THE MOON
   by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

I.

AND, like a dying lady lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky east
A white and shapeless mass.


II.

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

Daily Something #20: Discovering Cinquain

A cinquain is a poem with five unrhymed lines that consist of a 2, 4, 6, 8, 2 syllabic pattern.  This poem was written by Adelaide Crapsey, the inventor of the cinquain.

November Night
By Adelaide Crapsey (1878-1914)

Listen...
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.

Facing the Sun

"Bring me the sunflower crazed with the love of light."  -Eugenio Montale

I have been reading some poetry by the Italian poet, Eugenio Montale (1896-1981). He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1975.  Here is one of my favorite translations of his sunflower poem. The above quote is translated in a different way: The Sunflower .

Daily Something #17: A Quote Going Backwards

Quotes are one of those things that sometimes follow the grapevine phenomenon and end up being reworded or taken out of context.  After perusing a large bunch of quotation stationery the other day, I started thinking about what I would discover if I backtracked one of my favorite quotes.  To my surprise, the quote was not exactly what Whitman had said, but regardless, the poem is worth sharing.


Miracles
     Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love,
Or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown,
Or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--
The ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

Sunflower Rising

Sunflowers are the flowers of giants - they demand attention.  I took these photos at a farm the other day.  I was on my way home and was caught by the light and shadows reflected off the bright yellow petals and the dark green leaves.


Ah, Sunflower
by William Blake
(1757-1827)

---

Ah, sunflower, weary of time,
     Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
     Where the traveller's journey is done;
Where the Youth pined away with desire,
     And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
     Where my Sunflower wishes to go! 

May It Be

Where the Sun Rises First

Daily Something #15: The Discovery of Poetry and Anaphora

In Chapter 5 of The Discovery of Poetry, Frances Mayes covers the topics of  rhyme and repetition in poetry.  Out of all the concepts she describes, the one I was most intrigued with is the concept of anaphora.  Anaphora is a repeated pattern used in poetry in which the beginning word or words of a line repeat.  Mayes includes a poem in her book called "Night Song" by Lisel Mueller that is a perfect example of anaphora:

Night Song
(Lisel Mueller, 1924-)

Among rocks, I am the loose one,
among arrows, I am the heart,
among daughters, I am the recluse,
among sons, the one who dies young.

Among answers, I am the question,
between lovers, I am the sword,
among scars, I am the fresh wound,
among confetti, the black flag.

Among shoes, I am the one with the pebble,
among days, the one that never comes,
among the bones you find on the beach
the one that sings was mine.

Daily Something #13: Words in a Box

For those of you who have been following my interest in poetry, here is a site that will allow you to experience words on a whole new level.  MyKu World challenges you to experiment with saying a lot in the context of four lines and a box.  Subjects change and conversations abound in a unique play with words.   You can even create your own nom de plume!  (See if you can discover mine.)

MYKU World

Daily Something #11: The Discovery of Poetry and Three Reads of The Eve of St. Agnes

In chapter three of The Discovery of Poetry, Frances Mayes discusses the various concepts of images in poetry.  At the end of each of her chapters, she includes various poems that relate to the theme of the chapter.  For the most part, I haven't been overwhelmed with her selections, until I got to  a poem called The Eve of St. Agnes by John Keats.  It was published in 1820 and is a narrative poem that takes place in a castle during the Middle Ages.  Madeline, one of the main characters, is convinced that she will see a vision of her future husband in a dream.  I was a bit overwhelmed after my first reading and ended up reading it two more times.  However, I can now say, I have a better appreciation for what was accomplished in Keats' arrangement of words. This poem is considered to be amongst his best.  I'm glad I gave it a chance.

The Eve of St. Agnes by John Keats
Oral Interpretation of The Eve of St. Agnes
Background and Analysis of The Eve of St. Agnes

  

Budding

Budding
Budding flowers
Budding flowers spring
Budding flowers spring brings

Typically when I think of spring, one of the images that comes to mind is a flowering tree of some sort, but usually it's the "whole" tree and all its branches.  I took this shot wanting to show the delicacy of spring and the beauty in something that is typically overlooked. 

