2006

A favorite poem

Ah, dear friends, dear friends, as years go on
and heads get gray, how fast the guests do go!
Touch hands, touch hands, with those who stay.
Strong hands to weak, old hands to young, around
the Christmas board, touch hands.
The false forget, the foe forgive, for every guest will
go and the fire burn low
and cabin empty stand.
Forget, forgive, for who may say
that Christmas day may ever come
to host or guest again.
Touch hands!

William Henry Harrison Murray (1840-1904)

Posted by Carol at 12:47 PM | Comments (0)

October 27, 2006

Mary Oliver

Hearing Mary Oliver read her own poetry last night at Clowes Hall was fantastic. She is a small, unassuming older lady who seems rather surprised by her success. She has published numerous volumes of poetry, won the Pulitzer Prize and traveled the world presenting her works. While most of her poems are written about the natural world, one that she read last night was not. It started out being about her little dog Percy and ended up stating a very strong political view in a very amusing way! At any rate, Marina, Sharon and I thought she was wonderful!

Posted by Carol at 9:11 AM | Comments (0)

September 13, 2006

Another poem - the beautiful words of Mary Oliver

Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond

As for life
I'm humbled,
I'm without words
sufficient to say

how it has been hard as flint,
and soft as a spring pond
both of these
and over and over,

and long pale afternoons besides,
and so many mysteries
beautiful as eggs in a nest,
still unhatched

though warm and watched over
by something I have never seen—
a tree angel, perhaps,
or a ghost of holiness.

Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
It suffices, it is all comfort—
along with human love,

dog love, water love, little-serpent love,
sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds
flying among the scarlet flowers.
There is hardly time to think about

stopping, and lying down at last
to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
yet to come, when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,

and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
As for death,
I can't wait to be the hummingbird,
can you?

Poem: "Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond" by Mary Oliver from Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays. © Beacon Press.

Posted by Carol at 9:22 AM | Comments (0)

September 11, 2006

September 11

An Early Morning Cafe

One hundred and seven stories into the air
the Windows on the World Cafe
served pate and poached salmon
to diners staring over Manhattan,
but early this September morning,
the sommelier and maitre d'
were still asleep in their faraway flats,
only the sous-chef and banquet staff
had arrived to peel the shrimp,
trim the artichokes and wash
the leaves of the escarole.

Simple work with your mates
in a quiet early morning cafe
is a pleasure: jokes, mild complaining,
a hummed tune or two,
when suddenly a berserk machine
decides to murder a building with fire.
Like a badly shot elephant,
the hundred-and-six stories holding up
your peeling knife and lettuce drier
wobbled and shook a little while,
but when flames melted the bones
it all tumbled down on top of itself
in a gray heap, shrimp,
artichokes, escarole, fifty thousand
bottles of elegant wine,
and you yourself, unless you leapt
out one of the windows of the world
to finish with imaginary wings
the flight to the city of angels.

Ill

Humans so riddled with hate they turned
from men to bombs smashed the girders
under your cafe, though they'd never met you,
to murder you for the glory of God
with your apron still smeared with shrimp guts.
It was always thus. Try to kill an abstraction
by murdering a building from the air,
but all you kill is Bob and Edna
and Sollie and Rodrigo and Mei-Mei.
A building is only a set of artificial legs
to hold up human beings in the air,
and an airplane only a sheet of folded paper.
But fifty thousand bottles of good wine
and a hundred pounds of fresh Gulf shrimp,
and Bob and Edna and all the rest--
that is something real!

If you think you've bagged the one truth
and that truth wants final sacrifice,
then you've stepped outside the human race,
and your plane will not land in heaven
wherever you think it might be.
Heaven is an early morning cafe
wherever you are.

--Bill Holm

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Though born in the middle of the North American continent, Bill Holm is a devotee of islands as well as an essayist, musician, and poet. His books include Eccentric Islands, Coming Home Crazy, The Heart Can Be Filled Anywhere on Earth, The Dead Get By With Everything, and Box-Elder Bug Variations. He is currently working on a collection of essays about contemporary America from the vantage of Iceland. He divides his time between Minneota, Minnesota and Iceland.

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Posted by Carol at 12:41 PM | Comments (0)

June 13, 2006

"What is so rare...

...as a day in June. Then, if ever, come perfect days."

Have been out and about on my daily rounds and added in a trip over to do some library work at church. The weather today is glorious - calm breeze, fresh smell, blue sky, mild temperature - just what the poet Lowell had in mind when he penned those lines. What a wonderful day to be alive and well!

Posted by Carol at 10:45 AM | Comments (0)

April 6, 2006

The Poet/Good Night and Good Luck

Have enjoyed the past two evenings quite alot. At Poetry Plus on Tuesday Gloria finished presenting the program she began last month but had to stop when the church building lost electrical power! It was entitled "The Poet", and she read various poems set against a backdrop of original cello pieces. Just lovely. Then last night, Steve and I watched the Edward R. Murrow tribute "Goodnight and Good Luck". The acting was top notch, and the story was fascinating - it mainly told the story of how the tactics of Sen. Joseph McCarthy (in rooting out the "Communist threat" among U.S. citizens) were exposed on Murrow's news program and how that led to his downfall. Painstakingly restored film of McCarthy hearings were seamlessly woven into the black and white movie. This quote by Murrow, from the filming commentary on the DVD: "Just because your voice reaches halfway around the world doesn't mean you are wiser than when it reached only to the end of the bar." Take that, you Murrow wannabees on TV today!

