This is one of my favorite short love poems--so sadly nostalgic.
.
.
The tree still bends over the lake,
And I try to recall our love,
Our love which had a thousand leaves.
9.05.2009
Psalm (Jessie E. Sampter)
This is one of those poems with a single line that burns in your mind long after you've read it.....'I find Thee in the white fire of my heart'.
.
.
They have burned to Thee many tapers in many temples;
I burn to Thee the taper of my heart.
They have sought Thee at many altars, they have carried
lights to find Thee:
I find Thee in the white fire of my heart.
.
.
They have burned to Thee many tapers in many temples;
I burn to Thee the taper of my heart.
They have sought Thee at many altars, they have carried
lights to find Thee:
I find Thee in the white fire of my heart.
8.11.2009
Young Lincoln (Edwin Markhaw)
I usually don't like long poems, but this one is well worth reading. It captures the humble heroism of Lincoln in a rhyming form without ever seeming contrived.
.
.
Men saw no portents on that winter night
A hundred years ago. No omens flared
Above that trail-built cabin with one door,
And windowless to all the peering stars.
They laid him in the hollow of a log,
Humblest of cradles, save that other one –
The manger in the stall at Bethlehem.
No portents! Yet with whisper and alarm
The Evil Powers that dread the nearing feet
Of heroes, held a council in that hour;
And sent three fates to darken that low door,
To baffle and beat back the heaven-sent child.
Three were the fates – gaunt Poverty that chains,
Gray Drudgery that grinds the hope away,
And gaping Ignorance that starves the soul.
They came with secret laughters to destroy.
Ever they dogged him, counting every step,
Waylaid his youth and struggled for his life.
They came to master but he made them serve;
And from the wrestle with the destinies,
He rose with all his energies aglow.
For God upon whose steadfast shoulders rest
These governments of ours, had not forgot.
He needed for his purposes a voice,
A voice to be a clarion on the wind,
Crying the word of freedom to dead hearts,
The word that centuries had waited for.
So hidden in the West, God shaped his man.
There in the unspoiled solitude he grew,
Unwarped by culture and uncramped by creed;
Keeping his course courageous and alone,
As goes the Mississippi to the sea.
His daring spirit burst the narrow bounds,
Rose resolute; and like the sea-called stream,
He tore new channels where he found no way.
His tools were his first teachers, sternly kind.
The plow, the scythe, the maul, the echoing ax
Taught him their homely wisdom and their peace.
He had the plain man’s genius – common sense;
Yet rage for knowledge drove his mind afar;
He fed his spirit with the bread of books,
And slaked his thirst at all the wells of thought.
But most he read the heart of common man,
Scanned all its secret pages stained with tears,
Saw all the guile, saw all the piteous pain;
And yet could keep the smile about his lips,
Love and forgive, see all and pardon all;
His only fault, the fault that some of old
Laid even on God – that he was ever wont
To bend the law to let his mercy out.
.
.
Men saw no portents on that winter night
A hundred years ago. No omens flared
Above that trail-built cabin with one door,
And windowless to all the peering stars.
They laid him in the hollow of a log,
Humblest of cradles, save that other one –
The manger in the stall at Bethlehem.
No portents! Yet with whisper and alarm
The Evil Powers that dread the nearing feet
Of heroes, held a council in that hour;
And sent three fates to darken that low door,
To baffle and beat back the heaven-sent child.
Three were the fates – gaunt Poverty that chains,
Gray Drudgery that grinds the hope away,
And gaping Ignorance that starves the soul.
They came with secret laughters to destroy.
Ever they dogged him, counting every step,
Waylaid his youth and struggled for his life.
They came to master but he made them serve;
And from the wrestle with the destinies,
He rose with all his energies aglow.
For God upon whose steadfast shoulders rest
These governments of ours, had not forgot.
He needed for his purposes a voice,
A voice to be a clarion on the wind,
Crying the word of freedom to dead hearts,
The word that centuries had waited for.
