By ~Dovey
April is the month we celebrate poetry.
Be it known; all here are invited to join me-
Commencement of merriment to last all month long,
Distinguished poets and debutants all belong.
Expect to meet old favorites and make new friends.
Fancy attire not required, the fun never ends.
Geoffrey Chaucer will recite his, "An ABC."
He's sharing his abecedarian tips with me.
Invitations were sent to the poetic greats,
Just imagine conversing with them and their dates.
Keats promised a cameo, his stay might be brief,
Ladies, he's a romantic, though riddled with grief.
Marianne Moore sent in her RSVP, and yet
Now I'm excited, as she and I've never met.
Ogden Nash insists he's just quite ordinary,
People have said he's really extraordinary!
Quietly beautiful; elusive Emily's
Reading her works at the Bash of the Centuries.
So, you'll not want to miss the daily selection,
This poetic party's a wordsmith's perfection.
Unexpected surprises will adorn these works,
Very few of these poets will come without quirks.
With their roads less travelled, as attested by Frost,
Xanadu's attained and paradise is not lost.
Your presence is requested, let me not ask twice,
Ziggy Stardust's on guitar and drinks are on ice.
| Author Notes |
We are celebrating NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month) 2016 is the 20th anniversary of National Poetry Month! As a special tribute I'm hosting this contest, and as you'll read above, the Bash of the Centuries (all poets are invited to attend!)
artwork courtesy of Pixabay As an extra tidbit, throughout the month I'll be featuring guest poets and highlighting their style or taking inspiration from their work. I'd like to introduce you the Abecedarian and Geoffrey Chaucer (1342-1400). Chaucer's most famous work is the epic poem, "The Canterbury Tales," with which you may be familiar. In "The Canterbury Tales," thirty pilgrims entertain each other with their stories on their trek to Canterbury, thus, it is only appropriate that Chaucer lead us on this expedition of poets and poetry. Today I'd like to call your attention to his poem, "An ABC", in which each stanza begins with a subsequent letter of the alphabet (although, he omitted J, U, and W) Definition from Poets.org: The abecedarian is an ancient poetic form guided by alphabetical order. Generally each line or stanza begins with the first letter of the alphabet and is followed by the successive letter, until the final letter is reached. The earliest examples are Semitic and often found in religious Hebrew poetry. The form was frequently used in ancient cultures for sacred compositions, such as prayers, hymns, and psalms. There are numerous examples of abecedarians in the Hebrew Bible; one of the most highly regarded is Psalm 118 (or 119 by King James numbering). It consists of twenty-two eight-line stanzas, one for each letter of the Hebrew alphabet. Chaucer's "An ABC" is an excellent medieval example of the form. He crafted his translation of a French prayer into twenty-three eight-line stanzas that follow the alphabet. Chaucer is also know as "The Knight Poet" and was married to Phillipa de Roet. He is often referred to as the "Father of English Literature," and is credited with introducing hundreds, if not thousands of words to the English language that are commonly used today. He is buried in Westminster Abbey and was the first of the literary greats to be laid to rest in what now is known as, "Poet's Corner." Today Abecedarians are more common in children's poetry, though, there are other more serious works out there, too. The Abecedarian form gave birth to the Acrostic form that is so popular today. |
By ~Dovey
"To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary." Edgar Allan Poe
To Elevate the Soul
The flames of Hell lick at my feet,
Oft form the blisters of defeat.
Emotions plummet in the depths,
Lost love deflowered by regrets.
Expectations have dwindled down,
Vexed by a face that bears a frown.
Assure you now those tides will turn,
The balm of poets eases burn.
Elucidate, so lyrical,
Transformation's spiritual.
Heavenward, as if buoyantly
Erasing scars of treachery.
Sweet sentiment so stirs a soul
One can't deny poetic role.
Until, when next a withered rose
Lets sulphur permeate my nose.
| Author Notes |
The portrait is courtesy of Pixabay
"To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary." Edgar Allan Poe (1809 - 1849) Edgar Allan Poe (1809 - 1849) is known as the "Macabre Poet." Since his reputation is mired in the macabre, I chose to reflect this mood in my acrostic poem. His famous poem, "An Acrostic," is posted below: Elizabeth it is in vain you say "Love not" - thou sayest it in so sweet a way: In vain those words from thee or L. E. L. Zantippe's talents had enforced so well: Ah! if that language from thy heart arise, Breathe it less gently forth - and veil thine eyes. Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried To cure his love - was cured of all beside - His folly - pride - and passion - for he died. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ An acrostic spells a word or phrase by using the first letter of each line. Author's special note: No hearts were broken in the writing of this poem. :) Thank you for joining me in celebrating National Poetry Writing Month! |
By ~Dovey
~Please Read Author's Notes First~
The Brevette:
~Never Forget~
elephants
e p i t o m i z e
memory
The Pictoral:
~Marching Forward~
like the or
elephants joy our
we'll when lovers
never we languished
forget met regret
Mini-Monoverse:
~Love is Blind~
Memories --
blasphemies
of unease
to appease
enemies.
Cluttered mind
unrefined
is maligned.
Intertwined,
Love is blind.
The Musette:
~Insight~
Rejoice
in memory's
kind voice.
Suppose
glasses tinted
sans rose,
abet
even smallest
regret.
Memento:
~April Fools~
In April we celebrate fools
laced within poetry -
Surprise!
I'll be breaking all of the rules
scholars are teaching me --
Revise!
The Tableau:
~Jungle Tableau~
Wrinkled elephants
Trample aggressors,
A fierce lion roars,
Weakest gazelles fall
As hyenas laugh --
The fittest survive.
The Essence:
~Essentially~
In essence, rhyme's absurd
in absence of right word.
The Octelle
~Failing Memory~
By comparison, memory
fails when we become elderly;
while an elephant never
forgets, he will remember
each wrinkle marked on his skin,
be they from frowning or grin.
By comparison, memory
fails when we become elderly.
| Author Notes |
Meet Emily Romano, a contemporary poet and inventor of poetry styles
Emily Romano was born in 1924 and has been married since 1942. She has four daughters. Emily is the originator of eight new poetry forms: Brevette, Essence, Memento, Mini-monoverse, Musette, Octelle, Pictorial, and Tableau. Rules and examples for some of these can be viewed at Shadow Poetry Invented Styles. Emily's poetry awards include selection for the National League of American Pen Women (5); 2005 Gerald Brady Award for Senryu (2); 2005 Anita Sadler Weiss Memorial Award; The Heron's Nest Grand Prize Award; Haiku Headlines Awards; Tanka Society of America Award; Modern Haiku (8 including the Clement Hoyt Memorial Award); The Saigyo Award for Tanka 2008; and many others. She has published over 5000 haiku. (excerpt from dailyhaiga.org) From Shadow Poetry: The Brevette, created by Emily Romano consists of a subject (noun), verb, and object (noun), in this exact order. The verb should show an ongoing action. This is done by spacing out the letters in the verb. There are only three words in the poem, giving it the title Brevette. Each of the three words may have any number of syllables, but it is desirable that the poem have balance in the choice of these words. Unlike haiku, there are no other rules to follow. The Pictorial, created by Emily Romano is a type of shape poem, where the entire poem must be printed in slanting lines indicative of the thought in those lines. The poem should consist of three lines with five words or less per line. There should be rhyme somewhere in the poem, either end rhyme or internal rhyme. The Mini-monoverse is a poetry form originated by Emily Romano. Each Mini-monoverse is made up of two stanzas of five three-syllable lines. The rhyme scheme is a/a/a/a/a for the first stanza and b/b/b/b/b for the second stanza. For a double Mini-monoverse just add two more stanzas. The rhyme scheme for the third stanza should be c/c/c/c/c and for the fourth stanza, d/d/d/d/d. It is desirable that the Mini-monoverse tell a story, but this is not a hard and fast rule. The Musette, created by Emily Romano is a poem that consists of three verses of three lines each. The first lines have two syllables; the second lines have four syllables, and the third lines have two syllables. The rhyme scheme is a/b/a for the first verse; c/d/c for the second verse, and e/f/e for the third verse. The title should reflect the poem's content. Memento, created by Emily Romano is a poem about a holiday or an anniversary, consisting of two stanzas as follows: the syllable count should be 8 beats for line one; 6 beats for line two; and two beats for line three. This is repeated twice for each stanza. The rhyme scheme is: a/b/c/a/b/c for each of the two stanzas. The Tableau, a poetry form created by Emily Romano in October of 2008, consists of one or more verses, each having six lines. Each line should have five beats. There is no set rhyme scheme, although rhyme may be present. The title should contain the word tableau. Since the dictionary states the word tableau means picture or representation, the poem should reflect this. A picture should come to mind as the poem is read. The Essence, created by Emily Romano is a short, structured form of two-lines, six syllables each with an end rhyme and internal rhyme. The Octelle, created by Emily Romano, is a poem consisting of eight lines using personification and symbolism in a telling manner. The syllable count structure for this verse is 8, 8, 7, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8, and the rhyme scheme is aa/bb/cc/aa. The first two lines and the last two lines are identical. artwork courtesy of pixabay I hope you enjoyed this conversation of elephants, memories, and poetry. Party on! April is just beginning! Kim |
By ~Dovey
Fairbanks;This April Snowstorm Contemplating Shutters
Fairbanks;this April snowstorm contemplating shutters
shutters clasped snugly avoiding scene
where yesterday with hopes of spring
snow turns my thoughts to ice,
a fresh blanket of white
accented by frozen footprints from Lily
no not the flower
my poodle
my heart(who hops daintily,
as if a bunny that Easter has left behind)
she barks to hurry herself back inside
teasing spring winked
yesterday!(ice melted from
the eaves in translucent droplets
now hanging daggers with points shimmering in light)while
flowers slumber beneath the snow awhile longer
Night flirts
with dancing auroras
| Author Notes |
E. E. Cummings
American 1894 - 1962 Edward Estlin Cummings, popularly known as E. E. Cummings, with the abbreviated form of his name often written by others in all lowercase letters as e. e. cummings, was an American poet, painter, essayist, author, and playwright. His body of work encompasses approximately 2,900 poems, an autobiographical novel, four plays and several essays, as well as numerous drawings and paintings. He is remembered as a preeminent voice of 20th century poetry, as well as one of the most popular. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ From the "Poet's Corner": e. e. cummings has been dubbed the rule breaker it is recommended to read him in spring after a long, stuffy winter for a breath of fresh air he was fascinated with modern art and admired Picasso "e. e. cummings took all the customs of poetry and the conventions of proper English and turned them on their head. He created his own rules for titles, punctuation, form, and grammar, and not for a lack of education; Cummings grew up in Cambridge, Massachusetts and attended Harvard, where he was an extraordinary student but rebelled against its conservative, academic atmosphere." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Paris;This April Sunset Completely Utters Paris;this April sunset completely utters utters serenely silently a cathedral before whose upward lean magnificent face the streets turn young with rain, spiral acres of bloated rose coiled within cobalt miles of sky yield to and heed the mauve of twilight(who slenderly descends, daintily carrying in her eyes the dangerous first stars) people move love hurry in a gently arriving gloom and see!(the new moon fills abruptly with sudden silver these torn pockets of lame and begging colour)while there and here the lithe indolent prostitute Night,argues with certain houses by e. e. cummings (courtesy of the poetry nook) "Almost anybody can learn to think, or believe, or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. The moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself - in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else - means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight, and never stop fighting." E.E. Cummings (Quote courtesy of Goodreads) The picture is taken from my front door this April morning with our fresh two inches of snow. (Not unusual for Alaska in April, but yesterday it did look like Spring wanted to be sprung) |
By ~Dovey
Arriving at my door,
'twas both treat and delight,
an apparition stepped from time -
Miss Dickinson in white.
Bearing gifts of flowers
and loaves of fresh baked bread,
she acquiesced to recite verse
though crowds were her great dread.
