Poetry Friday: Dark Birds

All the dark birds,
but one,
rush from the river
leaving only the stillness
of their language.

                 -- Anita Endrezze, Yaqui

You can check out more great poems at Matt Forrest's blog, Radio, Rhythm & Rhyme.

Poetry Friday: Black-Eyed Susan and Sweet William

All in the dawn the fleet was moor'd,
The streamers waving to the wind,
When Black-eyed Susan came on board,
Oh where shall I my true love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William, if my sweet William
Sails among your crew?

Oh William, who high upon the yard,
Rocked with the billows to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sigh'd and cast his eyes below:
The cord slides swiftly thro' his glowing hands
And as quick as lightning, and as quick as lightning
On the deck he stands.

So sweet the lark, high poised in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
If, chance, his mate's shrill voice he hear,
And drops at once into her nest:
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William, might envy William's
Lip those kisses sweet.

'Oh Susan, Susan, lovely dear!
My vows shall ever true remain,
Let me kiss off that falling tear,
We only part to meet again:
Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be
The faithful compass, the faithful compass
That still points to thee.

'Oh, believe not what the landsmen say
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind,
They'll tell thee sailors when away,
In every port a mistress find:
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present, for thou art present
Wheresoe'er I go.

If to fair India's coast we sail,
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright:
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,
Thy skin as ivory so white:
Thus every beauteous object that I view
Wakes in my soul, wakes in my soul
Some charm of lovely Sue.'

Though battle call me from thy arms
Let not my pretty Susan mourn:
Though cannon roar, yet safe from harms
William shall to his dear return:
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly
Lest precious tears, lest precious tears
Should drop from Susan's eye.

The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
Her sails their swelling bosom spread:
No longer can she stay on board -
They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head:
Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land,
'Adieu,' she cries, 'Adieu,' she cries
And waved her lily hand.


                              --John Gay
                                 1685-1732

It's said one of America's favorite wildflowers was named for the Susan in this poem by the popular poet, John Gay.  The story of Susan and William live on in the flowers. If you plant  Black-eyed Susans and Sweet William seeds together, they will bloom together. Cool, huh? I think so!

Do you like Black-eyed Susans? I love them. Years ago I transplanted some wild Susans to my yard, and their seeds live on today in deep yellow petals with their brown (not black) eyes that bloom in my lawn. They grow freely there, and I dutifully mow around them! I don't mind the little extra effort it takes. The picture at the top of the page is one of them, looking very much like a hat!

The Black-eyed Susan is native to the plains, which is another reason I love them so (I'm a native myself). Native Americans found lots of uses for this versatile plant, including as an astringent, a diuretic, and ear drops. 

Head on over to Life is Better with Books to check out today's Poetry Friday roundup.

 

Poetry Friday: Origami

This word unfolds, gathers up wind
to speed the crane's flight
north of my sun to you.

I am shaping this poem
out of paper, folding
distances between our seasons.

This paper is a crane.
When its wings unfold,
The paper will be pure and empty.

                      -- Marjorie Evasco






It has just been one super-busy week, visitors arriving soon (it's summer!) and it's my turn to post for my favorite of all days, Poetry Friday.

I originally posted this poem at my now slumbering blog The Incredible Thinking Woman. Even today, long into its bloggy snooze, this post has proven to be one of my most-viewed -- at least according to my Real Time counter.

The post also featured Marjorie's wonderful and wonderfully short titled essay entitled Why I Write.

By the way, there are some pretty amazing things being done with cut paper today (not by me, b/c I'm too busy!). You can check them out here: Going West and Hoedown.

It's too rainy for Amy to be hoeing her crops over at the Poem Farm, but we're sure she's inside posting all our Poetry Friday entries and planning her next crop. Head on over!

Poetry Friday: I Meant To Do My Work Today

I meant to do my work today,
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.
And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand,
So what could I do but laugh and go?

-- Richard LeGallienne

By the way, Carol and Jack are hosting over at their corner . . . right over here.

Poetry Friday: The Early Bird

Still dark, and raining hard

on a cold May morning

and yet the early bird

is out there chirping,

chirping its sweet-sour

wooden-pulley notes,

pleased, it would seem,

to be given work,

hauling the heavy bucket of dawn

up from the darkness,

note over note,

and letting us drink.

                    --Ted Kooser

(Oh, Ted. I love you so.)
 