So hidden in the West, God shaped his man.
There in the unspoiled solitude he grew,
Unwarped by culture and uncramped by creed;
Keeping his course courageous and alone,
As goes the Mississippi to the sea.
His daring spirit burst the narrow bounds,
Rose resolute; and like the sea-called stream,
He tore new channels where he found no way.
His tools were his first teachers, sternly kind.
The plow, the scythe, the maul, the echoing ax
Taught him their homely wisdom and their peace.
He had the plain man’s genius – common sense;
Yet rage for knowledge drove his mind afar;
He fed his spirit with the bread of books,
And slaked his thirst at all the wells of thought.
But most he read the heart of common man,
Scanned all its secret pages stained with tears,
Saw all the guile, saw all the piteous pain;
And yet could keep the smile about his lips,
Love and forgive, see all and pardon all;
His only fault, the fault that some of old
Laid even on God – that he was ever wont
To bend the law to let his mercy out.
7.17.2009
From 'Love' (James Russell Lowell)
I've never been able to connect with love poems that glorify the sentiment as something other-wordly; I much prefer poems like this.
.
.
True love is but a humble low-born thing,
And hath its food served up in earthen ware;
It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand,
Through the every-dayness of this work-day world.
.
.
True love is but a humble low-born thing,
And hath its food served up in earthen ware;
It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand,
Through the every-dayness of this work-day world.
7.15.2009
The Dangling Conversation (Paul Simon)
All of Paul Simon's lyrics read like poems, but this one is one of my favorites. I especially love the references to Dickinson and Frost. How many songwriters can reference famous poets without seeming heavy-handed?
.
.
It's a still life watercolor,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
And you read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
'Can analysis be worthwhile?'
'Is the theater really dead?'
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
.
.
It's a still life watercolor,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
And you read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
'Can analysis be worthwhile?'
'Is the theater really dead?'
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
7.14.2009
My Life is a Bowl (May Riley Smith)
This is a lovely metaphorical love poem that never seems convoluted....just calm and honest.
.
.
My life is a bowl which is mine to the brim
With loveliness old and new.
So I fill its clay from stem to rim
With you, dear heart,
With you.
My life is a pool which can only hold
One star and a glimpse of blue.
But the blue and the little lamp of gold
Are you, dear heart,
Are you.
My life is a homing bird that flies
Through the starry dusk and dew
Home to the heaven of your true eyes,
Home, dear heart,
To you.
With loveliness old and new.
So I fill its clay from stem to rim
With you, dear heart,
With you.
My life is a pool which can only hold
One star and a glimpse of blue.
But the blue and the little lamp of gold
Are you, dear heart,
Are you.
My life is a homing bird that flies
Through the starry dusk and dew
Home to the heaven of your true eyes,
Home, dear heart,
To you.
7.12.2009
From 'The Nut Tree' (Anonymous)
Many people are familiar with the beginning of this poem ('I had a silver nut tree, nothing would it bear.....'), but I was struck when rereading it with this second verse. I love how the lilting form matches the subject matter.
.
.
I skipped over water
I danced over sea,
And all the birds in the air
Could not catch me.
.
.
I skipped over water
I danced over sea,
And all the birds in the air
Could not catch me.
7.10.2009
Prayer (Robert Freedman)
The first line of this poem does it for me...can you think of a more striking and thought-provoking title for God?
.
.
White Captain of my soul, lead on;
I follow thee, come dark or dawn.
Only vouchsafe three things I crave:
Where terror stalks, help me be brave!
Where righteous ones can scarce endure
The siren call, help me be pure!
Where vows grown dim, and men dare do
What once they scorned, help me be true!
.
.
White Captain of my soul, lead on;
I follow thee, come dark or dawn.
Only vouchsafe three things I crave:
Where terror stalks, help me be brave!
Where righteous ones can scarce endure
The siren call, help me be pure!
Where vows grown dim, and men dare do
What once they scorned, help me be true!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)