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Post by men an tol on Feb 27, 2015 16:33:28 GMT -5
A friend of my Mother's was a person who had a wide range of interests including poetry. Following are some of the published works of Faith M. Johnston who was by career for 46 years a Professor of Biology at Central Michigan University.
Woods Quiet
I think trees love the twilight,
They trap it in their leaves,
They hoard it among their branches,
They draw it around them as a garment.
As trees love twilight
So those who walk in the woods
Love quiet.
Woods quiet fills their eyes,
The treasure it in their hearts,
It is an intangible garment
Making them strangely invulnerable
To little irritations.
Woods twilight rests tired eyes,
But eyes which hold woods quiet
Rest tired spirits.
No Title
There is a fascination
About a cat, basking in the sun:
Sulphur eyes lazy,
Lithe golden body in repose,
Agile paws outstretched.
But when the cat comes alive
To stalk the sparrows pecking crumbs
One can see
That the yellow eyes are cruel
And the lithe body gaunt
And the yellow fur dirt-stained.
Be careful, you sparrows!
The city is a cat,
A sly tawny cat,
A tough alley cat,
A lean crafty cat,
Be careful, you human sparrows.
No Title
And I have loved life today
With sharp pang, a poignant sting
Like the quick clean pain
Of a sharp needle piercing firm flesh.
I have exulted in life
With squared shoulders and upflung head.
I have gloried in the tussle and scrimmage
Of this game of the gods, called Life.
Why should I fear tomorrow?
Today I have loved life.
Why should I flinch from future blows?
Have I not still the memory of today?
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Post by beth on Feb 27, 2015 17:39:15 GMT -5
A friend of my Mother's was a person who had a wide range of interests including poetry. Following are some of the published works of Faith M. Johnston who was by career for 46 years a Professor of Biology at Central Michigan University. Woods Quiet I think trees love the twilight, They trap it in their leaves, They hoard it among their branches, They draw it around them as a garment. As trees love twilight So those who walk in the woods Love quiet. Woods quiet fills their eyes, The treasure it in their hearts, It is an intangible garment Making them strangely invulnerable To little irritations. Woods twilight rests tired eyes, But eyes which hold woods quiet Rest tired spirits. No Title There is a fascination About a cat, basking in the sun: Sulphur eyes lazy, Lithe golden body in repose, Agile paws outstretched. But when the cat comes alive To stalk the sparrows pecking crumbs One can see That the yellow eyes are cruel And the lithe body gaunt And the yellow fur dirt-stained. Be careful, you sparrows! The city is a cat, A sly tawny cat, A tough alley cat, A lean crafty cat, Be careful, you human sparrows. No Title And I have loved life today With sharp pang, a poignant sting Like the quick clean pain Of a sharp needle piercing firm flesh. I have exulted in life With squared shoulders and upflung head. I have gloried in the tussle and scrimmage Of this game of the gods, called Life. Why should I fear tomorrow? Today I have loved life. Why should I flinch from future blows? Have I not still the memory of today? These are very lovely8, Men an tol. Thank you so much. Did he ever publish? |
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ladylinda
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Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 27, 2015 18:25:36 GMT -5
There is some very fine use of imagery in these poems. Perhaps in places there could be a few slightly tighter word choices and rhythmical structures but the thought content and imagery is very high quality.
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Post by men an tol on Feb 27, 2015 19:14:18 GMT -5
A friend of my Mother's was a person who had a wide range of interests including poetry. Following are some of the published works of Faith M. Johnston who was by career for 46 years a Professor of Biology at Central Michigan University. Woods Quiet I think trees love the twilight, They trap it in their leaves, They hoard it among their branches, They draw it around them as a garment. As trees love twilight So those who walk in the woods Love quiet. Woods quiet fills their eyes, The treasure it in their hearts, It is an intangible garment Making them strangely invulnerable To little irritations. Woods twilight rests tired eyes, But eyes which hold woods quiet Rest tired spirits. No Title There is a fascination About a cat, basking in the sun: Sulphur eyes lazy, Lithe golden body in repose, Agile paws outstretched. But when the cat comes alive To stalk the sparrows pecking crumbs One can see That the yellow eyes are cruel And the lithe body gaunt And the yellow fur dirt-stained. Be careful, you sparrows! The city is a cat, A sly tawny cat, A tough alley cat, A lean crafty cat, Be careful, you human sparrows. No Title And I have loved life today With sharp pang, a poignant sting Like the quick clean pain Of a sharp needle piercing firm flesh. I have exulted in life With squared shoulders and upflung head. I have gloried in the tussle and scrimmage Of this game of the gods, called Life. Why should I fear tomorrow? Today I have loved life. Why should I flinch from future blows? Have I not still the memory of today? These are very lovely8, Men an tol. Thank you so much. Did he ever publish? Yes Beth she did publish. A book of 115 of her poems was published in 1970 Central Michigan University Press; Mt. Pleasant, Michigan. As I remember she was born about 1902 or so and died in 1997 at age 95. She grew up (and remained all of her life) in Rosebush, Michigan about 8 miles or so North of Mt. Pleasant (where was and is Central Michigan University), she