Speculation on life
she declines to speak of,
Though smiles at names - Master and Judge -
alluding to her love.
"FORBIDDEN fruit a flavor has
That lawful orchards mocks;
How luscious lies the pea within
The pod that Duty locks!"
Apologies implied -
naturally elusive,
party guests were overjoyed
by our gem reclusive.
Her graciousness was rich,
rewarding, and yet, brief -
stolen hearts whisked away
by our poetic thief.
Citizens of Amherst
applauded me as host,
sharing letters and poetry
penned by beloved ghost.
| Author Notes |
Picture courtesy of the Amherst College Digital Collection
My inspiration is poetry by Emily Dickinson: Please note above, the red text represents Emily speaking, it is one of her short poems. Although well noted as a recluse, Emily loved gardening, baking, and poetry. She wrote family and friends often and sent them gifts of her flowers and baked treats. It is said that her father would eat no other bread than hers. Upon her death, her sister found 800 of her poems bound in books and stashed away in a trunk. Emily was buried in a white coffin wearing a white dress. (courtesy of bartleby.com) LXXXVII FORBIDDEN fruit a flavor has That lawful orchards mocks; How luscious lies the pea within The pod that Duty locks! --Emily Dickinson LXXIX I YEARS had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there. My business - just a life I left, Was such still dwelling there? I fumbled at my nerve, I scanned the windows near; The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear. I laughed a wooden laugh That I could fear a door, Who danger and the dead had faced, But never quaked before. I fitted to the latch My hand, with trembling care, Lest back the awful door should spring, And leave me standing there. I moved my fingers off As cautiously as glass, And held my ears, and like a thief Fled gasping from the house. --Emily Dickinson Interesting links: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/biography/emily_dickinson_biography https://www.emilydickinsonmuseum.org/ An excerpt from her biography at www.brainyquote.com: Lifestyle and Reputation Dickinson may have suffered from agoraphobia, anxiety, depression, or a combination of those conditions. As she aged she became less and less willing to venture from her home or even from her room. As early as 1867 she began talking to visitors from behind closed doors. People in town saw her rarely, but they noticed that she almost always wore white. They called her the "Queen Recluse," the "partially-cracked poetess," and "the Myth." Dickinson was an enthusiastic gardener and amateur botanist. She wrote, "Nature is our eldest mother, she will do no harm." Dickinson compiled an extensive leather-bound herbarium - a collection of pressed flowers and plants - with 424 specimens. She carefully identified them, using their Latin names. One warm gesture from her father came in the form of a Newfoundland dog, Carlo. Dickinson counted Carlo as one of her closest friends. She wrote, "Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell." She mourned his death in 1866; they had been together for sixteen years. Dickinson loved to bake, especially bread. She saw baking as a loving gesture, a symbol of a happy home. Dickinson's father died suddenly, in 1874. His funeral was held at the Homestead; Dickinson listened from her room with her door cracked open. At about the age of fifty, after her father's death, Dickinson entered into a romantic exchange of letters with Otis Phillips Lord, an elderly judge on the Supreme Court of Massachusetts. In her letters she was flirty, and the judge eventually proposed marriage. In reply Dickinson wrote, "Dont you know you are happiest while I withhold and not confer - dont you know that 'No' is the wildest word we consign to Language?" She was as reluctant to risk a real relationship as she was to use apostrophes. In 1882 Dickinson's mother died, as did Judge Otis Phillips Lord two years later. Worst of all, in 1883 her eight-year-old nephew, Gilbert, whom she loved a great deal, lost his life. After that, Dickinson generally refused to see people, including Gilbert's mother, Susan, her own childhood friend, to whom she had sent more poems than any other individual. Others in her circle of family and friends passed away over the years, and Dickinson felt a cumulative sense of loss from which she felt unable to recover. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. Emily Dickinson Read more at: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/e/emily_dickinson.html |
By ~Dovey
A
country
served by men
protecting their
families back home.
Reinforced threads of steel -
strength woven in the fabric
of the flag to which they have pledged
allegiance, by the women standing
stoically awaiting their safe return.
Stripes dyed red with the blood of men whose lives
were forfeit in the name of freedom.
White stripes streaked with the salt of tears
wept for warriors lost fighting -
for their lives and for ours,
protecting ideals
reknowned true blue --
buried now
beneath
stars
| Author Notes |
Etheree Taylor Armstrong (1918 - 1994) was daughter, sister, wife, and mother to men who served in the military defending the United States of America. Not much is known publically about her life (proof you can't find everything on the internet) and what few details I could glean came from a man who had read her poems. The rest I found in small details etched on gravestones.
In the 1970's she created the Etheree, a ten line format ascending or descending in syllable count from 1 to 10. The Etheree has no set rhyme or meter requirement. As demonstrated above, a double etheree simply reverses the order of the lines. (more examples available at www.shadowpoetry.com) Some of her work is listed below. Ironically, I have "A Walk With Mr. Frost" in my portfolio, too. I believe I would have really liked Etheree Taylor Armstrong. Thank you for reading about Etheree :) Kim ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ To quote Jim Wilson: Today is Etheree Taylor Armstrong Day. She is the poet who created the Etheree syllabic form. I have grown to be very fond of this simple form. I think I now compose poems in this form more often than any other. I think what appeals to me is the simplicity of the form and how agreeable the form is to individual expression. I have found it difficult to find out information about Ms. Armstrong other than the birth and death dates: February 13, 1918 to March 14, 1994. I have noticed on other online sites devoted to poetry that they say the same thing in their sections on the Etheree form. I think this is because Ms. Armstrong was what I call a 'local poet'. That is to say she seems to have been content to write and publish for a local audience. She seems to have lived her whole life in Arkansas and doesn't appear to have been interested in contacting or publishing in a national context. I managed to snag one of her chapbooks when it appeared on amazon. It is called "The Willow Green Of Spring," published in 1967. Most of the poetry is rhymed and there is an emphasis on traditional forms: there is a sonnet and examples of rhymed quatrains. This particular volume does not contain any Etheree as I believe it predates her presentation of the form. The poems reveal a life of deep faith; many of the poems are explicitly religious and others use religious imagery. It also appears that Ms. Armstrong lost her three brothers during their tours of duty in the military and this deeply affected her life and view of the world. I believe that is part of the reason that there are included in this collection some strongly patriotic poems. Interestingly, the work contains two Haiku: SPRING HAIKU Violets duck their heads, as daisies count "He loves me, he loves me not." SUMMER HAIKU Summer hibiscus; southern belles gowned in red flame with hummingbird hats. Personally, I don't find these as successful as her other, more traditional, efforts in this collection. But it does show an awareness on Ms. Armstrong's part of Haiku in the west; remember this was published in 1967 when Haiku societies were still being established. I don't know if she was in touch with the new Haiku societies. If anyone has information about this I would like to hear from you. I am speculating that Haiku was her door to a syllabic approach to poetry because almost all the other poems in this collection are metrical. Haiku may have been her way of uncovering the potential for a syllabic approach which eventually lead to the Etheree form. She was aware of a range of modern poetry. Here is her poem for T. E. Elliot: Your kinship spans eternal bridges; conformity to things commonplace is a rocker for unfinished dreams. And here is a poem titled "KINDRED SPIRIT" about Robert Frost: Old clothes and shoes and a summer rain; A wobbledy calf, and a country lane. We gathered apples, both soon and late; We made repairs on the pasture gate. A crooked trail and a low-flung ridge Led us down to the low-water bridge- Where willow trees are old and mossed; I have walked this day with Robert Frost. Notice how both poems reflect the styles of the poets that are the topic of the poems. I hope to learn more about Etheree Taylor Armstrong. But for today I'll close with one of her poems that I enjoyed: AS IT STANDS I should cut that vine away from the tree, And trim the branches so we could "see" - The vine must be thirty feet long; But where would the poet get his song? Where would the Cardinal build his nest? Without the vine where would he rest? How can anyone honestly say - They can improve nature anyway? http://shapingwords.blogspot.com/2012/03/etheree-taylor-armstrong-day.html |
By ~Dovey
These woods, alive in dead of night,
The moon, o'erhead is bold and bright,
Where wolves still howl out on the loose,
Fur shimmers in the silv'ry light.
They stalk the wild and noble moose,
Amongst the cold and frozen spruce,
Fresh footprints in new fallen snow,
Will follow creek to gold-filled sluice.
This land where ice blue glaciers flow,
Auroras dance in stunning show,
Where mountains tower, straight and tall,
Forget-me-nots did bloom and grow.
The wild will howl so heed its call,
As mercury begins to fall,
Alaska simply has it all,
Alaska simply has it all.
| Author Notes |
The picture is of the Aurora Borealis (Northern Lights) in Alaska.
My thanks to Craig for his input and for helping me keep my iambs straight ;) I have long been an admirer of Frost. He loved New England as much as I love Alaska and it appears throughout his poetry. One of my favorite titles by Robert Frost is, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," (from which I patterned the poem above, in iambic tetrameter): "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost (1874-1963) Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep. Other favorites of mine include "Birches," "Nothing Gold Can Stay," and "The Road Not Taken." He served as a Poet Laureate for the United States and was the first poet to recite one of his poems at a Presidential Inauguration, for John F. Kennedy in 1961. from (poets.org) As inauguration day approached, however, Frost surprised himself by composing a new poem, "Dedication" (later re-titled "For John F. Kennedy His Inauguration"), which he planned to read as a preface to the poem Kennedy requested. But on the drive to the Capitol on January 20, 1961, Frost worried that the piece, typed on one of the hotel typewriters the night before, was difficult to read even in good light. When he stood to recite the poem, the wind and the bright reflection of sunlight off new fallen snow made the reading the poem impossible. He was able, however, to recite "The Gift Outright" from memory. Robert Frost (1874 - 1963) (an excerpt from his biography on Poets.org) Though his work is principally associated with the life and landscape of New England - and though he was a poet of traditional verse forms and metrics who remained steadfastly aloof from the poetic movements and fashions of his time - Frost is anything but merely a regional poet. The author of searching and often dark meditations on universal themes, he is a quintessentially modern poet in his adherence to language as it is actually spoken, in the psychological complexity of his portraits, and in the degree to which his work is infused with layers of ambiguity and irony. |
By ~Dovey
Walk with me, as I did in childhood holding my father's hand, spurring love,
Explore nature's colossal glory, revering this land, securing love.
The Great One -- no problem could compare in size or formidability,
Denali captivates at a glance, haunting memory, alluring love.
Snow-capped through ever changing seasons, a constant source of strength and beauty,
Teaching the virtues of patience, clear vision through the clouds, recurring love.
From youth, growing amid the birch and fireweed instills maturity,
Staying to build a life and family; security inferring love.
Bitter cold on dark nights biting through goose down parkas, blinded by blizzards,
Ensuing storms cast doubt, weathering months of sub-zero temps blurring love.
Emerging from the dark skies The Bear leads to Polaris - a stalwart guide,
Aurora proves a most flirtatious, yet rewarding partner, stirring love.
Lingering memories of long winters fade in light of summer solstice,
Dove's white feathers amongst ravens glint in the Midnight Sun, enduring love.
| Author Notes |
This is my first Ghazal. They are meant to be an Ode or Love Poem with Middle Eastern origins.