   To Spring

         William Blake  1757-1827

    O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
    Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn
    Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
    Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

    The hills tell each other, and the listening
    Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned
    Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,
    And let thy holy feet visit our clime.

    Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
    Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
    Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
    Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.

    O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
    Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
    Thy golden crown upon her languished head,
    Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.

Daily Something #7: Daylight Savings Time

TIME WARP

         (Lora Gill)

In the midst of the first day
of daylight savings,
my mind is lost
in the hour
I am missing.

Lost in the hour
meant for dreaming,
the hour of sleep that wrestles
with the cascading moments of thought
before the due of waking.

Sunday was the first day of daylight savings time in the U.S., and yesterday while I was running around checking things off my "to do" list and thinking about studying geography, I started wondering about how daylight savings time affects other parts of the world.  Here is a site I found that provides a lot of interesting information on the topic:   DST

Daily Something #5: My Thoughts on Words

Words are more than just labels.  They are the currency of explanation and are more than just ink on a page.  They give voice to our environment, our dreams, and the most private parts of our inner being.  When I think of words, I think of them in four dimensions.  I'll use the word lollipop as an example.

First, there is the appearance of the word, how the letters are grouped and combined.  Take, for example, the letters l, i, and p.  They give a sense of balance to the word lollipop.  The second dimension is how the word sounds when you say it or hear it spoken.  The l's roll off your tongue and move into a powerful explosion at the end.  The meaning of the word is the third dimension. Some words have only one meaning or a very dominant meaning that makes them resonate more than others.  Lollipop is one of those words.  When we see or hear it, we can't help but think of a yummy treat on a stick.  And that brings me to the fourth dimension, which is how a word makes us feel and what it makes us remember.

With this in mind, I'll begin sharing some of my favorite words with you.  Here is the first batch of ten out of my one hundred.

1.  circle

2.  masquerade 

3.  breathe

4.  luminescence

5.  slipper

6.  slow

7.  cloud

8.  honeysuckle

9.  happenstance

10.  embrace

Taking Advantage of What Was Left Behind

SHE:

I ate your pistachios left in the bag on the counter,

Cracked them open  SNAP!  SNAP!  SNAP!

Savored every greenish nut, except for the one

That was rotten and left a bitter taste in my mouth.

HE:

Upon reaching the snow covered cabin,

I searched my backpack for the salted, green nuts,

Only to realize that in my forgetfulness

My lover savored them as a gift in my absence.

-LG

Daily Something #4: An Exercise with Words

In an earlier post, I mentioned that I am reading The Discovery of Poetry by Frances Mayes. So far, I have been thoroughly enjoying it.  In chapter two, she discusses how we are affected by the texture and sounds of words and suggests an exercise that will allow you to discover what your eyes, ears, and imagination particularly respond to by writing down your one hundred favorite words.  This seems simple enough, but if you're like me, once you try it, you'll soon discover that pairing down the English language to a mere one hundred words is a nerve racking exercise.  No matter the quality and richness of the words you choose, you're bound to feel as if you've wrongly discriminated against thousands of other perfectly good words.  But, choices must be made, and a line must be drawn in the dictionary's sand.

The Eye of an Apple

This is the one and only apple that was left in my fruit bowl.  I ate it, and it was delicious.

*After Apple-Picking by Robert Frost : a reading

*After Apple-Picking : poem analysis and essay 

The Swirls that Lead to the Dust of the Road

I'm not exactly sure what this ornamental grass is called, but I like its stiff stalks and the fluff and swirls of its seed pods.  I was thinking about how strong the wind would have to be if these seeds were going to blow anywhere, and then started thinking about tumbleweed and how it looks when it's rolling around in the desert sand, and that reminded me of dust.

And then...I thought of a poem by W.S. Merwin.  It's called To the Dust of the Road.

