ladylinda
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July
Jul 1, 2014 16:13:08 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 1, 2014 16:13:08 GMT -5
This month I'll post poems (and hope other members will too!) on three themes.
One is July - not that money poems on that one but never mind!
Another is summer - lots of those.
The third is love poems - masses of those too!
Here's the first three - all July poems.
Sonnet: At Dover Cliffs July 20th 1787
William Lisle Bowles
On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet, Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood; And whilst the lifted murmur met his ear, And o'er the distant billows the still eve Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave Tomorrow; of the friends he loved most dear; Of social scenes, from which he wept to part; But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all The thoughts that would full fain the past recall, Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide, The world his country, and his God his guide.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 1, 2014 16:13:50 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 1, 2014 16:13:50 GMT -5
Answer July
Emily Dickinson
Answer July -- Where is the Bee -- Where is the Blush -- Where is the Hay?
Ah, said July -- Where is the Seed -- Where is the Bud -- Where is the May -- Answer Thee -- Me --
Nay -- said the May -- Show me the Snow -- Show me the Bells -- Show me the Jay!
Quibbled the Jay -- Where be the Maize -- Where be the Haze -- Where be the Bur? Here -- said the Year -
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 1, 2014 16:14:21 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 1, 2014 16:14:21 GMT -5
London in July
Amy Levy
What ails my senses thus to cheat? What is it ails the place, That all the people in the street Should wear one woman's face?
The London trees are dusty-brown Beneath the summer sky; My love, she dwells in London town, Nor leaves it in July.
O various and intricate maze, Wide waste of square and street; Where, missing through unnumbered days, We twain at last may meet!
And who cries out on crowd and mart? Who prates of stream and sea? The summer in the city's heart-- That is enough for me.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 1, 2014 16:16:07 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 1, 2014 16:16:07 GMT -5
And of course that beautiful sonnet by the bard that entwines summer and love perfectly!
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? (Sonnet 18)
William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 2, 2014 10:51:31 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 2, 2014 10:51:31 GMT -5
To Summer
William Blake
O thou who passest thro' our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer, Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream: Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire: Our youth are bolder than the southern swains: Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance: We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy, Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven, Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 2, 2014 10:52:18 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 2, 2014 10:52:18 GMT -5
One about both summer and love:
Summer Morn in New Hampshire
Claude McKay
All yesterday it poured, and all night long I could not sleep; the rain unceasing beat Upon the shingled roof like a weird song, Upon the grass like running children's feet. And down the mountains by the dark cloud kissed, Like a strange shape in filmy veiling dressed, Slid slowly, silently, the wraith-like mist, And nestled soft against the earth's wet breast.
But lo, there was a miracle at dawn! The still air stirred at touch of the faint breeze, The sun a sheet of gold bequeathed the lawn, The songsters twittered in the rustling trees. And all things were transfigured in the day, But me whom radiant beauty could not move; For you, more wonderful, were far away, And I was blind with hunger for your love.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 2, 2014 10:53:20 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 2, 2014 10:53:20 GMT -5
An utterly beautiful piece by one of my all-time favourite poets:
Summer
Alexander Pope
See what delights in sylvan scenes appear! Descending Gods have found Elysium here. In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd, And chaste Diana haunts the forest shade. Come lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours, When swains from shearing seek their nightly bow'rs; When weary reapers quit the sultry field, And crown'd with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield. This harmless grove no lurking viper hides, But in my breast the serpent Love abides. Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew, But your Alexis knows no sweets but you. Oh deign to visit our forsaken seats, The mossy fountains, and the green retreats! Where-e'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade, Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade, Where-e'er you tread, the blushing flow'rs shall rise, And all things flourish where you turn your eyes. Oh! How I long with you to pass my days, Invoke the muses, and resound your praise; Your praise the birds shall chant in ev'ry grove, And winds shall waft it to the pow'rs above. But wou'd you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain, The wond'ring forests soon shou'd dance again, The moving mountains hear the pow'rful call, And headlong streams hang list'ning in their fall! But see, the shepherds shun the noon-day heat, The lowing herds to murm'ring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove, Ye Gods! And is there no relief for Love? But soon the sun with milder rays descends To the cool ocean, where his journey ends; On me Love's fiercer flames for every prey, By night he scorches, as he burns by day.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 3, 2014 14:32:40 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 3, 2014 14:32:40 GMT -5
Bed in Summer
Robert Louis Stevenson
In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people's feet Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 3, 2014 14:33:16 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 3, 2014 14:33:16 GMT -5
When on a Summer's Morn
W H Davies
When on a summer's morn I wake, And open my two eyes, Out to the clear, born-singing rills My bird-like spirit flies.
