ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
Post by ladylinda on Oct 7, 2014 16:21:07 GMT -5
Autumn
T.E. Hulme
A touch of cold in the Autumn night— I walked abroad, And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge Like a red-faced farmer. I did not stop to speak, but nodded, And round about were the wistful stars With white faces like town children.
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
October
Oct 7, 2014 16:21:22 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 7, 2014 16:21:22 GMT -5
The Wind
Emily Dickinson
Of all the sounds despatched abroad, There's not a charge to me Like that old measure in the boughs, That phraseless melody
The wind does, working like a hand Whose fingers brush the sky, Then quiver down, with tufts of tune Permitted gods and me.
When winds go round and round in bands, And thrum upon the door, And birds take places overhead, To bear them orchestra,
I crave him grace, of summer boughs, If such an outcast be, He never heard that fleshless chant Rise solemn in the tree,
As if some caravan of sound On deserts, in the sky, Had broken rank, Then knit, and passed In seamless company.
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
October
Oct 7, 2014 16:25:11 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 7, 2014 16:25:11 GMT -5
Sassoon and Dickinson are well known; Hulme much less so. He was mainly a philosopher but he (along with his fellow Englishman Edward Storer) was the true founder of Imagism (Imagisme as he called it) and then Pound and Amy Lowell jumped on the bandwagon!
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
October
Oct 9, 2014 16:38:07 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 9, 2014 16:38:07 GMT -5
October’s Opal
Robert Savino
October is here, once again, barely transcending the threshold of autumn. The maple is turning yellow to orange, to red, soon to be bared by winter.
Ah winter, when blankets of bliss cover spoon-fit bodies, flickering sparks to flames. . . until love of spring gardens becomes the rapture of summer bloom.
And looking from outside-in, beyond recognizable beauty, the ruby of jewels glows bright, pumping currents of rivers red, deep into the wells of every extremity. Our chest fills with laughter.
When apart, even so brief, this season stays with you, whether I am or not and your voice with me, through wind’s immutable breath.
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
Post by ladylinda on Oct 9, 2014 16:38:26 GMT -5
Autumn Day
Rainer Maria Rilke
Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by. Now overlap the sundials with your shadows, and on the meadows let the wind go free.
Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine; grant them a few more warm transparent days, urge them on to fulfillment then, and press the final sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now, will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening, and wander along the boulevards, up and down, restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
Post by ladylinda on Oct 9, 2014 16:38:44 GMT -5
Wind
Ted Hughes
This house has been far out at sea all night, The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills, Winds stampeding the fields under the window Floundering black astride and blinding wet
Till day rose; then under an orange sky The hills had new places, and wind wielded Blade-light, luminous black and emerald, Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.
At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as The coal-house door. Once I looked up - Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,
The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace, At any second to bang and vanish with a flap; The wind flung a magpie away and a black- Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house
Rang like some fine green goblet in the note That any second would shatter it. Now deep In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,
Or each other. We watch the fire blazing, And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on, Seeing the window tremble to come in, Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.
|
|
|
October
Oct 9, 2014 23:59:28 GMT -5
Post by beth on Oct 9, 2014 23:59:28 GMT -5
The Rilke is new to me and I like it a lot.
Ted Hughes is a always a treat and one of my favorite poets.
Thanks Lin .. kp
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
October
Oct 11, 2014 18:04:46 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 11, 2014 18:04:46 GMT -5
Thanks, Beth; Rilke is one of my favourite poets and so is Ted Hughes.
Here's the first of a new trio:
The Love of October
W S Merwin
A child looking at ruins grows younger but cold and wants to wake to a new name I have been younger in October than in all the months of spring walnut and may leaves the color of shoulders at the end of summer a month that has been to the mountain and become light there the long grass lies pointing uphill even in death for a reason that none of us knows and the wren laughs in the early shade now come again shining glance in your good time naked air late morning my love is for lightness of touch foot feather the day is yet one more yellow leaf and without turning I kiss the light by an old well on the last of the month gathering wild rose hips in the sun.
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
October
Oct 11, 2014 18:05:06 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 11, 2014 18:05:06 GMT -5
Autumn Fires
Robert Louis Stevenson
In the other gardens And all up the vale, From the autumn bonfires See the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers, The red fire blazes, The gray smoke towers.
Sing a song of seasons! Something bright in all! Flowers in the summer, Fires in the fall!
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
October
Oct 11, 2014 18:05:21 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 11, 2014 18:05:21 GMT -5
To the Thawing Wind
Robert Frost
Come with rain, O loud Southwester! Bring the singer, bring the nester; Give the buried flower a dream; Make the settled snow-bank steam; Find the brown beneath the white; But whate'er you do to-night, Bathe my window, make it flow, Melt it as the ice will go; Melt the glass and leave the sticks Like a hermit's crucifix; Burst into my narrow stall; Swing the picture on the wall; Run the rattling pages o'er; Scatter poems on the floor; Turn the poet out of door.
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
October
Oct 12, 2014 17:03:03 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 12, 2014 17:03:03 GMT -5
Poppies in October Sylvia Plath
Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts. Nor the woman in the ambulance Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly –
A gift, a love gift Utterly unasked for By a sky
Palely and flamily Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes Dulled to a halt under bowlers.
Oh my God, what am I That these late mouths should cry open In a forest of frosts, in a dawn of cornflowers.
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
October
Oct 12, 2014 17:03:30 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 12, 2014 17:03:30 GMT -5
Autumn Movement
Carl Sandburg
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
October
Oct 12, 2014 17:03:49 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 12, 2014 17:03:49 GMT -5
SEA-WIND
Stéphane Mallarmé
The flesh is sad, alas! and all the books are read. Flight, only flight! I feel that birds are wild to tread The floor of unknown foam, and to attain the skies! Nought, neither ancient gardens mirrored in the eyes, Shall hold this heart that bathes in waters its delight, O nights! nor yet my waking lamp, whose lonely light Shadows the vacant paper, whiteness profits best, Nor the young wife who rocks her baby on her breast. I will depart! O steamer, swaying rope and spar, Lift anchor for exotic lands that lie afar! A weariness, outworn by cruel hopes, still clings To the last farewell handkerchief's last beckonings! And are not these, the masts inviting storms, not these That an awakening wind bends over wrecking seas, Lost, not a sail, a sail, a flowering isle, ere long? But, O my heart, hear thou, hear thou, the sailors' song!
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
October
Oct 17, 2014 15:44:04 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 17, 2014 15:44:04 GMT -5
There are two Ripenings
Emily Dickinson
There are two Ripenings -- one -- of sight -- Whose forces Spheric wind Until the Velvet product Drop spicy to the ground -- A homelier maturing -- A process in the Bur -- That teeth of Frosts alone disclose In far October Air.
|
|
ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
|
October
Oct 17, 2014 15:44:22 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 17, 2014 15:44:22 GMT -5
Autumn Song
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf How the heart feels a languid grief Laid on it for a covering, And how sleep seems a goodly thing In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?
And how the swift beat of the brain Falters because it is in vain, In Autumn at the fall of the leaf Knowest thou not? and how the chief Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?
Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf How the soul feels like a dried sheaf Bound up at length for harvesting, And how death seems a comely thing In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?
|
|