was about 15 years older than my Mother who grew up about 10 miles West of Mt. Pleasant. Through the years they corresponded. In the foreword to this book of poems (Through the Arch of Experience) was the following: ************************* With two or three exceptions, these poems were written in the decade between 1935 and 1954, under the guidance and encouragement of the late Miss Florence McClinchey. After visiting her cabin on Sugar Island in August of 1935, the first poem in the book was written in lieu of a paragraph in her guest book. Miss McClinchey was pleased and urged , almost commanded, the writing of more poetry. It was not hard to carry out her wishes for thoughts built up and possessed me and had to be exorcised by being put into words upon paper. Once a poem was written down, I felt a curious detachment and could memorized only with great difficulty any of what I had written. This detachment obtains through the passage of time. Though I recognize that some of these poems are inferior to others and that many would benefit from pruning, I am so removed from the emotions that created the poems that I have no disposition to rewrite them. Accordingly, less than a dozen phrases have been changed in preparing the manuscript for the press. My interest gradually turned to the writing of prose, but the attempt to write poetry was good therapy in a period when I felt “cabin'd, cribb'd, and confined.” ********************** From my experience I believe that there are many of these poets “of the people” who for a multitude of reasons never become known to the wider public. |
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Post by beth on Feb 28, 2015 7:09:05 GMT -5
These are very lovely8, Men an tol. Thank you so much. Did he ever publish? Yes Beth she did publish. A book of 115 of her poems was published in 1970 Central Michigan University Press; Mt. Pleasant, Michigan. As I remember she was born about 1902 or so and died in 1997 at age 95. She grew up (and remained all of her life) in Rosebush, Michigan about 8 miles or so North of Mt. Pleasant (where was and is Central Michigan University), she was about 15 years older than my Mother who grew up about 10 miles West of Mt. Pleasant. Through the years they corresponded. In the foreword to this book of poems (Through the Arch of Experience) was the following: ************************* With two or three exceptions, these poems were written in the decade between 1935 and 1954, under the guidance and encouragement of the late Miss Florence McClinchey. After visiting her cabin on Sugar Island in August of 1935, the first poem in the book was written in lieu of a paragraph in her guest book. Miss McClinchey was pleased and urged , almost commanded, the writing of more poetry. It was not hard to carry out her wishes for thoughts built up and possessed me and had to be exorcised by being put into words upon paper. Once a poem was written down, I felt a curious detachment and could memorized only with great difficulty any of what I had written. This detachment obtains through the passage of time. Though I recognize that some of these poems are inferior to others and that many would benefit from pruning, I am so removed from the emotions that created the poems that I have no disposition to rewrite them. Accordingly, less than a dozen phrases have been changed in preparing the manuscript for the press. My interest gradually turned to the writing of prose, but the attempt to write poetry was good therapy in a period when I felt “cabin'd, cribb'd, and confined.” ********************** From my experience I believe that there are many of these poets “of the people” who for a multitude of reasons never become known to the wider public. hmmm don't know how I got the idea Professor Johnston was a male ... I do apologize. What you've posted, I like very much. I used to know a couple of people who published via university press. They arfe very good also and I've managed to get copies of their books. I'll make a mental note to watch for anything by her that might come up online. |
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Post by men an tol on Feb 28, 2015 10:34:51 GMT -5
As mentioned before, Faith Johnston's interest did turn to the writing of prose. One such work that was published in 1941 (reprinted in 1957) was a biography of her uncle, a small town doctor and titled “Uncle Doctor.” The first chapter is short and describes an event about 1913. It is reproduced herein:
Chapter One
When the telephone message came that Uncle Doctor had gone, I thought with a dull pain, a rising sense of desolation. “He won't be here any more. He won't be sitting on his lawn in his white linens with a flower in the buttonhole. I won't see him at the bank, or in the post office, or sitting on the corner. He won't be getting his car out when I'm starting for school or be walking back from the store when I'm coming home. I can't remember when he wasn't here; he's always been here just like my Father and Mother.” And when I began to live over my memories of Uncle Doctor, I found a moment of consciousness that stood out like a stage setting, revealed for an instance when the curtains are parted and then closed again.
When I was eleven, I had typhoid fever. There was a timeless stretch when I could not tell the days and nights apart. There was an aching and fever and thirst, and hills that I was trying to climb and never could get up, and trains that were going to run over me, and things that were going to fall on me, and fairy-tale dragons that were chasing me. When for a moment I saw the face of one of my family and tried to ask for water, I heard a strange rasping voice saying meaningless disconnected words; then the familiar face would be gone, and I was struggling again with the monsters.