You can find more totally lovable poets (and their poems) over at Live Your Poem where Irene is hosting today. 

Poetry Friday: girl (three) and the black horse

i want to hold the horse's string
cried the girl (three) stamping her foot
told by adults she was much too young
the black horse stood staring at the wall

it worries us you may get hurt
the adults whispered - meaning to offer
comfort to the little madam (not convinced)
the black horse stood staring at the wall

i'm stronger than any old black horse
the child shouted parading round the ring
thinking she was the star turn at the circus
the black horse stood staring at the wall

well i suppose.....take care ....ok
the adults muttered full of apprehension
the girl (three) poised - flexing her muscles
the black horse stood staring at the wall

now take the lead and grip it tight
they sighed fluttering hands like pigeons
she scoffed at the soft instructions
the black horse stood staring at the wall

it's easy-peasy lemon-cheesy
she triumphed (but doing as they asked)
the adults tried to swallow their fear
the black horse stood staring at the wall

so off to the man in the moon
the girl (three) laughed jerking the lead
swelling to the size of a goddess
the black horse reared like pegasus's colt

don't wait for me - i could be ages
the girl (three) sang to the shrinking adults
as the black horse leapt above the wall
the flowering cherries and the church spire

when i'm a grown-up - then i'll come
was the last the adults heard as the horse
and the girl (three) changed into pinpoints
and the world collapsed to its dull old self 

                             --Rg Gregory

Elaine is hosting Poetry Friday today over at Wild Rose Reader. Gallop on over . . . quick now, before the world collapses into its dull old self!

Still . . . I think you have time for one more horsey post, which you can find below. Read it, and then git!

Poetry Friday: Only the Wind Says Spring

The grass still is pale, and spring is yet only a wind stirring
      Over the open field.
There is no green even under the forest leaves.
     No buds are blurring
     The pencil sketch of trees. No meadows yield
The song of the larks, nor the buzz of bees conferring.
Only the wind says spring. Everything else shouts winter:
     The whitened beards of grass,
The shriveled legs of corn with their trousers flapping,
     The year-old cuts in the root of the sassafras;
A spruce-cone empty of seeds, the scales unwrapping
     Open to dryness, last year's withered peach,
A stiff tomato-vine begun to splinter,
     The crones of milkweed talking each to each.

The earth stands mute, without a voice to sing.
But the wind says spring.

                                   -- Helen Janet Miller

Heidi is hosting Poetry Friday at her juicy little universe over at My Juicy Little Universe. Blow on over and check out the offerings!

The photo is from the Library of Congress.

Poetry Friday: Said the Toad

I was really in a muddle

looking over a mud puddle

'cause I didn't have a paddle

or a twig to ride the reef.

But I said, Oh, fiddle-faddle,

this is just a little piddle

of a second fiddle puddle

so I saddled up a leaf.

I set sail on the puddle,

but I reached the muddy middle

and I rocked the leaf a little,

then I gave it all I had.

And I solved the mighty riddle

of the whole caboodle puddle

when I hopped up on the middle

of a beetle launching pad.

                         -- J. Patrick Lewis
                             2011 Children's Poet Laureate


Gregory is hosting Poetry Friday over at GottaBook. Gottagetoverthere to see what's going on!

It's March Madness, so we know all you're thinking about are your brackets. What? You're not? Not even for Madness! 2012?

Well, okay. Other folks are clearly thinking brackets, and you might want to get in on the action over at Ed DeCaria's Think, Kid. Think. You can check out Greg's poem, Wake Up Call as it goes up against David Cawley's Changing His Tune. You can even vote for your favorite and those of the other Poet-Athletes found here.

Poetry Friday: Memory

Another forgotten poem by New Hampshire's Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

My mind lets go a thousand things,

Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,

And yet recalls the very hour--

'T was noon by yonder village tower,

And on the last blue noon in May--

The wind came briskly up this way,

Crisping the brook beside the road;

Then, pausing here, set down its load

Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly

Two petals from that wild-rose tree.

And really, which memory is more valuable?

Poetry Friday is being hosted this week at Check it Out!

Poetry Friday: The Fawn

        
Sunday morning and mellow as precious metal
The church bells rang, but I went
To the woods instead.

A fawn, too new
For fear, rose from the grass
And stood with its spots blazing,
And knowing no way but words,
No trick but music,
I sang to him.

He listened.
His small hooves struck the grass.
Oh what is holiness?

The fawn came closer,
Walked to my hands, to my knees.

