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Poem of the day

 
pollinator
Posts: 685
Location: northwest Missouri, USA
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Spring Morning After Berry

 by Dan Grubbs

As morning fog billows on the pasture hillside
at the intersection of dawn and full light,
the great boiling ball creates glistening diamond dew
crowning brome, curly dock, red clover, and alfalfa.
Accompanying is the caw of red-wing blackbird
underneath the melody of western meadowlark.
Chicks that have left their brooder,
scratch their way to what is good and healthful.
I am arrested in the moment
standing in still air, toes soaked,
arms akimbo with fists at my hips.
Sounds are pure and clear as I squint at the rising orb
when even the wing feather of passing dove is heard.
I suppress the reel of the city
winding me in to itself.
Pausing here, in this bucolic moment,
I breathe easy and even,
my shoulders and neck decompress
and I feel creation’s power as God’s gift of love,
this our intended home
where worship feels natural and right.
 
Posts: 7353
Location: Ozarks zone 7 alluvial,black,deep clay/loam with few rocks, wonderful creek bottom!
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all four are wonderful Dan!  I knew that you were a writer....so should have expected poetry.  Reminds me of Wendell Berry....such lovely descriptions of the natural world and sentiment towards it....
 
Posts: 9002
Location: Victoria British Columbia-Canada
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You squeezed a lot of seasons and weather in to those four. Sometimes it's fun with poems or other writing to imagine it done in the voice of someone well-known for voice work. Perhaps Christopher Plummer or David Attenborough.
 
Dan Grubbs
pollinator
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Location: northwest Missouri, USA
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James Earl Jones, Morgan Freeman, and Don LaFontain would also be fun to hear something that is more dramatic.
 
Dan Grubbs
pollinator
Posts: 685
Location: northwest Missouri, USA
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Folly of the Plymouth hen

By Dan Grubbs

In her best imitation of a cock
the Plymouth hen took roost
upon a ledge of masonry rock.
Squawks and cackles alerted
to her claim of the special spot.

Nestling now, fluffing her down,
Plymouth hen sits to lay her egg.
Precariously perched now
evidence of her past attempts
lay splattered below on the ground.
 
Dan Grubbs
pollinator
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Location: northwest Missouri, USA
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This one has sparked debate before with those who are dedicated to what they believe is the scientific method.

The sin of reduction

By Dan Grubbs

The divorce of things from things
is a science that leads to false understanding.
When the whole is parsed and broken
in the hubris that we can know it by its parts
we profane what we consider and examine.

Once reassembled, the new false thing
is not considered in the mind
of the observer who can now not unthink
the whole reduced to so many pieces.
In this profanity our sin is discovered as we move
and plan under assumptions in error.
 
Dan Grubbs
pollinator
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My latest poem. It was an experiment to force myself to work within some kind of structure. I vary rarely work with a rhyming scheme or a meter, so I wanted a different kind of structure. Love to know what you all think.

The Opera of the Bonfire

By Dan Grubbs
For Danielle Barger

Overture

Shattered branches splinter,
giving way forming tinder.
Logs stand leaning dependently together
soon teased from below
and lighted as ignition jumps from twig.
Dry wood yields to fire
converted to ephemeral heat
that is felt but not touched.
The ball of orange, though low,
is born and now in its form.

Act One

Snaps and pops punctuate
the song of the fire.
The lyrics of crackles
call to me as listener.
The score is perfect to accompany
the flashes of color and flame.
Tongues flick yellow, red, and orange
against the black canvas of night.
Sparks fly as wind-born dancers
flitting and swirling at the maestro’s hand.

Act Two

Once restless, now motionless and silent
we watch flames reach and scorch wood.
Heat changing matter from matter
as gasses erupt or whistle.
Some sentinels fall and pile below,
throbbing a pulse of the fire’s heart.
Red spears are thrown into the night air
and the roar is heard at a distance.
The fire consumes all it is fed
and ravenous in climax, it wants more.

Act Three

Eyes weigh heavy so the pit is starved
of the fuel the flame craves for life.
Darts of color now scramble lower, quieter
as the dragon seeks the last morsels.
Ash grows deeper and adorns coals
that try to shine orange through new grey cloak.
As it dies and its dome of heat recedes,
the show unknots to reveal the truth.
The curtain of day lowers without call
leaving only a memory of a performance.
 
master steward
Posts: 3389
Location: West Tennessee
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Why I Wake Early
by Mary Oliver

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and crotchety-
best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light-
good morning, good morning, good morning.
Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.


 
Posts: 149
Location: London, UK
34
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Here's one that applies mostly to so many city folk - not myself though, I hasten to add!

A gloriously colourful sunset seems often to escape being savoured by pedestrians, preoccupied with going about their day.  
I have yet to see someone look up in appreciation!  So unaware!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

William Henry Davies
 
Posts: 89
Location: Southern Germany
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Just discovered this thread.
I love poetry, and English was my first love (before Spanish), and English poetry has had a special place in my heart for a long time already.

Here is a piece I like very much:

Pied Beauty
BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS

Glory be to God for dappled things –
  For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
     For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
  Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
     And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
  Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
     With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
                               Praise him.


And yet another favourite of him:

Spring & Fall: to a young child

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
 
Anita Martini
Posts: 89
Location: Southern Germany
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To add the lyrics of one of my favourite songs, here is Richard Thompson's Bee's wing.

