ladylinda
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April
Apr 6, 2014 12:28:55 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 6, 2014 12:28:55 GMT -5
Three Turkish poems about spring
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Although the snows are gathering, And white the way by which I go, My heart is singing of the spring And blossoming beneath the snow.
Abdülhak Hamid
--------------------------------- Optimism
The spring did not bring me What I had waited for
Spring will come back again
Suphi Taşan
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The Thrush
The trees got green; you sang. The grass flowered; you sang. The Harvest ripened; you sang. The grass was eaten by the animals, The leaves were eaten by the wind, The corn was eaten by the scythe. Winter is coming soon, Thrush! Will you still sing?
Sefer Aytekin
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April
Apr 6, 2014 15:23:50 GMT -5
Post by beth on Apr 6, 2014 15:23:50 GMT -5
I like this one because the first 20 years of the 20th century are one of my favorite time periods. It's 1916, and Lowell gives us a spring day ... helps us see it and hear it and smell it and taste it. Wonderful!
Spring Day
by Amy Lowell (from Men, Women and Ghosts, 1916)
Bath
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air. The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light. Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.
Breakfast Table
In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white. It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells, and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver coffee-pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl—and my eyes begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like darts. Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream, flutter, call: “Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!” Coffee steam rises in a stream, clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.
Walk
Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching. On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red striped agates. The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air, but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street, and a girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap, tap, the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the flowers on her hat. A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green and gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water over the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells of tulips and narcissus. The thickening branches make a pink grisaille against the blue sky. Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in time. Whoop! And a man’s hat careers down the street in front of the white dust, leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead of the wind, jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green. A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air, sharp-beaked, irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is quiet and high, and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.
Midday and Afternoon
Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The stock-still brick façade of an old church, against which the waves of people lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies of light in the windows of chemists’ shops, with their blue, gold, purple jars, darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors, murmurings out of high windows, whirring of machine belts, blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes on an electric car, and the jar of a church-bell knocking against the metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, a bit of blown dust, thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement under me, reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging, dragging, plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic insteps. A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the press. They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and narcissus. The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the shop-windows, putting out their contents in a flood of flame.
Night and Sleep
The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades scream in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is the sidelong sliver of a watchmaker’s sign with its length on another street. A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall building, but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours? I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and clean, it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no flowers in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus. My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads with no stems. I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants and shops I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city, glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing for the Spring. The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in the air. Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their horses down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the sky when it is fresh-washed and fair... I smell the stars... they are like tulips and narcissus... I smell them in the air.
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 6, 2014 16:17:12 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 6, 2014 16:17:12 GMT -5
Couldn't let this thread go without posting something by one of my all time favourite poets:
Spring And All
William Carlos Williams
By the road to the contagious hospital under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast — a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen
patches of standing water the scattering of tall trees
All along the road the reddish purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy stuff of bushes and small trees with dead, brown leaves under them leafless vines —
Lifeless in appearance, sluggish dazed spring approaches —
They enter the new world naked, cold, uncertain of all save that they enter. All about them the cold, familiar wind —
Now the grass, tomorrow the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined — It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf
But now the stark dignity of entrance — Still, the profound change has come upon them: rooted they grip down and begin to awaken
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 7, 2014 15:30:52 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 7, 2014 15:30:52 GMT -5
Spring Rain
By Sara Teasdale
I thought I had forgotten, But it all came back again To-night with the first spring thunder In a rush of rain.
I remembered a darkened doorway Where we stood while the storm swept by, Thunder gripping the earth And lightning scrawled on the sky.
The passing motor buses swayed, For the street was a river of rain, Lashed into little golden waves In the lamp light's stain.
With the wild spring rain and thunder My heart was wild and gay; Your eyes said more to me that night Than your lips would ever say. . . .
I thought I had forgotten, But it all came back again To-night with the first spring thunder In a rush of rain.
