by E. E. Cummings (1894-1962)
the greedy the people
(as if as can yes)
they sell and they buy
and they die for because
though the bell in the steeple
says Why
the chary the wary
(as all as can each)
they don't and they do
and they turn to a which
though the moon in her glory
says Who
the busy the millions
(as you're as can i'm)
they flock and they flee
through a thunder of seem
though the stars in their silence
say Be
the cunning the craven
(as think as can feel)
they when and they how
and they live for until
though the sun in his heaven
says Now
the timid the tender
(as doubt as can trust)
they work and they pray
and they bow to a must
though the earth in her splendor
says May
Sunday, May 24, 2020
Sunday, May 17, 2020
Morning Poem
by Mary Oliver (1935-2019)
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches—
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead—
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging—
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted—
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
*
And here is a video of the poem being read by my friend Elena:
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches—
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead—
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging—
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted—
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
*
And here is a video of the poem being read by my friend Elena:
Friday, May 8, 2020
Psalm for Kingston
by Shara McCallum (b. 1972)
Text of the poem can be found here.
*
And here is Shara McCallum reading "Psalm for Kingston," with a brief introduction.
*
Things to think about:
This poem contains a lot of descriptions and phrases about the poet's early life in Kingston, Jamaica. Some of the proper names (Jack Mandora) might not be familiar; others (Bob Marley) probably will be!
There is a lot going on in this poem. I'd invite you to simply sit back and listen (or read), and take as much of it in as you can. Ask yourself: Would you like to live in Kingston? Are there good things or bad things going on in the city? Is it a calm place or a lively place? Is there friendliness or hostility, peace or menace, maybe all of the above?
Text of the poem can be found here.
*
And here is Shara McCallum reading "Psalm for Kingston," with a brief introduction.
*
Things to think about:
This poem contains a lot of descriptions and phrases about the poet's early life in Kingston, Jamaica. Some of the proper names (Jack Mandora) might not be familiar; others (Bob Marley) probably will be!
There is a lot going on in this poem. I'd invite you to simply sit back and listen (or read), and take as much of it in as you can. Ask yourself: Would you like to live in Kingston? Are there good things or bad things going on in the city? Is it a calm place or a lively place? Is there friendliness or hostility, peace or menace, maybe all of the above?
From "Fern Hill"
by Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
*
Hear Dylan Thomas reading the whole poem:
*
Things to think about:
I have to confess. The first time I read this poem, I didn't care for it. I didn't know what a "dingle" was, and that bothered me. "Golden in the heydays of his eyes" wasn't a phrase I could easily make sense of. And what's going on with being green and carefree?
But I discovered other poems by Dylan Thomas that I liked. And I learned that some of his poems are best listened to, as we might listen to a strange song or a piece of new music. We wait for what the poet can give us, and maybe we find something interesting!
When I was in high school, somebody asked me what it meant that "the sabbath rang slowly in the pebbles of the holy streams." It's a beautiful sentence, and I'd love to hear your ideas about it!
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
*
Hear Dylan Thomas reading the whole poem:
*
Things to think about:
I have to confess. The first time I read this poem, I didn't care for it. I didn't know what a "dingle" was, and that bothered me. "Golden in the heydays of his eyes" wasn't a phrase I could easily make sense of. And what's going on with being green and carefree?
But I discovered other poems by Dylan Thomas that I liked. And I learned that some of his poems are best listened to, as we might listen to a strange song or a piece of new music. We wait for what the poet can give us, and maybe we find something interesting!
When I was in high school, somebody asked me what it meant that "the sabbath rang slowly in the pebbles of the holy streams." It's a beautiful sentence, and I'd love to hear your ideas about it!
From Romeo and Juliet: Queen Mab
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate stone
On the forefinger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Over men's noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs,
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
Her traces, of the smallest spider web;
Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;
Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love.
*
Things to think about:
These lines are part of a longer speech by Mercutio, a friend of Romeo's in Shakespeare's play. Romeo has just told Mercutio that he had a dream, and Mercutio, perhaps judging from the way that Romeo is looking all starry-eyed, figures out that it's a dream of love.
Mercutio warns him that dreams can be very strange. He suggests that "the fairies' midwife," Queen Mab, is responsible for putting the strange images in our heads.
O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate stone
On the forefinger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Over men's noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs,
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
Her traces, of the smallest spider web;
Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;
Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love.
