Pam Webb

a writer's journey as a reader

Archive for the tag “National Poetry Month”

24 Apr 2015
5 Comments

NPM: #24: into the woods–the original?


Although it’s been out for a bit now, the fairy tale musical extravanga Into the Woods takes on new meaning in James Weldon Johnson’s poem. Meryl Streep beckoning folks to find answers in the woods is a bit creepy for my tastes, especially since I favor the serenity felt in the woods. This is one reason I am so drawn to this particular rendering of the peace, the reverance found within the forest. Are the woodlands scary or a refuge for you?

Deep in the Quiet Wood

James Weldon Johnson, 1871 – 1928

Are you bowed down in heart?
Do you but hear the clashing discords and the din of life?
Then come away, come to the peaceful wood,
Here bathe your soul in silence. Listen! Now,
From out the palpitating solitude
Do you not catch, yet faint, elusive strains?
They are above, around, within you, everywhere.
Silently listen! Clear, and still more clear, they come.
They bubble up in rippling notes, and swell in singing tones.
Now let your soul run the whole gamut of the wondrous scale
Until, responsive to the tonic chord,
It touches the diapason of God’s grand cathedral organ,
Filling earth for you with heavenly peace
And holy harmonies.

image: morguefile/modnar

Posted in Americans, Nature, Poetry and tagged , , ,
23 Apr 2015
3 Comments

NPM: #23–purses and tributes to mothers


Getting Close

by Victoria Redel

 

 Because my mother loved pocketbooks

I come alive at the opening click or close of a metal clasp.

rest of poem

Victoria Redel renders a stunning tribute to her mother. It’s odd how certain objects breathe life into dormant memories. The days of women ensconced in their handbags, pocketbooks, purses is one I do not currently relate to, as I am no slave to fashion and its requirements. Yet, Redel’s poem nudges a few faded portraits of “going somewhere” because my mother had a “certain purse” draped on her arm. Outings had a sense of special due to the requirement apparel, such as a matching purse crooked upon the arm.  I am still drawn to old handbags and their cousins whenever I browse thrift shops. I only hold a fondness, a remembrance; I have no desire to have one perch upon my arm. I am of the backbag age, the unique tote age, the “why-would-I-switch-everything-from-one-bag-to-another?” age. Still I do look, and still I do appreciate Redel’s own penchant and tribute.

Posted in Family, Poetry, Reflections, Uncategorized, Words and tagged , , , ,
22 Apr 2015
5 Comments

NPM: #22–bumbershoots and such


L’Avenir est Quelque Chose (The future is something)

by Dobby Gibson

 

All day for too long 
everything I’ve thought to say
has been about umbrellas…

the rest of the poem

I own a passel of umbrellas. Some I have adopted, since they get left in my classroom. A few I inherited from my mother-in-law who actually had an impressive collection of them, ranging from the impressive wooden-handled proper British brelly to the cheapy insurance company giveaways. I have bought my own umbrellas when the mood strikes. I carry an extra one or two in the car. Once, I stopped and gave one to a child shivering in the rain while she waited for her school bus. In fact, I toy with the idea of becoming an umbrella aficionado and giving them away as I see fit. I will wait for white hair and the Social Security checks for that to transpire. A crazy old lady is considered harmless–at least I hope my umbrellaling will be considered benign, if not quaintly amusing.

 

image: Morguefile/garbofromhungary

Posted in creativity, Nature, Poetry, Reflections, Uncategorized and tagged , ,
21 Apr 2015
1 Comment

NPM: #21–wind of change


There is that time of year when the snows have lingered much too long and spring is ready to arrive, yet winter stubbornly refuses its hold. Then comes that zephyr breeze, the Chinook, that warming wind that hints the good times of summer are ever nearer. The warm wind teases the remaining snowdrifts to melt and feed the hiding narcissus. Robert Frost knew exactly that moment when the warm winds bring the change oh so needed.