To hear the Blackbird, Cuckoo, Thrush, Or any bird in song; And common leaves that hum all day Without a throat or tongue.
And when Time strikes the hour for sleep, Back in my room alone, My heart has many a sweet bird's song -- And one that's all my own.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 3, 2014 14:33:50 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 3, 2014 14:33:50 GMT -5
And of course a brilliant poem about love by the Bard:
Sonnet 130
William Shakespeare
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips’ red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask’d, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 7, 2014 14:25:27 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 7, 2014 14:25:27 GMT -5
Since I was away and offline I didn't get the chance to post some 4th July poems for my American friends.
Here are four classics:
I Hear America Singing Walt Whitman
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear; Those of mechanics—each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong; The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work; The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat—the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck; The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench—the hatter singing as he stands; The wood-cutter’s song—the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown; The delicious singing of the mother—or of the young wife at work—or of the girl sewing or washing— Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else; The day what belongs to the day— At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 7, 2014 14:26:05 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 7, 2014 14:26:05 GMT -5
America, A Prophecy William Blake
Preludium
The shadowy daughter of Urthona stood before red Orc. When fourteen suns had faintly journey’d o’er his dark abode; His food she brought in iron baskets, his drink in cups of iron; Crown’d with a helmet & dark hair the nameless female stood; A quiver with its burning stores, a bow like that of night, When pestilence is shot from heaven; no other arms she need: Invulnerable tho’ naked, save where clouds roll round her loins, Their awful folds in the dark air; silent she stood as night; For never from her iron tongue could voice or sound arise; But dumb till that dread day when Orc assay’d his fierce embrace.
Dark virgin; said the hairy youth, thy father stern abhorr’d; Rivets my tenfold chains while still on high my spirit soars; Sometimes an eagle screaming in the sky, sometimes a lion, Stalking upon the mountains, & sometimes a whale I lash The raging fathomless abyss, anon a serpent folding
Around the pillars of Urthona, and round thy dark limbs, On the Canadian wilds I fold, feeble my spirit folds. For chaind beneath I rend these caverns; when thou bringest food I howl my joy! and my red eyes seek to behold thy face In vain! these clouds roll to & fro, & hide thee from my sight.
Silent as despairing love, and strong as jealousy, The hairy shoulders rend the links, free are the wrists of fire; Round the terrific loins he siez’d the panting struggling womb; It joy’d: she put aside her clouds & smiled her first-born smile; As when a black cloud shews its light’nings to the silent deep.
Soon as she saw the terrible boy then burst the virgin cry.
I know thee, I have found thee, & I will not let thee go; Thou art the image of God who dwells in darkness of Africa; And thou art fall’n to give me life in regions of dark death. On my American plains I feel the struggling afflictions Endur’d by roots that writhe their arms into the nether deep: I see a serpent in Canada, who courts me to his love; In Mexico an Eagle, and a Lion in Peru; I see a Whale in the South-sea, drinking my soul away. O what limb rendering pains I feel. thy fire & my frost Mingle in howling pains, in furrows by the ligtnings rent; This is eternal death; and this the torment long foretold.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 7, 2014 14:26:37 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 7, 2014 14:26:37 GMT -5
The New Colossus Emma Lazarus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 7, 2014 14:27:34 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 7, 2014 14:27:34 GMT -5
America Claude McKay
Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth, Stealing my breath of life, I will confess I love this cultured hell that tests my youth. Her vigor flows like tides into my blood, Giving me strength erect against her hate, Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood. Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state, I stand within her walls with not a shred Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer. Darkly I gaze into the days ahead, And see her might and granite wonders there, Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand, Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 8, 2014 14:54:44 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 8, 2014 14:54:44 GMT -5
Three rather unusual poems today:
Salutation
Ezra Pound
In one salutation to thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and touch this world at thy feet.
Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers let all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee.
Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee.
Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their mountain nests let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home in one salutation to thee.
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