Poetry Monday

I was going to post another Poe poem today, but after reading them over I decided they were a bit too depressing for this beautiful blue-sky day. So I found a haiku instead. About cats, of course.

Wanna go outside.

Oh, no! Help! I got outside!

Let me back inside!

haiku author unknown

Poetry Monday: More of Poe

Evening Star

'T was noontide of summer,
And mid-time of nights;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves,
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold—too cold for me—
There pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turn'd away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.
-Edgar Allan Poe

Of all the missed opportunities I've had to take pictures like this at night, I've had to go to the web and borrow a photograph.

Poetry Monday

The Blue Moon at midnight, in Northwestern Oregon skies,

taken May 31, 2007. A view from my bedroom window.

Poetry Monday and Memorial Day

Before I post the second half of The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe, I wanted to mention the Veterans for whom this day is memorialized.

My father and step father were in WWII as pilots. My first husband was a Marine and my husband served his country for ten years in the Navy during the Veit Nam war. All four of these men, my family, gave complete allegiance to this country, they gave their sweat, blood, and tears, so that I could remain free. So the shores and cities of my country were not bloodied and destroyed. The freedoms they fought for, the freedom for me to come and go and think for myself, were hard won.

I honor them for their duty, for their sacrifices. I honor all the men and women in the military, in past wars and the current war, and those who served in times of peace, and say thank you for your duty, your honor to your country and your people; and especially for your dedication to help other people in other countries share in the right to be a free people. You have my gratitude, support and prayers.

The Raven (part two)

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he has sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting—
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Poetry Monday

At the park last week with the fry steeling squirrels, a huge raven sauntered over for a bite, also. My immediate thought was "Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'"

Well, I just got a book of the Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. I am anxious to get at it as soon as I finish the book I'm reading now. In the meantime, I decided to post the first 9 stanzas of the poem, The Raven.

The Raven - Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,"

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

There are seventeen stanzas so I will post the rest next Monday.

Poetry Monday

The Day Is Done

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I know this is morning and we should be bright and cheery and ready to have a day of success, but I've been dying to put this poem and picture together. And to remind us that at the end of the day we should put thoughts of work and toil away with the sunset and fill the night with music and poetry and let it soothe our soul.

Poetry Monday

Pathways

"Your way is dark," the Angel said,
"Because you downward gaze:
Look up; the sun is overhead.
Look up and learn to praise."
I looked: I learned. Who looks above
Will find in Heaven both Light and Love.

"Why upward gaze?" the Angel said:
"Have you not learned to know
The light of God shines overhead
That men may work below?"
I learned. Who only looks above
May miss below the works of love.

And then I learned the lessons twain:
The heart whose treasure is above
Will gladly turn to earth again
Because the Heaven is Love.
Yes, Love that framed the starry height
Came down to Earth and gave it Light.
-The Bishop of Ripon

Poetry Monday

Wormsloe Historical Site

Wormsloe Historical Site is outside of Savannah, Georgia where I spent my teenage years.

I lived not far from this place. This picutre makes me salivate for southern life. Except for the bugs and the humidity, I miss it very much, and my-oh-my, how I love raisin pie.

Raisin Pie

There's a heap of pent-up goodness in the yellow bantam corn,

And I sort o' like to linger round a berry patch at morn;

Oh, the Lord has set our table with a stock o' things to eat

An' there's just enough o' bitter in the blend to cut the sweet,

But I run the whole list over, an' it seems somehow that I

Find the keenest sort o' pleasure in a chunk o' raisin pie.

There are pies that start the water circulation' in the mouth;

There are pies that wear the flavor of the warm an' sunny south;

Some with oriental spices spur the drowsy appetite

An' just fill a fellow's being with a thrill o' real delight;

But for downright solid goodness that comes drippin' from the sky

There is nothing quite equal of a chunk o' raisin pie.

I'm admittin' tastes are diff'runt, I'm not settin' up myself

As the judge an' final critic of the good things on the shelf.

I'm just sort o' payin' tribute to a simple joy on earth,

Sort o' feebly testifyin' to its lasting charm an' worth,

An' I'll hold to this conclusion till it comes my time to die,

That there's no dessert that's finer than a chunk o' raisin pie.