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 8, 2014 16:12:20 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 8, 2014 16:12:20 GMT -5
The Enkindled Spring
By D. H. Lawrence
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green, Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes, Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes. I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, Faces of people streaming across my gaze. And I, what fountain of fire am I among This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed About like a shadow buffeted in the throng Of flames, a shadow that's gone astray, and is lost.
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 8, 2014 16:14:52 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 8, 2014 16:14:52 GMT -5
Very Early Spring
By Katherine Mansfield
The fields are snowbound no longer; There are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green. The snow has been caught up into the sky-- So many white clouds--and the blue of the sky is cold. Now the sun walks in the forest, He touches the bows and stems with his golden fingers; They shiver, and wake from slumber. Over the barren branches he shakes his yellow curls. Yet is the forest full of the sound of tears.... A wind dances over the fields. Shrill and clear the sound of her waking laughter, Yet the little blue lakes tremble And the flags of tenderest green bend and quiver.
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 9, 2014 12:49:20 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 9, 2014 12:49:20 GMT -5
The Springtime
By Denise Levertov
The red eyes of rabbits aren't sad. No one passes the sad golden village in a barge any more. The sunset will leave it alone. If the curtains hang askew it is no one's fault, Around and around and around everywhere the same sound of wheels going,, and things growing older, growing silent. If the dogs bark to each other all night, and their eyes flash red, that's nobody's business. They have a great space of dark to bark across. The rabbits will bare their teeth in the spring moon
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 9, 2014 17:37:04 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 9, 2014 17:37:04 GMT -5
Spring in New Hampshire
By Claude McKay
Too green the springing April grass, Too blue the silver-speckled sky, For me to linger here, alas, While happy winds go laughing by, Wasting the golden hours indoors, Washing windows and scrubbing floors.
Too wonderful the April night, Too faintly sweet the first May flowers, The stars too gloriously bright, For me to spend the evening hours, When fields are fresh and streams are leaping, Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 10, 2014 8:12:28 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 10, 2014 8:12:28 GMT -5
Spring Song, 1948
By Paul Dehn
Let it be recorded for those who come after, If any are left to come after, that today Streams melted on the moor, a curlew's song Wept in remembered sunshine and the long Cloud-shadows dipped away Where the west wind blew softer.
O in the black frost of the world's December, In the cold shadow of our stricken years Who have small reason, now, to laugh or play, Set down, set down that this was a spring day To be remembered with tears, If any are left to remember
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 10, 2014 8:13:21 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 10, 2014 8:13:21 GMT -5
Spring Letter
By Terence Tiller
The earth turns over, our side feels the cold...
Lovely, but here no part of me, the world rolls under shadow like a woollen ball; all terror's darkening magazine, the cold indecency of outward violence, will grown lecherous with death, all crouching might of iron, being far, even seems beautiful.
The wind's cold surplice in the sky, I sit here, in the washed and choirboy afternoon; and the grass claps its coloured fingers at the clarity of water; and the sun is in my hair like a chrysanthemum . For here the will of quietness is done.
No, not of war; the dragon and the drum that pulse his blood about the world are here a breast beneath my hand, and out of time. This tall season is my chanteclere from night in mirrors, cannon flowering like falling trees; all ceremony of war.
Calm acres and Mozartean air, spring with its cold confetti in the boughs, are not the world but a more inward thing: as a wet garment on the body shows the curl of limb and muscle, this day droops in the shape of secret images.
Love, and the lovely clothing of its play, its thinking film upon the flesh; the stride and ache of afterthought to our long woe our tenderness, the hangman of the blood: here in your flowered scarf of Egypt, deep as seasons under water, blooms our good.
A silk-white skein of egrets that sew-up the ploughman's gashes on a field: our words have glittered so across a wounded hope and been a splendid prophecy of birds; and the wet crops that flourish towards sand in growing wildfire, the childbed of seeds,
are in the planet's march to us, our end. Oh infinite progression from our close- cupped origin, scorn of stellar wind! Here in the olive-shadows of our peace is movement too intense for motion, heart of a great tigerish whirlwind over us.