Rumi (1207 - 1273) has been so widely translated that he is actually, based on widespread popularity, the most read/recited poet in the United States, according to poet, Coleman Barks, who has dedicated decades translating Rumi's work, as well as deriving works of his own poetry based on Rumi's influence. Picture courtesy of Pixabay. The Bear refers to Ursa Major (Big Dipper) and Polaris is the North Star. A Ghazal is a poem that is made up like an odd numbered chain of couplets, where each couplet is an independent poem. It should be natural to put a comma at the end of the first line. The Ghazal has a refrain of one to three words that repeat, and an inline rhyme that precedes the refrain. Lines 1 and 2, then every second line, has this refrain and inline rhyme, and the last couplet should refer to the author's pen-name... The rhyming scheme is AA bA cA dA eA etc. (Shadowpoetry.com) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I've only seen one other Ghazal poem on FanStory, and ironically, it seems that Sandra and I were working on them simultaneously, as hers is posted in the NaPoWriMo challenge today. You'll find hers here, along with notes on the style: Be Patient With Your Partner by Sandra du Plessis http://www.fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?id=803278 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (An excerpt from Poets.org) Traditionally invoking melancholy, love, longing, and metaphysical questions, ghazals are often sung by Iranian, Indian, and Pakistani musicians. The form has roots in seventh-century Arabia, and gained prominence in the thirteenth- and fourteenth-century thanks to such Persian poets as Rumi and Hafiz. In the eighteenth-century, the ghazal was used by poets writing in Urdu, a mix of the medieval languages of Northern India, including Persian. Among these poets, Ghalib is the recognized master. Other languages that adopted the ghazal include Hindi, Pashto, Turkish, and Hebrew. The German poet and philosopher Goethe experimented with the form, as did the Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca. Indian musicians such as Ravi Shankar and Begum Akhtar popularized the ghazal in the English-speaking world during the 1960s. However, it was the poet Agha Shahid Ali who introduced it, in its classical form, to Americans. Ali compared each ghazal couplet to "a stone from a necklace," which should continue to "shine in that vivid isolation." Ali's ghazal "Even the Rain" is excerpted here: What will suffice for a true-love knot? Even the rain? But he has bought grief's lottery, bought even the rain. "our glosses / wanting in this world - "Can you remember?" Anyone! when we thought / the poets taught - even the rain? After we died -That was it! God left us in the dark. And as we forgot the dark, we forgot even the rain. Drought was over. Where was I? Drinks were on the house. For mixers, my love, you'd poured - what? even the rain. Numerous scholars and poets have attempted to translate ghazals from their original language to English. The task is daunting, as keeping the literal meaning of each poem while respecting the rhyme, refrain, and length of lines is difficult, if not impossible. Aijaz Ahmad's Ghazals of Ghalib; Versions from the Urdu, provides a fascinating look at how various poets, including Adrienne Rich, William Stafford, William Hunt, David Ray, and W.S. Merwin, worked with a literal translation of Ghalib's Urdu ghazals to render their own versions in English. Elizabeth T. Gray's The Green Sea of Heaven, which offers fifty ghazals by Hafiz, provides a reliable literal translation of the Persian master, at the expense of form. Interesting Link on the origin of the Ghazal: http://www.ghazalpage.net/prose/notes/short_history_of_the_ghazal.html (An excerpt from Poemhunter.com) You And I (A Ghazal Of Rumi) - Poem by Ravi Kopra Joyous, blissful moment, sitting on the porch, you and I two forms, two faces, yet one soul together, you and I The groves' gift, the birds' songs give us the water of ever lasting life, when we come to the garden together, you and I The stars of the night sky witness us we show them the moon together, you and I You and I united as one in the ecstasy and delight cast aside absurd stories and nonsense, you and I The parrots of the sky eat sugar when we're in the veranda, laughing together, you and I How amazing we're here this moment in this corner yet we're also together in IrĂ??q and KhorĂ??sĂ??n, you and I We're in one form on the earth and in another in the everlasting land of honey - the paradise, you and I Note: This translation is based on the following translation by Ibrahim Gamard and Ravan Farhadi at http: //www.dar-al-masnavi.org/gh-2214.html *** That moment (is) joyous and blessed when we are sitting (together) in the veranda, you and I; with two forms and faces, (yet) with one soul, you and I. The gifts of the orchard and the speech of the birds will offer (us) the Water of (Eternal) Life (at) the moment when we come into the garden, you and I. The stars of the (night) sky will come as our observers, (and) we will reveal the moon itself to them, you and I. You and I, devoid of 'you' and 'I' due to extreme joy and delight, will be united (in friendship): (we will be) happy and without concern about absurd stories and distracting nonsense you and I. All the parrots of the sky will be (happily) chewing sugar in a place where we will laugh in such a way, you and I. This is (even) more astonishing: that you and I (are) in one corner here, (yet) in this moment we are both in `IrĂ??q and KhorĂ??sĂ??n, you and I. (We have) one form on this earth and another form on that (world) in everlasting Paradise and the (Home) Land of Sugar, You and I. |
By ~Dovey
~Please Read Author's Notes
The Secrets of Thomas Hardy
Hardy arrived in style,
To dally for a while,
His date -- mademoiselle -
Who's Amabel?
Her beauty and her grace,
Not just a pretty face,
Cast captivating spell,
Sweet Amabel.
Her youth's crowning glory,
Scandalized this story,
Though, he'd not kiss and tell
Of Amabel.
Perhaps, it was his age,
That put them center stage,
A hard thought to dispel,
Why, Amabel?
For money or for love,
The speculation was,
Too hot a tale to quell,
For Amabel.
Couldn't have been bolder,
Glimpsing her fair shoulder,
She's lithe as a gazelle,
Fey Amabel.
A butterfly tattoo,
Most certainly taboo,
A temptress sent from Hell?
Nay, Amabel!
As gossip's tongues will wag,
"A Siren or a Hag?"
This party's blonde bombshell -
Ms. Amabel.
| Author Notes |
I am hosting the Poetry Bash of the Centuries for this NaPoWriMo Challenge. In the spirit of the party, this poem is a tongue and cheek look at Thomas Hardy, based on his notorious reputation for relationships with younger women throughout his life. I could find nothing in his history to tell me who Amabel might be, and used his poem lamenting her death as my inspiration for this piece. No disrespect to Amabel or Thomas Hardy intended. This one is just a bit of party fun, we all know how people like to speculate and gossip. Keep reading for actual insight into his poetry and his life.
Thomas Hardy wrote 947 Poems and is considered one of the most prolific writers of his time. I chose "Amabel" for my inspiration: Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928). From Wessex Poems and Other Verses. 1898. Amabel I MARKED her ruined hues, Her custom-straitened views, And asked, "Can there indwell My Amabel?" I looked upon her gown, Once rose, now earthen brown; The change was like the knell Of Amabel. Her step's mechanic ways Had lost the life of May's; Her laugh, once sweet in swell, Spoilt Amabel. I mused: "Who sings the strain I sang ere warmth did wane? Who thinks its numbers spell His Amabel?"-- Knowing that, though Love cease, Love's race shows undecrease; All find in dorp or dell An Amabel. --I felt that I could creep To some housetop, and weep, That Time the tyrant fell Ruled Amabel! I said (the while I sighed That love like ours had died), "Fond things I'll no more tell To Amabel," "But leave her to her fate, And fling across the gate, 'Till the Last Trump, farewell, O Amabel!'" (Excerpts from Thomas Hardy's biography, www.poetryfoundation.org) Hardy was notorious for his relationships with younger women throughout his life, and he married Florence Dugdale, a woman almost 40 years his junior, shortly after Emma's death. (Emma was his first wife, to which he seemed to carry much guilt after her death, over acting indifferent to her much of their marriage.) Hardy's long career spanned the Victorian and the modern eras. He described himself in "In Tenebris II" as a poet "who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst" and during his nearly 88 years he lived through too many upheavals - including World War I - to have become optimistic with age. Nor did he seem by nature to be cheerful: much of the criticism around his work concerns its existentially bleak outlook, and, especially during Hardy's own time, sexual themes. Incredibly prolific, Hardy wrote fourteen novels, three volumes of short stories, and several poems between the years 1871 and 1897. Hardy's great novels, including Tess of the D' Urbervilles (1891) and Jude the Obscure (1895), were all published during this period. They both received negative reviews, which may have led Hardy to abandoning fiction to write poetry. Though frequently described as gloomy and bitter, Hardy's poems pay attention to the transcendent possibilities of sound, line, and breath - the musical aspects of language. As Irving Howe noted in Thomas Hardy, any "critic can, and often does, see all that is wrong with Hardy's poetry but whatever it was that makes for his strange greatness is hard to describe." Hardy's poetry, perhaps even more so than his novels, has found new audiences and appreciation as contemporary scholars and critics attempt to understand his work in the context of Modernism. But Hardy has always presented scholars and critics with a contradictory body of work; as Jean Brooks suggests in Thomas Hardy: The Poetic Structure, because Hardy's "place in literature has always been controversial, constant reassessment is essential to keep the balance between modern and historical perspective." Virginia Woolf, a visitor to Max Gate, noted some of Hardy's enduring power as a writer: "Thus it is no mere transcript of life at a certain time and place that Hardy has given us. It is a vision of the world and of man's lot as they revealed themselves to a powerful imagination, a profound and poetic genius, a gentle and humane soul." When Hardy died in 1928, his ashes were deposited in the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey and his heart, having been removed before cremation, was interred in the graveyard at Stinsford Church where his parents, grandparents, and his first wife were buried. |
By ~Dovey
To find an idyll was my quest,
Bowed to a fickle turn of fate,
Instead, I'd find the perfect guest,
May not be the one you await.
Spent time perusing Tennyson,
For King Arthur I've long adored.
In England -- he's a denizen,
But, to be honest, I was bored.
As poets go, I know I'll find,
My choices could have been much worse,
He barged in with his lengthy lines,
Engulfed my mind with his blank verse.
His flourish with the pen and sword,
Alas, left me at an impasse.
I woke myself, afraid I'd snored,
And stumbled on to something crass.
At first I thought it tribute fare,
Titled, "Alfred Lord Tennyson" --
'Twas Dorothy Parker standing there,
Brutally honest and genuine.
To quote her here, I simply must,
And hope she'll come at my behest,
To think of all the guts she'll bust --
She's the ultimate party guest!
"Should Heaven send me any son,
I hope he's not like Tennyson.
I'd rather have him play a fiddle
Than rise and bow and speak an idyll."
I find my mind is now awake,
This celebration's on the rise,
Of course, he'll stay, for Classic's sake --
But, Parker's poems are my new prize!
To Tennyson I'll apologize,
And dispel all thought of rumor,
For the scene tonight I'll idealize
Is rife with party drinks and humor.