I did not touch him.
I only sang, and when the doe came back
Calling out to him dolefully
And he turned and followed her into the trees,
Still I sang,
Not knowing how to end such a joyful text,

Until far off the bells once more tipped and tumbled
And rang through the morning, announcing
The going forth of the blessed.

                    -- Mary Oliver from Twelve Moons

Gathering Books is hosting today, and it's worth a looksee!

Poetry Friday: Dishwater

Slap of the screen door, flat knock
of my grandmother's boxy black shoes
on the wooden stoop, the hush and sweep
of her knob-kneed, cotton-aproned stride
out to the edge and then, toed in
with a furious twist and heave,
a bridge that leaps from her hot red hands
and hangs there shining for fifty years
over the mystified chickens,
over the swaying nettles, the ragweed,
the clay slope down to the creek,
over the redwing blackbirds in the tops
of the willows, a glorious rainbow
with an empty dishpan swinging at one end.

                -- Ted Kooser

I think Dishwater is one of the BEST POEMS EVER. To find some other candidates, stride on over to Teaching Authors where JoAnn is hosting today.

Poetry Friday

Curiosity

may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.
Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems,
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
does not endear him to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
such wagging of incurious heads and tails.

Face it. Curiosity
will not cause him to die -
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill,
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.
Only the curious
have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.

Dogs say he loves too much, is irresponsible,
is changeable, marries too many wives,
deserts his children, chills all dinner tables
with tales of his nine lives.
Well, he is lucky. Let him be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what he has to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
and dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that hell is where, to live, they have to go.

Alastair Reid

Curious about other great poetry? Head over to Book Aunt for some wonderful water poetry and more!

Poetry Friday: Tiny Roads Inside the Cabbage

I have this book, titled above. I'm not even sure where I got it -- a teacher's conference I suppose. It was published by New Hampshire poets Marie Harris and Deb Alberts; made possible by a grant from the NH Commission on the Arts and National Endowment.

The book celebrates ten years of poets working in the schools, and highlights some of the poems written by students from 1972-1982.

Here are a couple I love from Marie Harris's students:

Great Grandad

He was a strong man,
sitting up in his chair,
his calloused hands
running through his thin gray hair.
He was a funny man
always with a hat upon his head.
When he pinched Great Grandma
her gentle face turned red.
He would reach down to his shoe
and pretend he was tying a knot,
then when she wasn't looking
he would take a shot.
He told us never to tell
about his little bottle.

              -- Mike Evenson, Grade 9, Spaulding Jr. High, Rochester (NH)


Shy Soup

What to put in?
Let's try the loneliness of the corner
The pain of downcast eyes
The lone gloom that hangs above
The damp chill of the closed door
Maybe the soreness of quick moving feet
The rapid heartbeat
Or the yellow mist that drowns the soul

We will cook it on the smallest match
A broken spiderweb
A drop of dew.
With luck it will taste like a cleraed throat
or the loss of breath.

We'll stir it with the thinnest icicle
and it eat with a butterfly's wing.
Lastly, it will look like a piece of silk,
alone in a field of cashmere.

                     -- Carrie Steadman, grade 8, Spaulding Jr. High, Rochester

Carol his hosting Poetry Friday over at her corner. Check it out!

Poetry Friday: Reluctance

 

Out through the fields and the woods

And over the hills I have wended;

I have climbed the hills of view

And looked at the world, and descended;

I have come by the highway home,

And lo, it is ended.

 

The leaves are all dead on the ground,

Save those that the oak is keeping

To ravel them one by one

And let them go scraping and creeping

Out over the crusted snow,

When others are sleeping.

 

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,

No longer blown hither and thither;

The last lone astor is gone;

The flowers of the witch hazel wither;

The heart is still aching to seek,

But the feet question"Whither?"

 

Ah, when to the heart of man

Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

Of a love or a season?

                -- Robert Frost 

Heidi is hosting Poetry Friday over at My Juicy Little Universe, where she has a fabulous poem by one of my favorites -- Louis Untermeyer. You need some exercise after yesterday's feast, so trot on over.

Before you go, scroll down and read about Sarah Josepha Hale, who -- in a fashion -- brought you yesterday's feast . . .