More terrible than fear, that bestial heat rages beyond our vision and is safe: iron insects with locked horns, the beat of heavy air, horrible cells of life that is not man but built of him, the smash of wings and bodies; anger, dismay, grief:
all pain that makes a bugle of the flesh turn there to awful beauty, beautiful because our lives are under it. This hush we know our love by, and our secret will, is the exceeding clamour of the bat. Then here I see our union grow full,
the wind's old scars and wounds cut into it, a strip of hazel-shining foil, the river. Fast in the river's darkening mind, I sit and reach towards Europe, pitiful as a lover through this enormous shadow of the world, while beautiful and remote, the world turns over.
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 10, 2014 8:51:06 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 10, 2014 8:51:06 GMT -5
What Do You Do When It's Spring?
By John Woods
What do you do when it's spring? I mean wht do you do when it's really green Not just in the private parts of the links But even between the rusting tracks Where the dead train slipped under the fence Into the dead factory? What would you tell Your wife is you woke with a green thumb And everything you touched turned to grass? And you still owed six payments on winter?
What would you do with a bird So small it could swim in and out Through the bars of its song?
What do you do when a fine green spring Sifts through the antenna And the records run like demented aspirin Through the wire services? It happens Don't kid yourself.
What do you say when you can't find your camera And miss something beautiful, your neighbor's wife Opening at the seams, or the march Of the red tricycles on the fire station, Or the pedlar who is not running a survey In your neighborhood.
What would you say if the garbage man Cast off his mask of oranges and red Butcher's paper and danced between your very eyes The pure dance of a person becoming himself, Or if the meter man had a name, Or if the milkman led up your green driveway A buxom cow, spraying sweet milk and clover Wearing a milking machine like curlers On her head?
Or if the mailman took root in your box, Shedding green news, and mailing himself Over and over again, into the sprinkling evening?
What do you think when you feel That the Great God Ampersand links flowers and ceramics, Table salt and Triton, or rocks like a treble clef Beneath the rusted swing and slide?
I mean before schools and jails open, I mean before the paper knocks on the railing, I mean before the rose vine lost its legs.
What do you do when you're born?
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 10, 2014 15:33:38 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 10, 2014 15:33:38 GMT -5
After some modern treasures, here's one from the Bard himself.
Sonnet
By William Shakespeare
From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him, Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odor and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew. Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow I with these did play.
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 11, 2014 15:08:06 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 11, 2014 15:08:06 GMT -5
Sudden Spring
By Gerald Bullett
Spring is sudden: it is her quality. However carefully we watch for her, However long delayed, The green in the winter's hedge The almond blossom The piercing daffodil, Like a lovely woman late for her appointment She's suddenly here, taking us unawares, So beautifully annihalating expectation That we applaud her punctual arrival.
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 11, 2014 15:08:24 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 11, 2014 15:08:24 GMT -5
Sonnet
By Frank Kendon
Now splendidly the earth awakes in vigour, Music and scent and colour flood the land, And fields of naked soil no more disfigure The skylark's sunlit prospects. Birds are fanned Into a timid verdure, and a haze Of delicate green imbue the far-away woods; The cuckoo has begun to count his days, The wind-flowers dance by the wild arum hoods. Swiftly the sombre winter landscape alters, More gradual change, and lovelier far than dawn; Nothing departs, or fades, and nothing falters, Only the cold despair of death is flown.. Courage, impatient heart: in thy despair There shall be wrought a miracle as fair.
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ladylinda
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April
Apr 11, 2014 15:08:47 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 11, 2014 15:08:47 GMT -5
Spring-Song
By Dollie Radford
Ah love, the sweet spring blossoms cling To many a broken wind-tossed bough, And young birds among branches sing That roughly hang till now
The little new-born things which lie In dewy meadows, sleep and dream Beside the brook that twinkles by To some great lonely stream
And children, now the day is told, From many a warm and cosy nest, Look up to see the new moon hold The old moon in her breast
Dear love, my pulses throb and star To-night with longings sweet and new, And young hopes beat within a heart Grown old in loving you
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