| Author Notes |
Inspiration: I was researching Idylls and read some works from Tennyson, then discovered Dorothy Parker's poem (likely mislabeled as an idyll) titled, "Alfred Lord Tennyson." It was then I was inspired. Blame it on my Muse ;)
I also read Siegfried Sassoon's (1886 - 1967) "Idyll" and found it to be an enjoyable example of the type of idyll which depicts a peaceful, idealized country scene. http://www.poetrysoup.com/siegfried_sassoon/biography "If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of "The Elements of Style." The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they're happy."---Dorothy Parker (1893 - 1967) "That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone - Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment."---Dorothy Parker (1893 - 1967) Alfred Lord Tennyson Should Heaven send me any son, I hope he's not like Tennyson. I'd rather have him play a fiddle Than rise and bow and speak an idyll. by Dorothy Parker Lines On Reading Too Many Poets Roses, rooted warm in earth, Bud in rhyme, another age; Lilies know a ghostly birth Strewn along a patterned page; Golden lad and chimbley sweep Die; and so their song shall keep. Wind that in Arcadia starts In and out a couplet plays; And the drums of bitter hearts Beat the measure of a phrase. Sweets and woes but come to print Quae cum ita sint. by Dorothy Parker Quae cum ita sint translated: That being the case Ballade at Thirty-five This, no song of an ingenue, This, no ballad of innocence; This, the rhyme of a lady who Followed ever her natural bents. This, a solo of sapience, This, a chantey of sophistry, This, the sum of experiments, -- I loved them until they loved me. Decked in garments of sable hue, Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents, Wearing shower bouquets of rue, Walk I ever in penitence. Oft I roam, as my heart repents, Through God's acre of memory, Marking stones, in my reverence, "I loved them until they loved me." Pictures pass me in long review,-- Marching columns of dead events. I was tender, and, often, true; Ever a prey to coincidence. Always knew I the consequence; Always saw what the end would be. We're as Nature has made us -- hence I loved them until they loved me. by Dorothy Parker (An excerpt from poetrysoup.com) Sarcastic, raw and deep describe many of Dorothy Parker's satirical poems, short stories, articles and journalism pieces. Legacy Dorothy was a true leader for women, writers, thinkers and activists. She definitely walked the walk. She courageously survived many losses in her life, lived on both American coasts, traveled extensively and had a robust personal and professional life. Her prolific collection of her work is innovative and creative and continues to show incredible genius and imagination to writers today. Although for Parker life was a constant transition of ups and downs, she had the consistency of her talent and voice to pull her through, even the darkest of times. "The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity." http://www.poetrysoup.com/dorothy_parker/biography Equal billing must go to Alfred Lord Tennyson: By definition, Idyll is poetry that either depicts a peaceful, idealized country scene or a long poem telling a story about heroes of a bye gone age. Prime examples: "Ulysses" and "Idylls of the King" by Alfred Lord Tennyson Alfred Lord Tennyson was Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1850Ă?¢??1892 and is one of the most popular English poets. He lived from 6 August 1809 - 6 October 1892. Idylls of the King, published between 1859 and 1885, is a cycle of twelve narrative poems by the English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 - 1892; Poet Laureate from 1850) which retells the legend of King Arthur, his knights, his love for Guinevere and her tragic betrayal of him, and the rise and fall of Arthur's kingdom. The whole work recounts Arthur's attempt and failure to lift up mankind and create a perfect kingdom, from his coming to power to his death at the hands of the traitor Mordred. Individual poems detail the deeds of various knights, including Lancelot, Geraint, Galahad, and Balin and Balan, and also Merlin and the Lady of the Lake. There is little transition between Idylls, but the central figure of Arthur links all the stories. The poems were dedicated to the late Albert, Prince Consort. The Idylls are written in blank verse. Tennyson's descriptions of nature are derived from observations of his own surroundings, collected over the course of many years. The dramatic narratives are not an epic either in structure or tone, but derive elegiac sadness in the style of the idylls of Theocritus. Idylls of the King is often read as an allegory of the societal conflicts in Britain during the mid-Victorian era. (Wikipedia.org) |
By ~Dovey
| Author Notes |
The Joseph's Star, a poetry form created by Christina R Jussaume on 08/06/07 in memory of her Dad. This poem has no rhyme, and is written according to syllable counts. Syllables are 1, 3, 5, 7, 7, 5, 3, and 1. The poem may be written on any subject, be center aligned, has no stanza limit, and should have complete statements in each line.
Please join us in celebrating the 20th anniversary of National Poetry Writing Month! All of these poets have accepted the challenge to post a poem a day for the entire month of April ~ either officially or unofficially. Thank you for reading and reviewing their poems. Each and every one is making an awesome effort! By the end of the month we'll have added 550+ new poems to the FanStory site! That is what I call celebrating poetry in style! :) Thank you for reading us! You are invited to join the party, too! Kim |
By ~Dovey
~Please read author's notes on katauta and sedoka Japanese poetry forms
~katauta - breath~
night breeze steals my breath -
observed in requiescence
you breathe once, I am alive
~sedoka - two breathe~
I feel you watching
aware, yet still I slumber -
your blue eyes reflect moonlight
night breeze steals my breath -
observed in requiescence
you breathe once, I am alive
| Author Notes |
Picture courtesy of Pixabay
Japanese poetry forms: katauta and sedoka Katauta The Katauta is an unrhymed japanese form consisting of 17 or 19 syllables. The poem is a three-lined poem the following syllable counts: 5/7/5 or 5/7/7. The Katauta form was used for poems addressed to a lover. A single katauta is considered incomplete or a half-poem, however, a pair of katautas using the syllable count of 5,7,7 is called a sedoka. (shadowpoetry.com) Sedoka The Sedoka is an unrhymed poem made up of two three-line katauta with the following syllable counts: 5/7/7, 5/7/7. A Sedoka, pair of katauta as a single poem, may address the same subject from differing perspectives. A katauta is an unrhymed three-line poem the following syllable counts: 5/7/7. Sedoka is often deemed a conversation between lovers, with the first katauta being answered by the second katauta. (shadowpoetry.com) I've read that it is usually the man who initiates, but have seen examples written with the female initiating the conversation. ~Dovey Examples and a good article explaining history and form can be found here: http://kujakupoet.blogspot.com/2006/06/sedoka-examples.html "It should be noted that the katauta are NOT haiku -- they predate haiku by at least a thousand years and were often folksongs or even things approaching free verse." M. Kei |
By ~Dovey
I can't say quite how bad it sounds-
My dear old husband sleeps around.
When out on our last date,
He passed out in his plate,
All the patrons stared and they frowned.
When the waiter served second course --
I nudged him, he awoke with such force,
His jerk launched his drink,
My face just turned pink,
He ordered dessert sans remorse.
This 'black tie' affair, turning grayer,
I wished I'd married a bricklayer.
I urged him, "We should go."
But he, of course, said no,
"That's just nonsense, dear, I'm the Mayor."
| Author Notes |
No apologies to my husband, James, needed... this is pure fiction and fun!
Picture courtesy of Pixabay Limerick (courtesy of shadowpoetry.com) A Limerick is a rhymed humorous or nonsense poem of five lines which originated in Limerick, Ireland. The Limerick has a set rhyme scheme of : a-a-b-b-a with a syllable structure of: 9-9-6-6-9. The rhythm of the poem should go as follows: Lines 1, 2, 5: weak, weak, STRONG, weak, weak, STRONG, weak, weak, STRONG, weak, weak Lines 3, 4: weak, weak, STRONG, weak, weak, STRONG, weak, weak This is the most commonly heard first line of a limerick: "There once was a man from Nantucket." variations: 88558 or 99669 syllables, with the only difference being the number of dahs as the start of each line. http://www.grammarly.com/blog/2015/five-most-famous-limericks-and-their-histories/ (Find the first Nantucket Limerick here, and some funny other reading) Edward Lear's first influential limerick collection, A Book of Nonsense, hit bookstore shelves nearly 200 years ago. Lear didn't invent the limerick, however; the snappy five-line poems probably sprang to life on the streets and in the taverns of 14th century Britain. Over time, people from all walks of life - children, scholars, drunks, beggars - have delighted in the witty limerick. (courtesy of Poets.org) Book of Nonsense, 1, 10 & 11 Edward Lear, 1812 - 1888 . 1. There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said, "It is just as I feared!-- Two Owls and a Hen, Four Larks and a Wren, Have all built their nests in my beard!" 10. There was an Old Man in a tree, Who was horribly bored by a Bee; When they said, "Does it buzz?" He replied, "Yes, it does! "It's a regular brute of a Bee!" 12. There was a Young Lady whose chin, Resembled the point of a pin: So she had it made sharp, And purchased a harp, And played several tunes with her chin. |
By ~Dovey
Talking Sports and Writing with Marianne Moore
She stepped from the turn of the century,
not this one, the last,
in her trademark black cape and tricorn hat,
distinguished in her stature,
independent in her style.
It was then I knew we had to talk awhile.
We exchanged a smile and formalities,
no conversational abnormalities, just talk --
of sports, writing, and other endeavors.
We spent an enjoyable hour or two together.
Miss Moore, do tell, I know you're passionate for baseball.
How is it that you relate sports to writing at all?
Of course, my own passion is for hockey, to be sure.
(You should see me at games, quite animated!)
I fully understand the competitive allure.
Do you suppose such antics make us fanatics?
"Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting
and baseball is like writing.
You can never tell with either
how it will go
or what you will do;
generating excitement--
a fever in the victim--
pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.
Victim in what category?
Owlman watching from the press box?
To whom does it apply?
Who is excited? Might it be I?"
Like the perfect pass of the puck,
stick to stick, right on the tape --
nowhere for the goalie to escape;
right about then he must think he's stuck
one on one -- in the shooting gallery -
the winger dekes and zings the puck
top shelf past his ear -- heart and soul
on the line for that goal; no fear!
"They are subjects for art or exemplars of it, are they not?
I don't know how to account for a person
who could be indifferent to the miracles of dexterity,
a certain feat by Don Zimmer -- a Dodger at the time --
making a backhand catch,
of a ball coming hard from behind on the left,
fast enough to take his hand off."
Poetry in motion is the art of sport -- there's that one spot
in the season, on ice or pitcher's mound, no worse than
a loss on the line, ambivalent to the odds -- the purity
when the stars will align to stage a play at just the right time --
that save comes in the clutch,
the crowd is electric... the Governor's Cup or the Pennant;
that one moment in time is enough -- even better if you win it!
Our chat, both athletic and poetic,
reminiscent of the past,
when Marianne tossed in the first pitch that
set the Yankees in motion in '68, she'd thrive -
so alive, her poem the projectile in '55,
she challenged the Brooklyn Dodgers to win it --
published in The Times, the year they won the Pennant!
We exchanged a smile and formalities,
no conversational abnormalities, just talk --
of sports, writing, and other endeavors.
I'll never forget the time we spent together.
| Author Notes |
Picture caption and credit: I, too, throw it: Marianne Moore tossing out the first ball, opening day at Yankee Stadium. Photo: Bob Olen, 1968. Marianne Moore Collection, Rosenbach Museum & Library, Philadelphia. (found in Google Public Domain)
Her style of poetry: Some is rhymed couplets such as, "Hometown Piece for Messrs. Alston and Reese." This was written for the 1955 Brooklyn Dodgers and published on the front page of the New York Times. This poem is found in The Complete Poems of Marianne Moore. Copyright Ă?© 1961 Marianne Moore. Her other poems I found to be more of a 'conversational free verse'. I will tease you with just the ending of her 1919 poem, simply titled, "Poetry," in hopes that you will be intrigued enough to go and read it for yourselves. (excerpt courtesy of poets.org) "In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, you are interested in poetry." My "party" conversation with Marianne Moore constructed from my imagination, inspired by (and quoting) her poem, "Baseball and Writing," quotes by her and other facts I read in her biographies. (I spent a lot of time with her today, much to my pleasure.) My part of the "conversation" is in gold and hers is in blue. Consider the verses in black commentary and setting by myself, the author of this piece. Interesting reading: Baseball and Writing by Nancy Knutson The Iowa Review Vol. 17, No. 3 (Fall, 1987), pp. 164-166 Published by: University of Iowa http://www.jstor.org/stable/20156471 (courtesy of poets.org) https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/marianne-moore (her biography is great!) Baseball and Writing Marianne Moore, 1887 - 1972 . (Suggested by post-game broadcasts) Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting and baseball is like writing. You can never tell with either how it will go or what you will do; generating excitement - a fever in the victim - pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter. Victim in what category? Owlman watching from the press box? To whom does it apply? Who is excited? Might it be I? It's a pitcher's battle all the way - a duel - a catcher's, as, with cruel puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly back to plate. (His spring de-winged a bat swing.) They have that killer instinct; yet Elston - whose catching arm has hurt them all with the bat - when questioned, says, unenviously "I'm very satisfied. We won." Shorn of the batting crown, says, "We"; robbed by a technicality. When three players on a side play three positions and modify conditions, the massive run need not be everything. "Going, going . . . " Is it? Roger Maris has it, running fast. You will never see a finer catch. Well . . . "Mickey, leaping like the devil - why gild it, although deer sounds better - snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest, one-handing the souvenir-to-be meant to be caught by you or me. Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral; he could handle any missile. He is no feather. "Strike! . . . Strike two!" Fouled back. A blur. It's gone. You would infer that the bat had eyes. He put the wood to that one. Praised, Skowron says, "Thanks, Mel. I think I helped a little bit." All business, each, and modesty. Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer. In that galaxy of nine, say which won the pennant? Each. It was he. Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws by Boyer, finesses in twos - like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre- diagnosis with pick-off psychosis. Pitching is a large subject. Your arm, too true at first, can learn to catch your corners - even trouble Mickey Mantle. ("Grazed a Yankee! My baby pitcher, Montejo!" With some pedagogy, youĂ?¢??ll be tough, premature prodigy.) They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees. Trying indeed! The secret implying: "I can stand here, bat held steady." One may suit him; none has hit him. Imponderables smite him. Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds require food, rest, respite from ruffians. (Drat it! Celebrity costs privacy!) Cow's milk, "tiger's milk," soy milk, carrot juice, brewer's yeast (high-potency- concentrates presage victory sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez - deadly in a pinch. And "Yes, it's work; I want you to bear down, but enjoy it while you're doing it." Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain, if you have a rummage sale, don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh. Studded with stars in belt and crown, the Stadium is an adastrium. O flashing Orion, your stars are muscled like the lion. From The Complete Poems of Marianne Moore. Copyright Ă?© 1961 Marianne Moore |
By ~Dovey
No rhyme or reason to his light verse
No set syllables, yet, what's worse --
There's really just no telling
What words he's misspelling --
No doubt he's witty
And somewhat brash --
Humorist
Ogden
Nash
| Author Notes |
Frederic Ogden Nash (August 19, 1902 - May 19, 1971) was an American poet best known for writing pithy and funny light verse. At the time of his death in 1971, the New York Times said his "droll verse with its unconventional rhymes made him the country's best-known producer of humorous poetry".
