ladylinda
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January
Jan 5, 2015 18:11:47 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jan 5, 2015 18:11:47 GMT -5
I'll start a new thread for January with poems about the month or about winter.
Here's the first.
January, 1795
Mary Darby Robinson
Pavement slipp'ry, people sneezing, Lords in ermine, beggars freezing ; Titled gluttons dainties carving, Genius in a garret starving.
Lofty mansions, warm and spacious ; Courtiers clinging and voracious ; Misers scarce the wretched heeding ; Gallant soldiers fighting, bleeding.
Wives who laugh at passive spouses ; Theatres, and meeting-houses ; Balls, where simp'ring misses languish ; Hospitals, and groans of anguish.
Arts and sciences bewailing ; Commerce drooping, credit failing ; Placemen mocking subjects loyal ; Separations, weddings royal.
Authors who can't earn a dinner ; Many a subtle rogue a winner ; Fugitives for shelter seeking ; Misers hoarding, tradesmen breaking.
Taste and talents quite deserted ; All the laws of truth perverted ; Arrogance o'er merit soaring ; Merit silently deploring.
Ladies gambling night and morning ; Fools the works of genius scorning ; Ancient dames for girls mistaken, Youthful damsels quite forsaken.
Some in luxury delighting ; More in talking than in fighting ; Lovers old, and beaux decrepid ; Lordlings empty and insipid.
Poets, painters, and musicians ; Lawyers, doctors, politicians : Pamphlets, newspapers, and odes, Seeking fame by diff'rent roads.
Gallant souls with empty purses ; Gen'rals only fit for nurses ; School-boys, smit with martial spirit, Taking place of vet'ran merit.
Honest men who can't get places, Knaves who shew unblushing faces ; Ruin hasten'd, peace retarded ; Candour spurn'd, and art rewarded.
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ladylinda
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July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
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January
Jan 5, 2015 18:12:12 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jan 5, 2015 18:12:12 GMT -5
Orchard Trees, January
Richard Wilbur
It's not the case, though some might wish it so Who from a window watch the blizzard blow
White riot through their branches vague and stark, That they keep snug beneath their pelted bark.
They take affliction in until it jells To crystal ice between their frozen cells,
And each of them is inwardly a vault Of jewels rigorous and free of fault,
Unglimpsed until in May it gently bears A sudden crop of green-pronged solitaires.
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ladylinda
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January
Jan 5, 2015 18:12:33 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jan 5, 2015 18:12:33 GMT -5
January 1939
Dylan Thomas
Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires, Shall the blind horse sing sweeter? Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to suffer The supper and knives of a mood. In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms, An enamoured man alone by the twigs of his eyes, two fires, Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food, Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair In a wind that plucked a goose, Nor ever, as the wild tongue breaks its tombs, Rounds to look at the red, wagged root. Because there stands, one story out of the bum city, That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed sea Secretly in statuary, Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street, Not spin to stare at an old year Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and galleries Like the mauled pictures of boys? The salt person and blasted place I furnish with the meat of a fable. If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to tumble An upright man in the antipodes Or spray-based and rock-chested sea: Over the past table I repeat this present grace.
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ladylinda
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January
Jan 7, 2015 16:57:01 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jan 7, 2015 16:57:01 GMT -5
In January
Ted Kooser
Only one cell in the frozen hive of night is lit, or so it seems to us: this Vietnamese café, with its oily light, its odors whose colorful shapes are like flowers. Laughter and talking, the tick of chopsticks. Beyond the glass, the wintry city creaks like an ancient wooden bridge. A great wind rushes under all of us. The bigger the window, the more it trembles.
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ladylinda
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January
Jan 7, 2015 16:57:18 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jan 7, 2015 16:57:18 GMT -5
Ode Written On The First Of January
Robert Southey
Come melancholy Moralizer--come! Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath; With me engarland now The SEPULCHRE OF TIME!
Come Moralizer to the funeral song! I pour the dirge of the Departed Days, For well the funeral song Befits this solemn hour.
But hark! even now the merry bells ring round With clamorous joy to welcome in this day, This consecrated day, To Mirth and Indolence.
Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant hand Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness, Whilst her unclouded sun Illumes thy summer day,
Canst thou rejoice--rejoice that Time flies fast? That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun? That swift the stream of Years Rolls to Eternity?
If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish, If Power be thine, remember what thou art-- Remember thou art Man, And Death thine heritage!
Hast thou known Love? does Beauty's better sun Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile, Her eye all eloquence, Her voice all harmony?
Oh state of happiness! hark how the gale Moans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove! Winter is dark and cold-- Where now the charms of Spring?
Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol'd Maid With stern and frowning front Appals the shuddering soul?
And would'st thou bid me court her faery form When, as she sports her in some happier mood, Her many-colour'd robes Dance varying to the Sun?
Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height, With anxious gaze survey The fruitful far-off vale.
Oh there are those who love the pensive song To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant! There are who at this hour Will love to contemplate!
For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time, Rejoicing when the fading orb of day Is sunk again in night, That one day more is gone.
And he who bears Affliction's heavy load With patient piety, well pleas'd he knows The World a pilgrimage, The Grave the inn of rest.
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ladylinda
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January
Jan 7, 2015 16:57:37 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jan 7, 2015 16:57:37 GMT -5
One Third of the Calendar
Ogden Nash
In January everything freezes. We have two children. Both are she'ses. This is our January rule: One girl in bed, and one in school.
In February the blizzard whirls. We own a pair of little girls. Blessings upon of each the head ---- The one in school and the one in bed.
March is the month of cringe and bluster. Each of our children has a sister. They cling together like Hansel and Gretel, With their noses glued to the benzoin kettle.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 9, 2015 16:11:45 GMT -5
I'd like to apologise for January being such a manic month. I promise to post more January poems in future but for now as usual I'll wrap the thread up with a song.
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