*
Things to think about:
These lines are part of a longer speech by Mercutio, a friend of Romeo's in Shakespeare's play. Romeo has just told Mercutio that he had a dream, and Mercutio, perhaps judging from the way that Romeo is looking all starry-eyed, figures out that it's a dream of love.
Mercutio warns him that dreams can be very strange. He suggests that "the fairies' midwife," Queen Mab, is responsible for putting the strange images in our heads.
From Macbeth: The Three Weird Sisters' Chant
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble!
*
Things to think about:
The "weird sisters" in Macbeth are basically witches. Here, they are pronouncing some scary spell, and concocting a stew that I, for one, would not like to taste!
Still, I think that the "spell" is fun to say! Shakespeare knew how to make the language sing and charm and enchant his listeners.
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble!
*
Things to think about:
The "weird sisters" in Macbeth are basically witches. Here, they are pronouncing some scary spell, and concocting a stew that I, for one, would not like to taste!
Still, I think that the "spell" is fun to say! Shakespeare knew how to make the language sing and charm and enchant his listeners.
Friday, May 1, 2020
Walk Sounds
by Bob Kaufman (1925-1986)
Soft noise, where crystalline sap dwells,
Tree bark houses, tree bark shoes.
Long green journeys, into sounds of death.
Cries of who blows, who blows, who blows,
Rings of raindrops, on damp streets.
Quietly disappearing, in fearmottled night,
Sweeping over asphalt mesas, to long gutters,
Where gray birds lie, gone time is buried,
Safe from hideous laughter, babblings,
Of sidewalk fools, tongues straining,
Flicking, on steps of air, nervously,
Glowing blue, black, blue, black,
In the shapes of night.
*
Questions to think about: This is a poem of vivid imagination, and maybe a little disturbing. What does the poet see and hear? What is the mood of the poem? Can you write a poem about "walk sounds," maybe one much different from Bob Kaufman's? Could you write a daytime counterpart to Kaufman's nighttime poem?
Soft noise, where crystalline sap dwells,
Tree bark houses, tree bark shoes.
Long green journeys, into sounds of death.
Cries of who blows, who blows, who blows,
Rings of raindrops, on damp streets.
Quietly disappearing, in fearmottled night,
Sweeping over asphalt mesas, to long gutters,
Where gray birds lie, gone time is buried,
Safe from hideous laughter, babblings,
Of sidewalk fools, tongues straining,
Flicking, on steps of air, nervously,
Glowing blue, black, blue, black,
In the shapes of night.
*
Questions to think about: This is a poem of vivid imagination, and maybe a little disturbing. What does the poet see and hear? What is the mood of the poem? Can you write a poem about "walk sounds," maybe one much different from Bob Kaufman's? Could you write a daytime counterpart to Kaufman's nighttime poem?
One Boy Told Me
by Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952)
Text of the poem at Poetry Foundation.
*
Naomi Shihab Nye reads (part of!) the poem.
*
Question to think about: Has something a person said to you, or a part of a conversation you might have heard, struck you as suitable for a poem?
Text of the poem at Poetry Foundation.
*
Naomi Shihab Nye reads (part of!) the poem.
*
Question to think about: Has something a person said to you, or a part of a conversation you might have heard, struck you as suitable for a poem?
Poem 543
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
I fear a Man of frugal Speech —
I fear a Silent Man —
Haranguer — I can overtake —
Or Babbler — entertain —
But He who weigheth — While the Rest —
Expend their furthest pound —
Of this Man — I am wary —
I fear that He is Grand —
*
Note: A harangue is a long, sometimes angry or insistent speech, usually trying to persuade someone. Tirade is a similar word.
Question to think about: Why should the man of "frugal Speech" be feared more than the angry haranguer?
I fear a Man of frugal Speech —
I fear a Silent Man —
Haranguer — I can overtake —
Or Babbler — entertain —
But He who weigheth — While the Rest —
Expend their furthest pound —
Of this Man — I am wary —
I fear that He is Grand —
*
Note: A harangue is a long, sometimes angry or insistent speech, usually trying to persuade someone. Tirade is a similar word.
Question to think about: Why should the man of "frugal Speech" be feared more than the angry haranguer?
Poem 288
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise—you know!
How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one's name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!
*
Questions to think about: What's going on here? Why doesn't the "Nobody" who is speaking in the poem want to be "advertised"? Why is it "dreary to be Somebody"?
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise—you know!
How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one's name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!
*
Questions to think about: What's going on here? Why doesn't the "Nobody" who is speaking in the poem want to be "advertised"? Why is it "dreary to be Somebody"?
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