Poetry examples by Ogden Nash and his biography courtesy of poetrysoup.com Written by Ogden Nash | The Firefly The firefly's flame Is something for which science has no name I can think of nothing eerier Than flying around with an unidentified glow on a person's posteerier. Written by Ogden Nash | Oh To Be Odd! Hypochondriacs Spend the winter at the bottom of Florida and the summer on top of the Adirondriacs. You go to Paris and live on champagne wine and cognac If you're dipsomognac. If you're a manic-depressive You don't go anywhere where you won't be cheered up, and people say "There, there!" if your bills are excessive. But you stick around and work day and night and night and day with your nose to the sawmill. If you're nawmill. Note: Dipsomaniac -- alcoholic On the Nonet: (courtesy of shadowpoetry.com) A nonet has nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second line eight syllables, the third line seven syllables, etc... until line nine finishes with one syllable. It can be on any subject and rhyming is optional. line 1 - 9 syllables line 2 - 8 syllables line 3 - 7 syllables line 4 - 6 syllables line 5 - 5 syllables line 6 - 4 syllables line 7 - 3 syllables line 8 - 2 syllables line 9 - 1 syllables |
By ~Dovey
Your kindred soul links to me
Through pursuits of poetry.
Almost twice your tender years,
I wish you'd lived long as your peers.
I both regard and respect
The work you've composed, and yet,
I lament loss and wish for more,
Gone at just one plus twenty-four.
What of the works left to write?
They dance in my dreams at night.
Titles written on blank pages,
Fragments writ in stilted stages.
Whisper them into my ear,
I'll channel Keats for all to hear.
Live to pursue your lost dreams,
I'll scribble them on pristine reams.
It will be just like you heard,
Way back when poetic word
From bards of passion and of mirth
Whisked words on wing back down to earth.
Glorious fountain of your youth
Bubbling with wisdom, forsooth,
God left this debt in arrears,
By plucking you in early years.
But who'd blame him for that choice?
He claimed a muse with golden voice,
To grace his table as he dines,
And sips with prophets sweetest wines.
Pray tell, what manna, in his haste,
Was taken, hence we long to taste,
Upon our meek and mortal plane,
God sent to your cold grave in vain.
What words do I yet long to hear,
I beg you, whisper in my ear,
From your perch, on lofty wing,
Share the view, whence angels sing.
Your kindred soul links to me
Through pursuits of poetry.
I'm almost twice your tender years,
And long to walk amongst your peers.
| Author Notes |
An Ode is a poem praising and glorifying a person, place or thing. John Keats (1795 - 1821) Keats was 25 when he died of tuberculosis. Read his biography here: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/john-keats The angel in this picture (courtesy of Pixabay) reminded me of the picture of John Keats from his bio. I was inspired by the odes Keats wrote to several poets he admired, and by the poem posted below particularly. Ode Poem by John Keats Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Have ye souls in heaven too, Double lived in regions new? Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon; With the noise of fountains wound'rous, And the parle of voices thund'rous; With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease. Seated on Elysian lawns Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns; Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth; Philosophic numbers smooth; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries. Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away. Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new! John Keats |
By ~Dovey
Reflection
In
Symmetry
perfection in imagery -
entrance Soul's inward glance
shimmering magically --
~Inspired~
magically shimmering -
glance inward, Soul's entrance --
imagery in perfection -
Symmetry
In
Reflection
| Author Notes |
Picture courtesy of Pixabay
Palindrome Poetry (in the style of word unit poetry) Source: (shadowpoetry.com) Also Known as Mirrored Poetry A palindrome, by definition, is a word, phrase, verse, sentence, or even poem that reads the same forward or backward. It stems from the Greek word palindromos: palin, meaning again, and dromos, meaning a running. Combining the two together, the Greek meaning gives us, running back again... Examples of famous Palindromes: (One line sentences in the true form of Palindromes) Source: http://realchange.org/pal/authors.htm John Taylor, "The Water Poet" "Lewd did I live, & evil I did dwel." 1614 (An interesting article about John Taylor: http://theshakespeareblog.com/2012/07/john-taylor-the-water-poet/) Leigh Mercer "A man, a plan, a canal: Panama" 1948 (source: O.V. Michaelsen) "Straw? No, too stupid a fad. I put soot on warts." "Sums are not set as a test on Erasmus." Peter Hilton, British code-breaker on the team that solved the Enigma code "Doc, note. I dissent. A fast never prevents a fatness. I diet on cod." 1943 (Source: "The Codebreakers") Alastair Reid, British poet "T. Eliot, top bard, notes putrid tang emanating, is sad. I'd assign it a name: gnat dirt upset on drab pot toilet." 1960 (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/alastair-reid) J. A. Lindon "Cigar? Toss it in a can. It is so tragic." "Dennis and Edna sinned" "Lager, sir, is regal." |
By ~Dovey
My pleasure's to write poetry
which springs from well inside of me.
It brings me joy to try new styles,
spectrum transformed to rainbow smiles.
In fountain spray my thoughts fly free,
my pleasure's to write poetry.
Emotions high, of bliss or rage,
words fall like droplets on the page.
Scholars won't need to analyze,
the meaning's plain, no hidden guise.
My pleasure's to write poetry,
revealing secret sides of me.
Formalities, I'll not asperse,
might shy away from metered verse,
immersed in its simplicity,
my pleasure's to write poetry.
| Author Notes |
Picture courtesy of Pixabay
Quatern (Source: shadowpoetry.com) A Quatern is a sixteen line French form composed of four quatrains. It is similar to the Kyrielle and the Retourne. It has a refrain that is in a different place in each quatrain. The first line of stanza one is the second line of stanza two, third line of stanza three, and fourth line of stanza four. A quatern has eight syllables per line. It does not have to be iambic or follow a set rhyme scheme. For another example of a Quatern: Source: Writer's Digest http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/poetic-forms/types-of-poetry-forms-quatern The Oxford Dictionary definition of Poetry: Literary work in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature. The Oxford Dictionary definition of Verse: Writing arranged with a metrical rhythm, typically having a rhyme. Notes of Interest: Of the 42 types listed at Shadow Poetry under Traditional Poetry, 6 types are metered (ie; iambic pentameter), 32 are syllabic oriented styles, and 4 are optional (poet's choice) Courtesy of Wikipedia: Syllabic verse is a poetic form having a fixed or constrained number of syllables per line, while stress, quantity, or tone play a distinctly secondary role - or no role at all - in the verse structure. It is common in languages that are syllable-timed, such as Japanese or modern French or Finnish - as opposed to stress-timed languages such as English, in which accentual verse and accentual-syllabic verse are more common. Thus syllabic technique does not - in English - convey a metrical rhythm; rather it is a compositional device: primarily of importance to the author, perhaps noticed by the alert reader, and imperceptible to the hearer. A number of English-language poets in the Modernist tradition experimented with syllabic verse. These include Marianne Moore, Dylan Thomas, Louis Zukofsky, Kenneth Rexroth and Thom Gunn. Some more traditional poets have also used syllabics, including Elizabeth Daryush and Robert Bridges whose "Testament of Beauty" is the longest syllabic poem in English. Dylan Thomas's "In my Craft or Sullen Art" is an example of syllabic verse in English: it has seven syllables in each line (except the last), but no consistent stress pattern. (Example is below) In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms, I labour by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or the strut and trade of charms On the ivory stages But for the common wages Of their most secret heart. Dylan Thomas |
By ~Dovey
"Silence is more musical than any song." - Christina Rossetti (1830 -- 1894)
Silence -- more musical than any song,
it's up before I dress to greet the morn,
and beckons me from sleep to dance along,
Sun's peeking in, I'm torn --
to linger 'tween the sheets is my delight,
the Sandman sprinkled dust in sweet repose,
it's time for me to bid adieu to night,
rhythm's tingling my toes.
The words to sing lie dormant in my brain,
I want to join in silent harmony --
to rise up from my bed is such a strain,
still Silence teases me --
The peeking Sun has made a suitor's bid,
To call me from the comfort of my bed,
I'm giddy now, just like a little kid;
should I choose Sun instead?
A fickle turn of fate will hold my bliss,
as chirping birds steal sweet Silence away,
Spring timely sneaks to steal a morning kiss,
my heart, indeed, he'd sway.
With ring of daisies, Spring, he did propose,
His gallant words of love still fill my head,
I'll sing with him the song each lover knows,
in April we'll be wed.
Songbirds will come in chorus just to sing,
our wedding will be held by mountain stream,
I rise wearing a smile, betrothed to Spring,
truth revealed in a dream.
| Author Notes |
Picture courtesy of Pixabay
A Quatrain poem 10, 10, 10, 6 Christina Rossetti (1830 - 1894) Considered to be one of the most important 19th century English women poets, Christina Rossetti was believed by many critics to be the greatest female poet of the Pre-Raphaelite movement following the death of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Born in London on December 5, 1830 Christina was the youngest of four children born to Italian parents. Her father, Gabriele Rossetti, was also a poet who had been exiled from Abruzzo after supporting the revoked Constitution, while her brother, Dante, was an influential poet and artist and her other siblings, William and Marie, were writers. Today, she is still regarded as one of the top 19th century poets. (The remainder of her bio is available at poetrysoup.com) The basic themes of Christina's poems were spirituality and faith, the seasons and nature, and death. This is not uncommon for the poets of her time period. She has been compared to Emily Dickinson and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. "Spring Revealed" is a bit of fancy on my part. Christina actually turned down all of her suitors and never married. An Apple-Gathering I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple tree And wore them all that evening in my hair: Then in due season when I went to see I found no apples there. With dangling basket all along the grass As I had come I went the selfsame track: My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass So empty-handed back. Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by, Their heaped-up basket teazed me like a jeer; Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky, Their mother's home was near. Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full, A stronger hand than hers helped it along; A voice talked with her thro' the shadows cool More sweet to me than song. Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth Than apples with their green leaves piled above? I counted rosiest apples on the earth Of far less worth than love. So once it was with me you stooped to talk Laughing and listening in this very lane: To think that by this way we used to walk We shall not walk again! I let my neighbours pass me, ones and twos And groups; the latest said the night grew chill, And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews Fell fast I loitered still. Christina Rossetti |
By ~Dovey
Power, greed, and hunger feed on mankind -
his primal urge, propensity for war.
Could wisdom not change countenance to peace?
Recounts of atrocities line our books,
what foolishness, this legacy we breed -
today we forge our future history.
It's no mystery what our history
foretells - how clear the failings of mankind
will propagate as populations breed.