Favorite Verse of Edgar A. Guest, Raisin Pie, pg 27

Poetry Monday

Out Fishin'

A feller isn't thinkin' mean,
Out fishin';
His thoughts are mostly good an' clean,
Out fishin'.
He doesn't knock his fellow men,
Or harbor any grudges then;
A feller's at this finest when
Out fishin'.

The rich are comrades to the poor,
Out fishin';
All brothers of a common lure,
Out fishin';
The urchin with the pin an' string
Can chum with millionaire an' king;
Vain pride is a forgotten thing,
Out fishin'.

A feller gits a chance to dream,
Out fishin';
He learns the beauties of a stream,
Out fishin';
An' he can wash his soul in air
That isn't foul with selfish care,
An' relish plain and simple fare,
Out fishin'.

A feller has no time fer hate,
Out fishin';
He isn't eager to be great,
Out fishin'.
He isn't thinkin' thoughts of pelf,
Or goods stacked high upon a shelf,
But he is always just himself,
Out fishin'.

A feller's glad to be a friend,
Out fishin';
A helpin' hand he'll always lend,
Out fishin'.
The brotherhood of rod an' line
An' sky and stream is always fine;
Men come real close to God's design,
Out fishin'.

A feller isn't plotting schemes,
Out fishin';
He's only busy with his dreams,
Out fishin'.
His livery is a coat of tan,
His creed—to do the best he can'
A feller's always mostly man,
Out fishin'.
--by Edgar A. Guest (Favorite Verse of Edgar A. Guest, pg 75)

You can tell I haven't spent much time collecting poetry. Well somewhere I have pieces of poetry and cool sayings that I keep that mean something to me, and that I'd like to have right now. Can't tell you where I put them. I'm so organized I can't find a thing. And matching a poem to a picture is even more challenging.

When I had to clean out my Aunt's apartment after she died, I had brought all of her "garage sale" books home. I found this little book of poetry by Edgar A. Guest among them. All of the things he wrote about were simply and easily relatable, for me anyway. I chose this poem because I miss the mountains, fishing with my husband, the clear mountain air and beautiful streams—the trout and graylings we used to fish for. This mountain stream was taken somewhere in Northwestern Montana's back roads. Couldn't tell you where exactly, we got lost that day. It was one of those spur of the moment afternoon rides that we often took when we first moved there back in 1995. We left town to explore and ended up in the Canadian wilderness. For all I know this could have been a stream in Canada. We left with light jackets, two little bottles of water, and a couple of muffins. We had only planed to drive for an hour or so and go home. We didn't get home until midnight. We had taken a logging road that led us into Canada's wilderness where there is nothing for humans, nowhere! We should have taken a hint that this wasn't a good idea when we passed through a dinky little deserted boarder checkpoint and picked up an obscure little map. About fifteen minutes into Canada we also ran out of a paved road. We had nearly run out of gas when we made it out of the wilderness and onto the main highway leading us back to Montana. I'm grateful to this day that my husband has a great sense of direction. It was a beautiful, breathtaking drive, but we could have been lost forever, eventually becoming bear food... however, we made it out, with a lesson learned. Never take a ride anywhere you've never been without food, water, and blankets. Of course cell phones and GPS would have been even better. We didn't have any of those then.

Poetry Monday

This poem is taken from a book of poetry called The Bamboo Trail.
Marjorie was a close friend to my mother and distant childhood memory for me. She and her husband had a tour of duty for the Air Force in Taiwan, and the book is a collection of the poems she wrote while there. Her book was published in 1973.

Black Sands

A Day at the beach,
Was always a treat;
The sun in my face,
Black sands 'neath my feet.

Each time—for a while,
I held in my hand;
Sugar-like softness,
Of volcanic sand.

Sifting it slowly,
Sometimes I would feel
It all was a dream,
The black sands—unreal.

A fairy-tale picture,
All mine to command;
From memory's scenes,
Of silver-black sand.

--Marjorie Kingston Skusa