I have only known the song recently, thanks to my daughter who installed Spotify on my cell phone, and its algorithm found this one for me, based on some ballads I love:
John Riley (Joan Baez), The snow it melts the soonest (Dick Gaughn) and others.
A real shame I have not heard it before. It is so beautiful it can make you cry. If you listen, make sure to choose Richard Thompson's own version.

BEESWING SONGTEXT
I was 18 when I came to town
They called it the summer of love
Burning babies, burning flags
The hawks against the doves

I took a job at the steaming way
Down on Caltrim St
Fell in love with a laundry girl
That was workin' next to me

Brown hair zig zagged across her face
And a look of half surprise
Like a fox caught in the headlights
There was animal in her eyes

She said to me
"Can't you see I'm not the factory kind?
If you don't take me out of here
I'll surely lose my mind"


She was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
So fine, a breath of wind might blow her away
She was a lost child, she was runnin' wild
(She said)
"So long as there's no price on love, I'll stay
You wouldn't want me any other way"

We busked around the market towns
Fruit pickin' down in Kent
We could tinker pots and pans
Or knives, wherever we went

We were campin' down the Gower one time
The work was mighty good
She wouldn't wait for the harvest
I thought we should

I said to her we'll settle down
Get a few acres dug
A fire burning in the hearth
And babies on the rug

She said, "Oh man, you foolish man
That surely sounds like hell
You might be lord of half the world
You'll not own me as well"


She was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
So fine, a breath of wind might blow her away
She was a lost child, she was runnin' wild
(She said)
"So long as there's no price on love, I'll stay
You wouldn't want me any other way"

We were drinking more in those days
Our tempers reached a pitch
Like a fool I let her run away
When she took the rambling itch

Last I heard she was living rough
Back on the Derby beat
A bottle of White Horse in her pocket
A Wolfhound at her feet

They say that she got married once
To a man called Romany Brown
Even a gypsy caravan
Was too much like settlin' down

They say her rose has faded
Rough weather and hard booze
Maybe that's the price you pay
For the chains that you refuse

She was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
I miss her more than ever, words can say
If I could just taste all of her wildness now
If I could hold her in my arms today
I wouldn't want her any other way
 
Amy Francis
Posts: 149
Location: London, UK
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Posts: 268
Location: St. George, UT. Zone 8a Dry/arid. 8" of rain in a good year.
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From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—

E.A.P.

"Closed on Account of Rabies" is a really cool set of short stories and poems from Poe read by famous people.  (Christopher Walken reads the "Raven"), (Iggy Pop reads "The Tell-Tale Heart").  
Oh my goodness, Iggy Pop's reading is haunting.  Good stuff.

 
Posts: 7
Location: Reston
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Wow this is definitely an awesome thread! I wanted to share a poem, which is one of my favorite ever!
I have been studying italian and italian literature for so long, I would like to share a part of an italian poem, with a translation under

hope you will enjoy

GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO, La pioggia nel pineto (Alcyone, 1902-03)
Ascolta, ascolta. L'accordo
delle aeree cicale
a poco a poco
più sordo
si fa sotto il pianto
che cresce;
ma un canto vi si mesce
più roco
che di laggiù sale,
dall'umida ombra remota.

Più sordo e più fioco
s'allenta, si spegne.
Sola una nota
ancor trema, si spegne,
risorge, trema, si spegne.
Non s'ode voce del mare.
Or s'ode su tutta la fronda
crosciare
l'argentea pioggia
che monda,
il croscio che varia
secondo la fronda
più folta, men folta.

Ascolta.
La figlia dell'aria
è muta; ma la figlia
del limo lontana,
la rana,
canta nell'ombra più fonda,
chi sa dove, chi sa dove!
E piove su le tue ciglia,
Ermione.

Piove su le tue ciglia nere
sìche par tu pianga
ma di piacere; non bianca
ma quasi fatta virente,
par da scorza tu esca.
E tutta la vita è in noi fresca
aulente,
il cuor nel petto è come pesca
intatta,
tra le pàlpebre gli occhi
son come polle tra l'erbe,
i denti negli alvèoli
con come mandorle acerbe.


translation:

Listen. With their singing, the cicadas
are answering this weeping,
this southern wind weeping
that does not frighten them,
and nor does the grey sky.
And the pine tree
has a sound, the myrtle
another one, the juniper
yet another, different
instruments
under countless fingers.
And we are immersed
in the sylvan spirit,
living the same
sylvan life;
and your inebriated face
is soft from the rain,
like a leaf,
and your hair is
is fragrant like the light
ginestra flowers,
oh terrestrial creature
called Hermione.

Listen, listen. The song
of the flying cicadas
becomes fainter
and fainter
as the weeping
grows stronger;
but a rougher song
rises from afar,
and flows in
from the humid remote shadow.
Softer and softer
gets weaker, fades away.
One lonely note
still trembles, fades away.
No one can hear the voice of the sea.
Now you can hear the silver rain
pouring in
on the foliage,
rain that purifies,
its roar that varies
according to the thicker,
less thick foliage.
Listen.
The child of the air
is silent; but the child
of the miry swamp, the frog,
far away,
sings in the deepest of shadows
who knows where, who knows where!
And it rains on your lashes,
Hermione.

It rains on your black lashes
as if you were weeping,
weeping from joy; not white
but almost green,
you seem to come out of the bark.
And life is in us fresh
and fragrant,
the heart in our chests is like a peach
untouched
under the eyelids our eyes
are like springs in the grass
and the teeth in our mouths
green almonds.

i really recommend to listen to it in original language on the internet, it is pure poetry for my ears.
 
The knights of nee want a shrubbery. And a tiny ad:
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