Learned lessons from before could end all war,
if only we'd embrace what's writ in books -
how changed our world would look in light of peace.
Our coffers would grow rich with boon of peace,
within our grasp, this turn to history,
a poet's inspiration to pen books;
a facelift for the beauty of mankind,
extinguishing the anguish of all war --
the birth upon this Earth of a new breed.
With seeds of love, perpetuate this breed,
like Phoenix rise, promoting a new peace
to ease within us memories of war --
world hope renewed will amend history,
and quell the primal urge of mankind --
let joy prevail and tell the tale in books.
Not products of ones and zeroes, but books,
restoring tactile link to a lost breed -
to read - and educate all of mankind,
perhaps, to find their key to inner peace.
What joy to read of future history
not littered with a legacy of war.
The knowledge we now possess of world war
we've learned, if we take heed from scholar's books --
reward their diligence -- change history!
Embracing such a concept, as to breed
intelligence is our true path to peace.
What else could possibly save all mankind?
Alleviate our need to make war and breed
a world of books - written in the name of peace -
purge the blood of History's hands from mankind.
| Author Notes |
Picture Courtesy of Pixabay
The sestina is a strict ordered form of poetry, dating back to twelfth century French troubadours. It consists of six six-line (sestets) stanzas followed by a three-line envoy. Rather than use a rhyme scheme, the six ending words of the first stanza are repeated as the ending words of the other five stanzas in a set pattern. The envoy uses two of the ending words per line, again in a set pattern. (Courtesy of Shadow Poetry) First stanza, ..1 ..2 ..3 ..4 ..5 ..6 Second stanza, ..6 ..1 ..5 .. 2 ..4 ..3 Third stanza, ..3 ..6 ..4 ..1 ..2 ..5 Fourth stanza, ..5 ..3 ..2 ..6 ..1 ..4 Fifth stanza, ..4 ..5 ..1 ..3 ..6 ..2 Sixth stanza, ..2 ..4 ..6 ..5 ..3 ..1 Concluding tercet: middle of first line ..2, end of first line ..5 middle of second line ..4, end of second line..3 middle if third line ..6, end of third line ..1 Famous poets who have written Sestinas include Ezra Pound, Dante Alighieri, Francesco Petrarch, Rudyard Kipling, Elizabeth Bishop, Sir Walter Raleigh, Robert Francis, Donald Justice, David Lehman, and Ella Wheeler Wilcox. This was my first attempt at a Sestina. For comparison, I will give you a much better rendition, in the work of Ezra Pound (1885 - 1972) His being in answer to a work by Dante Alighieri. Ezra Weston Loomis Pound was an expatriate US poet and critic who was a major figure in the early modernist movement. His contribution to poetry began with his development of Imagism, a movement derived from classical Chinese and Japanese poetry, stressing clarity, precision and economy of language. (See complete bio: http://www.poetrysoup.com/ezra_pound/biography) Today, I am happy to have conveyed my message in my first sestina. I will spend a lifetime striving to achieve Pound's eloquence with imagery. I hope you will enjoy this selection. :) Kim Sestina: Altaforte LOQUITUR: En Bertans de Born. Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife. Eccovi! Judge ye! Have I dug him up again? The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur. "The Leopard," the device of Richard Coeur de Lion. I Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace. You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music! I have no life save when the swords clash. But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson, Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing. II In hot summer I have great rejoicing When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace, And the lightning from black heav'n flash crimson, And the fierce thunders roar me their music And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing, And through all the riven skies God's swords clash. III Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash! And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing, Spiked breast to spiked breat opposing! Better one hour's stour than a year's peace With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music! Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson! IV And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson. And I watch his spears through the dark clash And it fills all my heart with rejoicing And pries wide my mouth with fast music When I see him so scorn and defy peace, His long might 'gainst all darkness opposing. V The man who fears war and squats opposing My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson But is fit only to rot in womanish peace Far from where worth's won and the swords clash For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing; Yea, I fill all the air with my music. VI Papiols, Papiols, to the music! There's no sound like to swords swords opposing, No cry like the battle's rejoicing When our elbows and swords drip the crimson And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash. May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!" VII And let the music of the swords make them crimson! Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash! Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!" by Ezra Pound |
By ~Dovey
| Author Notes |
Today I am pondering the suicides of three poetesses. I would like to thank Cat for the inspiration to this piece... this piece is in response to her post, "What's Wrong with Ted?" http://www.fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?hd=1&id=802766
I'd like to wish Cat a huge thank you for loving this piece so much that you would help promote it! :) I appreciate your enthusiastic support! In the spirit of originality, I've added one more poetess to the story, Sara Teasdale (1884 - 1933) who committed suicide at the age of 48. I have done this by quoting, in italics, from the works of Teasdale (in blue) and Plath (in red), interspersed with my poetic story (in black), in a combination of quatrain and villanelle styles. You will notice the changing rhyme scheme in the quatrains to indicate Teasdale's part, and the ghost of Plath influencing Wevill through her lines in the villanelle. Judging by Teasedale's poetry (I will post some below) and accounts I have read about her, she was a very lonely soul. She was the first Pulitzer Prize winner for Poetry in 1918, ironically, for her 1917 collection titled, "Love Songs." She was married from 1914 to 1929. All reports were that it was a happy marriage, but she was lonely because her husband was always away on business. She left the state of New York for three months (to divorce him) and returned to live only a few blocks away. She committed suicide in 1933. I believe her and Sylvia Plath would have been kindred spirits. Perhaps, in death, she and Plath have become friends. Assia Wevill- (May 15, 1927 -March 23, 1969) was a German-born woman who escaped the Nazis at the beginning of World War II and emigrated to Mandate Palestine, then later Great Britain, where she had a relationship with the English poet Ted Hughes. Wevill was married to her third husband, David Wevill, when she began her affair with Ted. She killed herself and Hughes's four-year-old daughter Alexandra Tatiana Elise (nicknamed "Shura") in a fashion similar to that of Sylvia Plath, who six years earlier had also committed suicide, by use of a gas oven. Speculation is that after six years she came to the conclusion that Ted Hughes was not going to marry her. She felt that her daughter would become a "second class citizen," in the Hughes family (after she was dead) so she chose to keep "Shura" with her into death. Sylvia Plath- October 27, 1932 -February 11, 1963) was an American poet, novelist, and short-story writer. Born in Boston, Massachusetts, she studied at Smith College and Newnham College at the University of Cambridge, before receiving acclaim as a poet and writer. She married fellow poet Ted Hughes in 1956; they lived together in the United States and then the United Kingdom, and had two children, Frieda and Nicholas. Plath was clinically depressed for most of her adult life. She died by suicide in 1963. Ted Hughes- (17 August 1930 -28 October 1998) was an English poet and children's writer. Critics frequently rank him as one of the best poets of his generation, and one of the twentieth century's greatest writers. He served as Poet Laureate from 1984 until his death. In 2008, The Times ranked Hughes fourth on their list of "The 50 greatest British Writers since 1945." Selections of poetry for Sara Teasdale and Sylvia Plath: Alone I am alone, in spite of love, In spite of all I take and give - In spite of all your tenderness, Sometimes I am not glad to live. I am alone, as though I stood On the highest peak of the tired gray world, About me only swirling snow, Above me, endless space unfurled; With earth hidden and heaven hidden, And only my own spirit's pride To keep me from the peace of those Who are not lonely, having died. Sara Teasdale After Death Now while my lips are living Their words must stay unsaid, And will my soul remember To speak when I am dead? Yet if my soul remembered You would not heed it, dear, For now you must not listen, And then you could not hear. Sara Teasdale Immortal So soon my body will have gone Beyond the sound and sight of men, And tho' it wakes and suffers now, Its sleep will be unbroken then; But oh, my frail immortal soul That will not sleep forevermore, A leaf borne onward by the blast, A wave that never finds the shore. Sara Teasdale Mad Girl's Love Song A Villanelle by Sylvia Plath I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.) The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.) God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan's men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.) |
By ~Dovey
Alaskan true will share with you his year,
So be assured his attitude's matured.
Sit right down here and join him for a beer,
Lest you might think his reasoning's absurd.
Alaskans will affirm our four seasons,
If you must know, there are, so don't forget.
My husband, though, says - for his own reasons -
That there are only two, so place your bet.
As seasons go, I'll have you know, there's two.
It's April now, I'm gathering my gear,
I'm soon to put away my gold and blue,
And stock the boat with fishing poles and beer.
The midnight sun stays high up in the sky,
With no regret, our lines get wet -- no sleep!
Red salmon grilled - and halibut we fry -
The ones that are too little, we don't keep.
As you must know our summers here are short,
That's fine by me, though temp'ratures are nice,
Come August I'll be watching the reports,
Store gear when forecast turns to snow and ice.
It's then, when freezer's full, and set for cold,
The studded tires get put back on my truck,
It's time for me to don the blue and gold,
Pull out my skates and wait for that first puck.
Have you guessed what seasons you've been missing?
Caught up in summer, winter, spring, and fall --
My two seasons are hockey and fishing --
They last all year and sure do beat them all!
The Sourdoughs will let you know, or bust,
What wood to chop, what you need for tinder-
Our seasons are June, July, and August,
All other months, there's a chance it's winter.
| Author Notes |
Introducing the party guests... Pictured is my date, better known as my husband, James. He (along with John Updike's sports related poetry) is my inspiration for today. James is the character in my poem who is speaking in blue. Read more about John Updike below. They should be fun guests for our Poetry Bash of the Centuries! :)
James and I have been avid Alaska Nanook Hockey fans (that is the UAF college hockey team) for many years and as of this season, have adopted the NHL St. Louis Blues as our team. (Fortunately, the colors for the Blues are also blue and gold! One of our former Nanook hockey players is enjoying a stellar rookie season as a defenseman for the Blues. They are currently in the playoffs! Goooo Blues!) In the summer we love to go camping and fishing. We love living in Alaska! John Updike (1932 - 2009) (excerpts from poemhunter.com) Updike is one of only three authors (the others were Booth Tarkington and William Faulkner) to win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction more than once. He published more than twenty novels and more than a dozen short story collections, as well as poetry, art criticism, literary criticism and children's books. Hundreds of his stories, reviews, and poems appeared in The New Yorker, starting in 1954. He also wrote regularly for The New York Review of Books. His work has attracted a significant amount of critical attention and praise, and he is widely considered to be one of the great American writers of his time. Updike's highly distinctive prose style features a rich, unusual, sometimes arcane vocabulary as conveyed through the eyes of "a wry, intelligent authorial voice" that extravagantly describes the physical world, while remaining squarely in the realist tradition. He described his style as an attempt "to give the mundane its beautiful due." The Sometime Sportsman Greets the Spring - Poem by John Updike When winter's glaze is lifted from the greens, And cups are freshly cut, and birdies sing, Triumphantly the stifled golfer preens In cleats and slacks once more, and checks his swing. This year, he vows, his head will steady be, His weight-shift smooth, his grip and stance ideal; And so they are, until upon the tee Befall the old contortions of the real. So, too, the tennis-player, torpid from Hibernal months of television sports, Perfects his serve and feels his knees become Sheer muscle in their unaccustomed shorts. Right arm relaxed, the left controls the toss, Which shall be high, so that the racket face Shall at a certain angle sweep across The floated sphere with gutty strings- an ace! The mind's eye sees it all until upon The courts of life the faulty way we played In other summers rolls back with the sun. Hope springs eternally, but spring hopes fade. |
By ~Dovey
Fickle muse, Hope's a lady in disguise,
Chameleon who saunters out from night -
Impassioned, she will tease and tantalize,
Remove the shades of doubt before your eyes,
Spur victory in face of any plight.
Fickle muse, Hope's a lady in disguise.
Lion's roar, bravely will she energize,
To earn the prize set just beyond your sight.
Impassioned, she will tease and tantalize,
Soft as a feathered dove to soothe your cries,
And bearer of most decadent delight.