And in the morning you are up again

with the way leading through you for a while

longer if the wind is motionless when

the cars reach where the asphalt ends a mile

or so below the main road and the wave

you rise into is different every time

and you are one with it until you have

made your way up to the top of your climb

and brightened in that moment of that day

and then you turn as when you rose before

in fire or wind from the ends of the earth

to pause here and you seem to drift away

on into nothing to lie down once more

until another breath brings you to birth

Freeze Frame

The stillness of cold

as winter exhales its breath

brings silence to life.

-LG

Daily Something #1: Thoughts on Poetry and Starting a Book by Frances Mayes

Over the past year and a half I have grown to really enjoy poetry.  It is something that takes me to another place, just like art, music, literature, and photography.  I like the way words sound together and how a lot can be said in so few words.  It's easy to think that if you start reading poetry, you have to start out with the poets of old, but that is such a misconceived notion.  I'm still not at the point where I can fully grasp the "big" stuff, but it is a goal of mine.

I'm sharing this with you because I'm getting ready to read The Discovery of Poetry: A Field Guide to Reading and Writing Poems by Frances Mayes, and I thought it might be interesting to share some of my thoughts as I read through this book.

Here is the link to the book for those of you who might have an inkling:

The Discovery of Poetry .

On that note, let me share with you a poem.  I think the reason I like it so much is that it references "still life" and "painting" - two things I can totally relate to.  That, and the desires of the heart.


Not Touching

  The valentine of desire is pasted over my heart
  and still we are not touching, like things

  in a poorly done still life
  where the knife appears to be floating over the plate
  which is itself hovering above the table somehow,

  the entire arrangement of apple, pear, and wineglass
  have forgotten the law of gravity,
  refusing to be still,

  as if the painter had caught them all
  in a rare moment of slow flight
  just before they drifted out of the room
  through a window of perfectly realistic sunlight.

       Billy Collins (U.S. Poet Laureate 2001-2003)

Before the Cut

onions

About the Onion

After I took the picture of my coffee mug, I started doing some research on still life photography and decided to give it another try.  Why did I pick onions?  I didn't have any fruit and wanted the chance to share some more poetry.

Onions by William Matthews

Coffee in the Morning

my new coffee mug

Today
Frank O'Hara, 1926-1966

Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas!
You really are beautiful!  Pearls,
harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins!  all
the stuff they've always talked about

still makes a poem a surprise!
These things are with us every day
even on beachheads and biers.  They
do have meaning.  They're strong as rocks.


Today Over Coffee
Lora Gill

Oh!  Yorkshire terriers, silly bands, Starbucks coffee!
You really are beautiful!  Cell phones,
iPods, GPSs, digital cameras! all
the stuff they've always talked about

still makes a poem a surprise!
These things are with us every day
even in the car and at the bedside table.  They
do have meaning.  They're strong as rocks.

But not all that life is meant to be.


   

Sweeping

While I was taking a walk through the woods the other day, I stopped and stood under this tree and listened to the sound of its branches rustling in the wind.  It reminded me of one of my favorite poems.

The Autumn

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1833)

 Go, sit upon the lofty hill,

And turn your eyes around,

Where waving woods and waters wild

Do hymn an autumn sound.

The summer sun is faint on them -

The summer flowers depart -

Sit still - as all transform'd to stone,

Except your musing heart.

How there you sat in summer-time,

May yet be in your mind;

And how you heard the green woods sing

Beneath the freshening wind.

Though the same wind now blows around,

You would its blast recall;

For every breath that stirs the trees,

Doth cause a leaf to fall.

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth

That flesh and dust impart:

We cannot bear its visitings,

When change is on the heart.

Gay words and jests may make us smile,

When sorrow is asleep;

But other things must make us smile,

When sorrow bids us weep!

The dearest hands that clasp our hands, -

Their presence may be o'er;

The dearest voice that meets our ear,

That tone may come no more!

Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,

Which once refresh'd our mind,

Shall come - as, on those sighing woods,

The chilling autumn wind.

Hear not the wind - view not the woods;

Look out o'er vale and hill -

In spring, the sky encircled them -

The sky is round them still.

Come autumn's scathe - come winter's cold -

Come change - and human fate!

Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,

Can ne'er be desolate.