Photo by Janet Buell

Poetry Friday

I've always been fascinated by Alice and her trip down the rabbit hole, although I do prefer her travels across the chessboard better. Of all the fantasy worlds I've encountered, Wonderland is the only place where truly anything can happen. In all those other worlds, there is a certain logic that has to be followed. Wonderland, on the other hand, is a dreamworld, and we all know dreams don't necessarily have to make sense, so anything can happen in Wonderland. And if you write fantasy, it opens up a lot of possibilities. I have been dabbling with an Alice on the psychiatrist's couch story for several months. The following poem imagines her being born in China. I'm already thinking what a great story that could be.

If Alice. . .
By Alexandra Seidel

If Alice had been born in China
her feet would have been bound
(so much easier to stumble
down rabbit holes with these.)

The Rabbit (fourth of the zodiac,
followed by Dragon, preceded
by Tiger) in his compassion
and serene sincerity
would have waited for her,
tumbled with her,
chatted all the way.

The Cheshire Cat
of course, would have been a tiger
stripes at least as piercing as the smile
quiet and yet
always ready to leap.
It would have said to Alice
in her blue and gold embroidered silk gown
much the same things--
tigers, after all, are also cats
if less docile, less tame.

The caterpillar might well have been
a dragon
as of yet unhatched
sleeping in a hot fuming egg
but waking often
to speak through the iridescent shell,
speak strangely, but never quite untrue.

The Hatter
mad and drinking tea
would have been a hairdresser
no doubt
with fabulous black tresses
rising like winding towers from his head
scissors poised behind his back.

Then there is the Red Queen who
would have been an empress. She
would still wear red
but also gold and white jade
and with her long pinky fingernails
she would have snatched eyes
before she ever took heads.

Her roses
are peonies in the East
not red but almost so, with their dark pink
that is painted on ink here
because in truth
those oriental peonies bloomed ebony white.

And then
the thing that would pluck
the Chinese Alice from her daydream
would be mahjongg stones
falling heavy
and waking her
to the shadows of living temples
the sound of honking cars
the smell and sound of people all around her
and to a different life
that would be not that different
at all.

Tread carefully through the rabbit hole and, hopefully, you'll find yourself at Teaching Authors where you'll discover a wondrous world of poetry to explore.

Poetry Friday: All Souls

A few of us—Hillary Clinton, Vlad Dracula,   

Oprah Winfrey, and Trotsky—peer through   

the kitchen window at a raccoon perched   

outside on a picnic table where it picks

over chips, veggies, olives, and a chunk of pâte.   

Behind us others crowd the hallway, many more

dance in the living room. Trotsky fusses with the bloody   

screwdriver puttied to her forehead.

Hillary Clinton, whose voice is the rumble

of a bowling ball, whose hands are hairy

to the third knuckle, lifts his rubber chin to announce,   

“What a perfect mask it has!” While the Count

whistling through his plastic fangs says, “Oh,   

and a nose like a chef.” Then one by one   

the other masks join in: “Tail of a gambler,”   

“a swashbuckler’s hips,” “feet of a cat burglar.”

Trotsky scratches herself beneath her skirt

and Hillary, whose lederhosen are so tight they form a codpiece,   

wraps his legs around Trotsky’s leg and humps like a dog.   

Dracula and Oprah, the married hosts, hold hands

and then let go. Meanwhile the raccoon squats on   

the gherkins, extracts pimentos from olives, and sniffs   

abandoned cups of beer. A ghoul in the living room   

turns the music up and the house becomes a drum.

The windows buzz. “Who do you love? Who do you love?”   

the singer sings. Our feathered arms, our stockinged legs.   

The intricate paws, the filleting tongue.

We love what we are; we love what we’ve become.

                                   --Michael Collier

Write Sister, Diane, is hosting today, so grab a bag and head over to Random Noodling for a real treat.

Afterwards, check out Becca Klaver's Halloween Sampler over at The Poetry Foundation. 

The top photo is by legendary photojournalist, Robert Capa. You can read more about him here.

 

Poetry Friday: Now Close the Windows

Now close the windows and hush all the fields:

     If the trees must, let them silently toss;

No bird is singing now, and if there is,

    Be it my loss.

It will be long ere the marshes resume,

    It will be long ere the earliest bird;

So close the windows and not hear the wind,

     But see all wind-stirred.

                            -- Robert Frost

Jama is hosting Poetry Friday right here, so get over there!