Fickle muse, Hope's a lady in disguise,
Chase her dreams, as children capture fireflies,
Spread your wings, and with her courage take flight,
Impassioned, she will tease and tantalize,
Her nature's such, to doubt is just unwise,
So follow her into the dawning light,
Fickle muse, Hope's a lady in disguise,
Impassioned, she will tease and tantalize.
| Author Notes |
Artwork courtesy of Pixabay
(description courtesy of Shadow Poetry) A Villanelle is a nineteen-line poem consisting of a very specific rhyming scheme: aba aba aba aba aba abaa. The first and the third lines in the first stanza are repeated in alternating order throughout the poem, and appear together in the last couplet (last two lines). One of the most famous Villanelle is "Do not go Gentle into that Good Night" by Dylan Thomas. (See Below) (An excerpt from Wikipedia) The villanelle has no established meter, although most 19th-century villanelles have used trimeter or tetrameter and most 20th-century villanelles have used pentameter. Slight alteration of the refrain line is permissible. Despite its classification and origin as a French poetic form, by far the majority of villanelles have been written in English.[6] Subsequent to the publication of Theodore de Banville's treatise on prosody "Petit trait de poesie francaise" (1872), the form became popularised in England through Edmund Gosse and Austin Dobson.[13] Gosse, Dobson, Oscar Wilde, Andrew Lang and John Payne were among the first English practitioners - theirs and other works were published in Gleeson White's Ballades and Rondeaus, Chants Royal, Sestinas, Villanelles, &c. Selected (1887), which contained thirty-two English-language villanelles composed by nineteen poets. Most modernists disdained the villanelle, which became associated with the overwrought formal aestheticism of the 1890s, i.e., the decadent movement in England. In his 1914 novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce includes a villanelle written by his protagonist Stephen Dedalus. William Empson revived the villanelle more seriously in the 1930s, and his contemporaries and friends W. H. Auden and Dylan Thomas also picked up the form. Dylan Thomas's "Do not go gentle into that good night" is perhaps the most renowned villanelle of all. Theodore Roethke and Sylvia Plath wrote villanelles in the 1950s and 1960s, and Elizabeth Bishop wrote a particularly famous and influential villanelle, "One Art," in 1976. The villanelle reached an unprecedented level of popularity in the 1980s and 1990s with the rise of the New Formalism. Since then, many contemporary poets have written villanelles, and they have often varied the form in innovative ways; in their anthology of villanelles (Villanelles), Annie Finch and Marie-Elizabeth Mali devote a section entitled "Variations on the Villanelle" to such innovations Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on that sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas |
By ~Dovey
A child wandered in the woods;
Wondering many things, caught up in the wonder of it all;
What would she glean from that day, that moment in time, from morning to afternoon?
How would it shape her journey on this path called life?
What would she carry with her, or leave behind? There was so much to learn.
Nature walks became part of this child's day,
She first noticed the pussy willows bloom in spring, their fuzziness like a soft kitten's fur, so different from a leaf,
There were eggs in a nest, her father cautioned her not to touch, just watch from day to day to see what happened - oh the wonder of it all,
The fireweed, first short, then growing taller as the days progressed, tall but without blooms. Watch, he said, see what you'll learn as summer days grow long.
There were the trees with strong branches, perfect for climbing, if she dared and no one was watching - what fun!
And there was grass to tickle her toes as she ran barefoot in the field, her oneness with nature, the best part of the day.
Then one day the eggs hatched, it was a glorious wonder, baby birds, and that meant new life, if only she could touch;
She knew better, she'd been told -- if you handle the babies the mother will reject them, they will die without their mother to nurture them, give them food and shelter,
Handling them would not be good.
The fireweed had started to bloom, but curiously, only from the bottom. Magenta blossoms burst forth like flames;
Across her path a rabbit hopped, a worthy distraction on a summer's day,
She paused to watch a mama moose cross the slough with her calf, she knew to keep her distance, but they were fun to watch,
Sometimes she'd meet friends who'd challenge her to climb a tree or run a race, those were wonderful, carefree days.
Some days the family would drive to town, it was growing up around her, even at that tender age she could see,
Stores sprang up where once there were woods - with luck, progress wouldn't take her precious trees and meadow.
Where would she walk barefoot then?
She had parents now,
But, had she been like the baby birds in the nest? She knew that she had been born in a big city far away.
There were no memories from then, or of the mother who had given her life,
The parents she called mom and dad had given her a home at three days old.
They gave her freely of their love, they moved away and made a home, whisked away from the big city she had wilderness to explore, each and every day.
Sometimes they would visit the big city, but she was always happy to return to her precious woods and small home.
She lived in the land of the midnight sun where the sun stayed up all night long.
This city was a foreign place, it was summer and dark at night, she cried because she didn't understand - It was so much better to be home.
They were a family.
The land of the Midnight Sun - it was here that she learned of Mother Nature;
The one that nurtured her sense of adventure, who revealed new wonders on her path every day;
The one her father had taught her to love and respect, just as she would love and respect her own parents;
Love and respect are important in a family, every day,
She shared those adventures with her own mother, the one who had chosen her to be her own daughter, the one who had chosen to love and nurture her as if from her own flesh.
Whether it was a chance encounter with a porcupine, best to keep a safe distance and avoid the quills -- or the randomness of crossing paths with a bear upon the road, fortunately, from the safety of the old station wagon, she and her mother shared their adventures, as gifts from Mother Nature.
The baby birds eventually left the nest and were learning to fly,
The fireweed blooms, halfway up from the bottom now.
There were frogs and grasshoppers to catch, butterflies and dragonflies to chase across the field,
There were mountains in the distance, streams to wade in with pant legs rolled to the knees, even when the water was icy cold, the mud squished between her bare toes,
She learned that the frogs had grown from tadpoles, and the silvery fish had grown from hatchlings in the spring, summer was cresting and the days would soon diminish, minute by minute, growing shorter,
The fireweed had bloomed all the way to the top, what a glorious blaze of color in the field.
She learned that it would soon go to seed, turn white and blow like cotton in the wind, then Mother Nature would let it return again, reborn in spring.
The cotton in the wind, like the snow that it foretold in six weeks time, so the Native stories go, they too revere Mother Nature and treat her with respect, we should learn from them.
Termination dust blankets the mountains, quietly, frost sneaks in to replace the morning dew,
It is just a matter of time, the birds fly in V-formations, gathering their families to migrate to their winter homes, nurtured by the wisdom of Mother Nature.
The midnight sun yields to the onset of long nights, where the mercury dips below the zero line;
She danced to the same tune as the Northern Lights as they streaked playfully across the sky, so trusting of Mother Nature that she would fall straight back in the snowbank and make snow angels as she gazed up at the Big Dipper.
There was much to learn for the child who wandered in the woods, they are as much a part of her as she is them, all nurtured by the same mother.
That child was me, won't you please show respect to my family?
Consider me the sister you never knew, as Mother Nature knows no strangers, every child belongs to her, and she to them.
Will you embrace her, too?
| Author Notes |
The picture is one I took of a field of fireweed, one of my favorite Alaskan flowers.
In tribute to Earth Day 2016 and Walt Whitman... Walter "Walt" Whitman (1819 -1892 was an American poet, essayist and journalist. A humanist, he was a part of the transition between transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works (excerpt from Wikipedia) My poem is inspired by Walt Whitman's, "There Was A Child Went Forth." He released his iconic work, "Leaves of Grass," in many revisions throughout his lifetime. It was quite the controversial work for his time. "There Was A Child Went Forth" is in his collection from 1900 if you are interested in reading, it is my favorite work of his. He is considered one of the most prolific writers in the shaping of American poetry, one of the first to toss out the conventions of European poets and write free verse. Some considered him the father of free verse, even though it wasn't his invention. |
By ~Dovey
Eulogy:
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate an EXTRAORDINARY life...
An electric word life, IT means forever, and that's what we just got cheated of...
I'm here to tell you... we want to be WITH YOU in the afterworld...
A world of never ending songs playing in our heads, ROUND AND ROUND, day and night...
EYE NO that IT'S GONNA BE LONELY to DANCE ON bravely without you...
We are STILL WAITING for RESOLUTION... Let us begin with a song...
PURPLE RAIN Reprise
The world all over now is filled with sorrow
The world all over now is filled with pain
We want just one more time to see you playing
Just one more time let us see you
Playing in the purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Ease our pain, ease our pain
Purple rain, purple rain
We only want to see you
Waving in the purple rain
We never ever wanted to discover
This hole that even time will never mend
Our farewell just became forever
When the angels swooped in to descend
Purple rain, purple rain
Ease our pain, ease our pain
Purple rain, purple rain
We only want to see you
As tears release the purple rain
We know, we know, we know
Our lives are changing
What can we do?
We are SO BLUE...
Our hearts are drawn together
These scars too deep to be defined
The world all seems to show it
Our hearts abide in the purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
We always knew what you were singing about
Our hearts wear your brand
Purple rain, purple rain
We only want to see you
Only want to see you
In soothing purple rain
As You Step ~ INTO THE LIGHT ~ In Tribute
STILL WOULD STAND ALL TIME to match your STYLE,
To make us swoon, UNDER THE CHERRY MOON,
AN HONEST MAN, who lived a life worthwhile,
Our VENUS DE MILO, just gone too soon.
THUNDER abated, YOU PLAY IN THE SUNSHINE,
As the CRYSTAL BALL reflects ONE OF YOUR TEARS,
MOUNTAINS crumble, PLANET EARTH is redefined,
Your GUITAR silenced well before its years.
SOMETIMES IT SHOWS IN APRIL imagery,
That ELEPHANTS AND FLOWERS will survive,
I WILL say GOODBYE, in POSITIVITY,
Your DMSR memory stays alive.
One of THE BEAUTIFUL ONES, CRAZY YOU;
Who sang THE BALLAD OF DOROTHY PARKER,
A kindred poet with a DELIRIOUS view,
Your LITTLE RED CORVETTE will wow her!
You two, unique as STARFISH AND COFFEE
Will be FOREVER IN MY LIFE, FOR YOU, my
Prince, are ONE OF US, in a DREAM FACTORY,
Where DIAMONDS AND PEARLS, like tears in my eye
Shimmer, THE HOLY RIVER reflecting the sky,
Lamenting your WHITE MANSION --
WHEN DOVES CRY...
So do I.
| Author Notes |
This picture says "Purple Rain" to me... a flower for his grave.
There are 44 song titles listed in bold and italics in lavender font. Dedicated to the man who forever will be Prince... Prince Rogers Nelson was (1958 - 2016) an American singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, record producer, and actor. Prince was renowned as an innovator, and was widely known for his eclectic work, flamboyant stage presence, and vocal range. (source: Wikipedia) Song (shadowpoetry.com) A Song is an expression of a poet's personal emotions, meant to be sung. Lyrics in a song contain verses (lines that make up a song; sung poem) and a chorus (a repeating verse in a song (refrain). |
By ~Dovey
What comes to mind when e'er you speak of Yeats --
Of poetry in rows and rows of books,
Discovery which warrants second looks,
The fire lit for discussion and debates.
Embrace descriptions - his Ireland, so green,
Where faery folk bewilder and beguile,
Of Innisfree, the picture perfect isle,
So vivid in the mind - though yet unseen.