One night I opened my eyes quietly. I was lying still, and the ache and fever were gone, and I was not thirsty. Uncle Doctor sat holding my wrist, his watch in his other hand. The lamp beside him on the stand.
“The fever,” he said n his level voice, “has evidently broken.” The lamplight fell on the faces of the family in a semicircle back of the Doctor. I could see the familiar furniture in my room, nothing distorted, everything in its place; none of the terrors which had threatened me were about. I felt so safe and peaceful with Uncle Ben's hand on my wrist; it was good and restful to hear his quiet steady voice. I shut my eyes again. I was a small battered craft, now safely anchored.
So Ends Faith's first chapter. A scene common to its time before the curing drugs of our times and in a room lit by the flame of an oil lamp. A small town, with a small town doctor, caring for those people of that town with the limited tools at hand. What is so remarkable about this scene is that it played out in millions of similar homes across the nation.
Faith grew up through World War I, the Great Depression, and World War II, to be a strong, intelligent, independent woman who quietly impacted the lives of many others through her life.
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Post by beth on Feb 28, 2015 21:21:47 GMT -5
As mentioned before, Faith Johnston's interest did turn to the writing of prose. One such work that was published in 1941 (reprinted in 1957) was a biography of her uncle, a small town doctor and titled “Uncle Doctor.” The first chapter is short and describes an event about 1913. It is reproduced herein: Chapter One When the telephone message came that Uncle Doctor had gone, I thought with a dull pain, a rising sense of desolation. “He won't be here any more. He won't be sitting on his lawn in his white linens with a flower in the buttonhole. I won't see him at the bank, or in the post office, or sitting on the corner. He won't be getting his car out when I'm starting for school or be walking back from the store when I'm coming home. I can't remember when he wasn't here; he's always been here just like my Father and Mother.” And when I began to live over my memories of Uncle Doctor, I found a moment of consciousness that stood out like a stage setting, revealed for an instance when the curtains are parted and then closed again. When I was eleven, I had typhoid fever. There was a timeless stretch when I could not tell the days and nights apart. There was an aching and fever and thirst, and hills that I was trying to climb and never could get up, and trains that were going to run over me, and things that were going to fall on me, and fairy-tale dragons that were chasing me. When for a moment I saw the face of one of my family and tried to ask for water, I heard a strange rasping voice saying meaningless disconnected words; then the familiar face would be gone, and I was struggling again with the monsters. One night I opened my eyes quietly. I was lying still, and the ache and fever were gone, and I was not thirsty. Uncle Doctor sat holding my wrist, his watch in his other hand. The lamp beside him on the stand. “The fever,” he said n his level voice, “has evidently broken.” The lamplight fell on the faces of the family in a semicircle back of the Doctor. I could see the familiar furniture in my room, nothing distorted, everything in its place; none of the terrors which had threatened me were about. I felt so safe and peaceful with Uncle Ben's hand on my wrist; it was good and restful to hear his quiet steady voice. I shut my eyes again. I was a small battered craft, now safely anchored. So Ends Faith's first chapter. A scene common to its time before the curing drugs of our times and in a room lit by the flame of an oil lamp. A small town, with a small town doctor, caring for those people of that town with the limited tools at hand. What is so remarkable about this scene is that it played out in millions of similar homes across the nation. Faith grew up through World War I, the Great Depression, and World War II, to be a strong, intelligent, independent woman who quietly impacted the lives of many others through her life. Beautifully written ... smooth as silk. Thanks, Men an tol |
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Post by men an tol on Feb 28, 2015 23:27:08 GMT -5
Faith was much like the women in my family, intelligent, strong, and able to be independent. All of them in our family (both sides) were people who came out of the mountains (West Virginia, Virginia, Tennessee, and Georgia) One of my great grandmothers buried 4 husbands and raised eleven children (one wasn't hers but he just showed up one day and stayed). Among other things she ran a lumber camp in Northern Michigan where she mended clothes and did the cooking. When she was married to my great grand father in the Virginia Tidewater, he was a jack of all trades including being a wood carver and he use to carve the ceilings in the big houses and in one he used my grandfather (as a baby) as a model for carving baby angels. He also drank a lot and one night walking home across a field of stubble (the corn had recently been cut) he stumbled , fell and one of the stubble pieces went into his eye. When he got home it was still in the eye and my great grand mother had to use her teeth to grab it and pull it out. This would have been before 1900, doctors were few and far between and there was no drugs to keep out infection and within a month he died. But my Grandmother got married again and kept going because she had children to raise,
There are many stories like that in our family demonstrating the strength of these people, especially the women and, I guess it is true about a lot of families. Faith came from similar stock and had those same attributes.
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Omega