Photo by Janet Buell, 2011

Poetry Friday

Location, location, location! They say it's 'everything.' Well, they may be right when it comes to hurricanes. Here in New England, hurricanes seldom amount to much. By the time they arrive, they're usually all tuckered out and spit out some rain and blustery wind. But if you happen to live in the Carolina's or the gulf, they're a whole different animal. And what happens when they hit even further south?

Problems with Hurricanes

A campesino looked at the air
And told me:
With hurricanes it's not the wind
or the noise or the water.
I'll tell you he said:
it's the mangoes, avocados
Green plantains and bananas
flying into town like projectiles.

How would your family
feel if they had to tell
The generations that you
got killed by a flying
Banana.

Death by drowning has honor
If the wind picked you up
and slammed you
Against a mountain boulder
This would not carry shame
But
to suffer a mango smashing
Your skull
or a plantain hitting your
Temple at 70 miles per hour
is the ultimate disgrace.

The campesino takes off his hat—
As a sign of respect
toward the fury of the wind
And says:
Don't worry about the noise
Don't worry about the water
Don't worry about the wind—
If you are going out
beware of mangoes
And all such beautiful
sweet things.

~~~Victor Hernandez Cruz

Today's Poetry Friday is over at Great Kids' Books
Trek on over, but watch out for the flying fruit

Poetry Friday: The Kama Sutra of Kindness: Position Number 3

It's easy to love through a cold spring when the poles of the willows turn green pollen falls like a yellow curtain and the scent of Paper Whites clots the air but to love for a lifetime takes talent you have to mix yourself with the strange beauty of someone else wake each morning for 72,000 mornings in a row so breathed and bound and tangled that you can hardly sort out your arms and legs you have to find forgiveness in everything even ink stains and broken cups you have to be willing to move through life together the way the long grasses move in a field when you careen blindly toward the other side there's never going to be anything straight or predictable about your path except the flattening and the springing back you just go on walking for years hand in hand waist deep in the weeds bent slightly forward like two question marks and all the while it burns my dear it burns beautifully above you and goes on burning like a relentless sun  "The Kama Sutra of Kindness: Position Number 3" by Mary Mackey, from Breaking the Fever. © Marsh Hawk Press, 2006.  Anastasia is hosting Poetry Friday over at Picture Book of the Day. Be relentless in your pursuit of poetry.

Poetry Friday - A Dollop of Dahl

There's nothing like a little Roald Dahl to start off your day and get you in the right frame of mind for the challenges ahead.



Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf
by Roald Dahl

As soon as Wolf began to feel
That he would like a decent meal,
He went and knocked on Grandma's door.
When Grandma opened it, she saw
The sharp white teeth, the horrid grin,
And Wolfie said, 'May I come in?'
Poor Grandmamma was terrified,
'He's going to eat me up!' she cried.
And she was absolutely right.
He ate her up in one big bite.

But Grandmamma was small and tough,
And Wolfie wailed, 'That's not enough!
I haven't yet begun to feel
That I have had a decent meal!'
He ran around the kitchen yelping,
'I've got to have a second helping!'
Then added with a frightful leer,
'I'm therefore going to wait right here
Till Little Miss Red Riding Hood
Comes home from walking in the wood.'

He quickly put on Grandma's clothes,
(Of course he hadn't eaten those).
He dressed himself in coat and hat.
He put on shoes, and after that,
He even brushed and curled his hair,
Then sat himself in Grandma's chair.
In came the little girl in red.
She stopped. She stared. And then she said,

'What great big ears you have, Grandma.'

'All the better to hear you with,'
the Wolf replied.

'What great big eyes you have, Grandma.'
said Little Red Riding Hood.

'All the better to see you with,'
the Wolf replied.

He sat there watching her and smiled.
He thought, I'm going to eat this child.
Compared with her old Grandmamma,
She's going to taste like caviar.

Then Little Red Riding Hood said, '
But Grandma, what a lovely great big
furry coat you have on.'

'That's wrong!' cried Wolf. 'Have you forgot
To tell me what BIG TEETH I've got?
Ah well, no matter what you say,
I'm going to eat you anyway.'

The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers.
She whips a pistol from her knickers.
She aims it at the creature's head,
And bang bang bang, she shoots him dead.

A few weeks later, in the wood,
I came across Miss Riding Hood.
But what a change! No cloak of red,
No silly hood upon her head.
She said, 'Hello, and do please note
My lovely furry wolfskin coat.'


This week's Poetry Friday is over at The Miss Rumpius Effect where you can gobble up more wonderful goodies.

Art by korann