Of people he encountered on the way,
The lives he touched, so bright and full of grace,
Poetic genius, none since would displace --
Oh, to have lived and met him in his day.
| Author Notes |
This picture of Ireland courtesy of Pixabay
His love of Ireland is a strong element and reminds me of how I feel about Alaska. William Butler Yeats (1865 - 1939) was an Irish poet and playwright, and one of the foremost figures of 20th century literature. A pillar of both the Irish and British literary establishments, in his later years he served as an Irish Senator for two terms. Yeats was a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival and, along with Lady Gregory, Edward Martyn, and others, founded the Abbey Theatre, where he served as its chief during its early years. In 1923 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature as the first Irishman so honoured for what the Nobel Committee described as "inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation." Yeats is generally considered one of the few writers who completed their greatest works after being awarded the Nobel Prize; such works include The Tower (1928) and The Winding Stair and Other Poems (1929). Yeats is generally considered one of the twentieth century's key English language poets. He was a Symbolist poet, in that he used allusive imagery and symbolic structures throughout his career. Yeats chose words and assembled them so that, in addition to a particular meaning, they suggest other abstract thoughts that may seem more significant and resonant. His use of symbols is usually something physical that is both itself and a suggestion of other, perhaps immaterial, timeless qualities. Unlike other modernists who experimented with free verse, Yeats was a master of the traditional forms. The impact of modernism on his work can be seen in the increasing abandonment of the more conventionally poetic diction of his early work in favour of the more austere language and more direct approach to his themes that increasingly characterises the poetry and plays of his middle period, comprising the volumes In the Seven Woods, Responsibilities and The Green Helmet. His later poetry and plays are written in a more personal vein, and the works written in the last twenty years of his life include mention of his son and daughter, as well as meditations on the experience of growing old. (excerpts from poemhunter.com) When You Are Old - Poem by William Butler Yeats WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. |
By ~Dovey
| Author Notes |
On the 7th of May, James and I will be celebrating our 21st wedding anniversary. I wrote this poem for him in the style of a poem written by Marya Zaturenska, for her husband and poet, Horace Gregory.
Marya Zaturenska (September 12, 1902 - January 19, 1982) was an American lyric poet, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1938. She was born in Kiev and her family emigrated to the United States, when she was eight and lived in New York. Like many immigrants, she worked in a clothing factory during the day, but was able to attend night high school. She was an outstanding student and won a scholarship to Valparaiso University; she later transferred to the University of Wisconsin - Madison, receiving a degree in library science. She met her husband, the prize-winning poet Horace Gregory there; they married in 1925. Her two children were Patrick and Joanna Gregory. She wrote eight volumes of poetry, including the Pulitzer Prize-winning Cold Morning Sky, and she edited six anthologies of poetry. Her work appeared in The New York Times and Poetry Magazine. (excerpt from Wikipedia) If you would like to read her other poetry, you'll find it listed at allpoetry.com and you may read about her husband and poet, Horace Gregory, here: http://pennyspoetry.wikia.com/wiki/Horace_Gregory Reflections on a Centaur by Marya Zaturenska The years grow small and gray Above the immobile hills, I see them float away-- Neither have I grown rich, Or deeper, more serene: I am what I have been. Drink, then, with vivid eyes This brief and changing world Of morning light and skies; Observe this marble faun Whose cool archaic head Shines out across the lawn-- Mosaic of my blood, Of each experience, Carve something large and good. So will the lost years fly Nor will I turn, nor heed Time's centaur, or his speed. This poem was written for Horace Gregory, the poet's husband. |
By ~Dovey
I sang this song of April,
Of rhyme and poetry.
Who knew I'd be so grateful
For such diversity?
Chords and cadence of a dove,
That lit my inner fuse.
Talk of sport, and life, and love --
While dancing with my muse.
So sad this song is over,
I'm relishing the fun.
I'll run barefoot in clover,
And wish it wasn't done.
| Author Notes |
Picture courtesy of Pixabay
This poem is inspired by Gwendolyn Brooks (1917 - 2000) I have done two in her style today, but decided there would be two separate posts, as they are vastly different in style. Gwendolyn Elizabeth Brooks was an African-American poet. She was appointed Poet Laureate of Illinois in 1968 and Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 1985. Legacy and Honors 1968, appointed Poet Laureate of Illinois. 1985, selected as the Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress, an honorary one-year position whose title changed the next year to Poet Laureate. 1988, inducted into the National Women's Hall of Fame. 1994, chosen as the National Endowment for the Humanities' Jefferson Lecturer, one of the highest honors in American literature and the highest award in the humanities given by the federal government. 1995, presented with the National Medal of Arts. 1995, honored as the first Woman of the Year chosen by the Harvard Black Men's Forum. Other awards she received included the Frost Medal, the Shelley Memorial Award, and an award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Brooks also received more than seventy-five honorary degrees from colleges and universities worldwide. Brooks died at age 83 on December 3, 2000, at her Southside Chicago home. She is buried at Lincoln Cemetery in Blue Island, Illinois. The poem that inspired mine... The Crazy Woman By Gwendolyn Brooks I shall not sing a May song. A May song should be gay. I'll wait until November And sing a song of gray. I'll wait until November That is the time for me. I'll go out in the frosty dark And sing most terribly. And all the little people Will stare at me and say, "That is the Crazy Woman Who would not sing in May." (Biography info and poetry of Gwendolyn Brooks courtesy of PoemHunter.com) |
By ~Dovey
What of Me?
A sometime poet.
An always friend.
I argue. I
Don't want to. I
Contemplate. I
Question fate. I
Won't budge. I
Can't judge. I
Didn't see. I'm
Sorry.
| Author Notes |
Picture courtesy of Pixabay
This poem is inspired by Gwendolyn Brooks (1917 - 2000) I have done two in her style today, but decided there would be two separate posts, as they are vastly different in style. I couldn't just let this one go without doing something similar. Check her out if you get the chance, the poem that inspired mine is below. (bio, works, and poetry courtesy of PoemHunter.com) Gwendolyn Elizabeth Brooks was an African-American poet. She was appointed Poet Laureate of Illinois in 1968 and Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 1985. Gwendolyn Brooks's Works: Negro Hero (1945) The Mother (1945) A Street in Bronzeville (1945) Annie Allen (1950) Maud Martha (1953) (Fiction) Bronzeville Boys and Girls (1956) The Bean Eaters (1960) Selected Poems (1963) We Real Cool (1966) In the Mecca (1968) Malcolm X (1968) Family Pictures (1970) Black Steel: Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali (1971) The World of Gwendolyn Brooks (1971) Aloneness (1971) Report from Part One: An Autobiography (1972) (Prose) A Capsule Course in Black Poetry Writing (1975) (Prose) Aurora (1972) Beckonings (1975) Black Love (1981) To Disembark (1981) Primer for Blacks (1981) (Prose) Young Poet's Primer (1981) (Prose) Very Young Poets (1983) (Prose) The Near-Johannesburg Boy and Other Poems (1986) Blacks (1987) Winnie (1988) Children Coming Home (1991) In Montgomery (2000) We Real Cool - Poem by Gwendolyn Brooks The Pool Players. Seven at the Golden Shovel. We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon. |
By ~Dovey
| Author Notes |
Picture courtesy of Pixabay
My inspiration today is twofold, three-fold really. My best friend, Carol, posts me Facebook videos and pictures of elephants, because she knows how much I love them. (I'll post one here for you.) They always make me smile. Cat encouraged me to read Mary Oliver, who is one of her favorite poets. I'm not as keen on free verse as I probably should be lol but I did read, as was suggested. One of Mary Oliver's poems, "The Storm," reminded me of the pictures and videos that I get from Carol, of the elephants. And then this poem was born. Thank you, Carol Thomas, Cat, and Mary Oliver for today's inspiration... and the elephants, of course. :) (courtesy of Poetseers.org) Mary Oliver (born September 10, 1935) is an American poet who has won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize. She writes in a simple direct way, and many of her poems paint a close relationship with nature. (1984 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for American Primitive) The Storm Now through the white orchard my little dog romps, breaking the new snow with wild feet. Running here running there, excited, hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins until the white snow is written upon in large, exuberant letters, a long sentence, expressing the pleasures of the body in this world. Oh, I could not have said it better - Mary Oliver I promised you a video: |
By ~Dovey
Thoughts on Emerson
"For we do not speak now of men of poetical talents, or of industry and skill in metre, but of the true poet." (Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essay I The Poet)
And so contends dear Emerson
the poet be a poorer man -
in tune to Nature's dimension,
close to her lakes and floral span.
The man who walks her forests long,
and sails her seas from shore to shore,
who hears her sacred earthbound song --
expressed in ways none has before.
Whose wealth with words is his divine,
to savor when in passion's throes,
whilst water then will taste as wine,
and Beauty's manifest expose.
Such man in time who will express,
the gentleness among the strong,
smell flowers trimming Nature's dress,
and sing as her devotees throng.
Extol her virtue -- all to hear
of her enamoring desire,
with eyes of amber, bright and clear,
bewitching as eternal fire.
With sounds so sweet, as Siren's can,
to which a man could lose his soul,
the poet is but half a man,
who, through expression, becomes whole.
And so I say, that much is true,
however, I am not to be
confused with the male retinue,
as I espouse poetically.
| Author Notes |
Picture courtesy of Pixabay
Ralph Waldo Emerson (May 25, 1803 - April 27, 1882) was an American essayist, lecturer, and poet who led the Transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century. He was seen as a champion of individualism and a prescient critic of the countervailing pressures of society, and he disseminated his thoughts through dozens of published essays and more than 1,500 public lectures across the United States. (source: Wikipedia) (I wanted to share more of his poetry than biography today, he really was a prolific writer.) My inspiration today is from Emerson's essay, which is quoted at the beginning of my poem. He begins his essay with this poem: From Essay I The Poet RWE.org A moody child and wildly wise Pursued the game with joyful eyes, Which chose, like meteors, their way, And rived the dark with private ray: They overleapt the horizon's edge, Searched with Apollo's privilege; Through man, and woman, and sea, and star, Saw the dance of nature forward far; Through worlds, and races, and terms, and times, Saw musical order, and pairing rhymes. Olympian bards who sung Divine ideas below, Which always find us young, And always keep us so. Ralph Waldo Emerson Glory Of Friendship - Poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand, nor the kindly smile nor the joy of companionship; it is the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when he discovers that someone else believes in him and is willing to trust him. To Laugh Often And Much - Poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson To laugh often and much; to win the respect of the intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that one life has breathed easier because you lived here. This is to have succeeded. Poems AND when I am entombed in my place, Be it remembered of a single man, He never, though he dearly loved his race, For fear of human eyes swerved from his plan. OH what is Heaven but the fellowship Of minds that each can stand against the world By its own meek and incorruptible will? THE days pass over me And I am still the same; The aroma of my life is gone With the flower with which it came. Ralph Waldo Emerson |
By ~Dovey
We've shared tremendous poetry,
Developed camaraderie,
I wish to say it was so grand,
Though we have cramps in writer's hand.
I've entertained my poet's dream,
Imagination is supreme -
To meet poets of the ages,
Immortalized on these pages.
| Author Notes |
Picture courtesy of Pixabay
This is a style I created years ago. My wish is to promote positive enlightenment. My original is titled Symmetry and is in my portfolio: http://www.fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?hd=1&id=618240&userid=144222&tf=0 A Symmetrical Acrostic 8 syllables per line 2 rhyming quatrains before the Acrostic word A Positive Acrostic Word or Phrase 2 rhyming quatrains after the Acrostic word No set meter required As you can see above, my phrase is, "We Celebrate National Poetry Month," and I've done this poem as a recap of all the works, poets, and styles I've shared in my NaPoWriMo book, Of Poets and Poetry. I'm dedicating this poem to everyone who has read, reviewed, and encouraged all of us taking the NaPoWriMo Challenge and especially those who have hung in there this whole month and created books of their own! Please give a round of applause to Robyn Corum, Pantygynt, shelley kaye, Judiverse, Leineco, BeasPeas, fionageorge, Debbie Noland, Winnona, lightink, Stacia Ann, I am Cat, jannypan, Debra White, Sandra du Plessis, dejohnsrld (Debbie), Barb Hensongispsaca, and Joy Graham and tfawcus who were following along unofficially! |
|
You've read it - now go back to FanStory.com to comment on each chapter and show your thanks to the author! |
| © Copyright 2015 ~Dovey All rights reserved. ~Dovey has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
© 2015 FanStory.com, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Statement