Posted by Carol at 9:36 PM | Comments (1)

November 6, 2005

November Sneaks Up on Us

With some of my flowers still blossoming, it doesn't really seem like November. Although, last night's storm shook quite a few more leaves off their branches, so I know what my outdoor task will be this week. And also today there was the sad news of the tornado damage to life and property down in southern Indiana.

Here is a somewhat melancholy poem from the Writer's Almanac...

Poem:"Praise Song" by Barbara Crooker. Reprinted with permission of the poet.

Praise Song

Praise the light of late November,
the thin sunlight that goes deep in the bones.
Praise the crows chattering in the oak trees;
though they are clothed in night, they do not
despair. Praise what little there's left:
the small boats of milkweed pods, husks, hulls,
shells, the architecture of trees. Praise the meadow
of dried weeds: yarrow, goldenrod, chicory,
the remains of summer. Praise the blue sky
that hasn't cracked yet. Praise the sun slipping down
behind the beechnuts, praise the quilt of leaves
that covers the grass: Scarlet Oak, Sweet Gum,
Sugar Maple. Though darkness gathers, praise our crazy
fallen world; it's all we have, and it's never enough.

Posted by Carol at 10:46 PM | Comments (0)

November 2, 2005

Simple Words Woo the Heart

Poetry last evening was quite lovely. Sharon Harvey presented poems by the Poet of the People, Edgar Guest! As always she did a lovely job. Sharon's charm is her genuine spirit and deep humility. She just draws me in. The collection she shared were simple yet oft times profound. She had us do a little poetry exercise at the end. It was fun, how nice it is that Sharon helps us to stretch our legs a bit.

Poetry Plus has been quite grand of late. With visiting author and Appalachian Trail Through hiker Jean Deeds sharing her triumphs. And our dear Carol sharing a very professional program on the poetry of Robert Burns presented by no other than a Professional Singer and Entertainer from Scotland. We may be a small, insignificant group of ladies but I dare say we wollup a good punch at creativity when it comes to Poetry Plus.

Posted by Gloria at 2:59 PM | Comments (0)

October 5, 2005

Wendell's View

Today's Writer's Almanac on Public Radio brings this offering from the very astute poet Wendell Berry~

The Future

For God's sake, be done
with this jabber of "a better world."
What blasphemy! No "futuristic"
twit or child thereof ever
in embodied light will see
a better world than this, though they
foretell inevitably a worse.
Do something! Go cut the weeds
beside the oblivious road. Pick up
the cans and bottles, old tires,
and dead predictions. No future
can be stuffed into this presence
except by being dead. The day is
clear and bright, and overhead
the sun not yet half finished
with his daily praise.

~a serious look at what is another "beautiful morning" here in Indianapolis...

Posted by Carol at 10:03 AM | Comments (0)

April 12, 2005

Another Poem

Spring Wedding

I took your news outdoors, and strolled a while
In silence on my square of garden-ground
Where I could dim the roar of arguments,
Ignore the scandal-flywheel whirring round,

And hear instead the green fuse in the flower
Ignite, the breeze stretch out a shadow-hand

To ruffle blossom on its sticking points,
The blackbirds sing, and singing take their stand.

I took your news outdoors, and found the Spring
Had honoured all its promises to start
Disclosing how the principles of earth
Can make a common purpose with the heart.

The heart which slips and sidles like a stream
Weighed down by winter-wreckage near its source -
But given time, and come the clearing rain,
Breaks loose to revel in its proper course.

Andrew Motion, England's Poet Laureate

(Written for the wedding of Charles and Camilla, April 9, 2005)

Posted by Carol at 1:03 AM | Comments (2)

April 2, 2005

Pope John Paul, the poet 1920-2005

Her Amazement at her Only Child

Karol Wojtyla

Light piercing, gradually, everyday events;
a woman's eyes, hands
used to them since childhood.
Then brightness flared, too huge for simple days,
and hands clasped when the words lost their space.

In that little town, my son, where they knew us together,
you called me mother; but no one had eyes to see
the astounding events as they took place day by day.
Your life became the life of the poor
in your wish to be with them through the work of your hands.

I knew: the light that lingered in ordinary things,
like a spark sheltered under the skin of our days --
the light was you;
it did not come from me.

And I had more of you in that luminous silence
than I had of you as the fruit of my body, my blood.

JOHN PAUL II'S CHRISTMAS POETRY
Poem from his 1950 Collection, "The Mother"
(ZENIT - Taken from "Easter Vigil and Other Poems," translated by Jerzy Peterkiewicz.)

Posted by Carol at 11:13 PM | Comments (1)

February 17, 2005

Winter

A thought on my Mary Englebreit daily calendar is very dear I feel, perhaps you would like to read it:

Winter, a lingering season, is a
time to gather golden moments,
embark upon a sentimental journey,
and enjoy every idle hour,
John Boswell

I have been wanting so much to see winter leave and begone and then this dear soul writes something so lovely. I am encouraged to hold onto what is around me and rejoice in the day I am given. Less grumbling and more praise for the sun that warmed this cold, windy day. I think I will be idle tonight and be glad for the soft couch and pretty room, good books to read (from my dear friend Carol) and a magazine or two that takes me into peaceful, colorful, quiet spaces. I may even be able to relax and let winter linger.

Posted by Gloria at 8:03 PM | Comments (1)

February 7, 2005

Take the Time

Actually this is more a thought or two for today:

Everywhere is within walking distance if you have the time.
(Steven Wright)

Interesting thought...I wonder where a walk could take me?

Posted by Gloria at 5:28 PM | Comments (0)

February 2, 2005

A Thankful Beginning!

For each new morning with it's light,
For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food, for love and friends,
For everything thy goodness sends.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Posted by Carol at 11:19 PM | Comments (1)