To the Thawing Wind

Robert Frost, 1874 – 1963

Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate’er you do tonight,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit’s crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o’er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.

Posted in Americans, Nature, Poetry, Reflections, Seasons and tagged , , ,
20 Apr 2015
2 Comments

NPM: #20–disorder and distraction


Delight in Disorder

Robert Herrick, 1591 – 1674

A sweet disorder in the dresse
Kindles in cloathes a wantonnesse:
A Lawne about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring Lace, which here and there
Enthralls the Crimson Stomacher:
A Cuffe neglectfull, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly:
A winning wave (deserving Note)
In the tempestuous petticote:
A careless shooe-string, in whose tye I see a wilde civility:
Doe more bewitch me, then when
Art Is too precise in every part.

Robert HerrickThis illustration of Robert Herrick promotes a rather conservative attitude, but if you really read the poem, I think you will read between the lines, that Mr. Herrick possessed a bit of naughtiness about him. He has a few other poems that hint at his true thoughts about women and his intentions. Poets of yesteryear didn’t always write about flowers and trees, eh, Bobby? 

Posted in Poetry, Reflections and tagged , , ,
19 Apr 2015
5 Comments

NPM: #19–morning splendor


A Gift

Leonora Speyer (1872-1956)

I Woke: —
Night, lingering, poured upon the world
Of drowsy hill and wood and lake
Her moon-song,
And the breeze accompanied with hushed fingers
On the birches.

Gently the dawn held out to me
A golden handful of bird’s-notes.

 

There are so many lovely images resounding throughout. I envision summer–standing on a hill overlooking a grassy meadow, the sun slowly cresting the horizon and in that crystalline moment a trill of robin song adds to the joy of another morning, another day of promise.

Posted in Americans, birds, Nature, Poetry, Reflections, summer and tagged , , , ,
18 Apr 2015
2 Comments

NPM: #18–the rhythm of sports


The beauty of poetry is that it embraces a diversity of interests and subjects. I found a elegance of movement in the rhythm of this particular poem as it captures the game.

 

“Fast Break” by Edward Hirsch

 

 

image: Morguefile.com

 

 

 

 

Posted in creativity, Poetry, Writing and tagged , ,
17 Apr 2015
4 Comments

NPM: #17–Willow tree


Willow Poem

William Carlos Williams, 1883 – 1963

It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler,
swing and grow paler
over the swirling waters of the river
as if loath to let go,
they are so cool, so drunk with
the swirl of the wind and of the river—
oblivious to winter,
the last to let go and fall
into the water and on the ground.

I grew up with a willow tree in our backyard. I always seemed a sad tree to me, weeping its leaves into our fish pond. I hadn’t thought about that tree until coming across Williams’ poem. Odd. Those willow leaves, as I recall, didn’t succumb to the “kiss of the sun” and fade away into autumn and winter as our maple did so stoically.

a sad dipping into the water–is this what inspired Williams? image: MorgueFile/LoneAngel

 

Posted in Americans, Nature, Poetry, Reflections and tagged , , ,
16 Apr 2015

NPM: #16 Window Watcher


Athe Window

D.H. Lawrence,1885- 1930

The pine-trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters
Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter;
While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.

Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede,
Winding about their dimness the mist’s grey cerements, after
The street lamps in the darkness have suddenly started to bleed.

The leaves fly over the window and utter a word as they pass
To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two dark-filled eyes
That watch for ever earnestly from behind the window glass.

 

I like how Lawrence personifies nature, how the trees and wind and leaves talk to each other with mutterings and laughter while inside, a person watches unaware. It’s lovely and a bit creepy all the same. It stirs my imagination to thinking of fairy tales.

 

Is the wind laughing outside these windows? image: Pintrest

 

Posted in creativity, Nature, Poetry, Reflections and tagged , , , | Leave a comment
15 Apr 2015
1 Comment

NPM: #15–Longfellow’s Children


“The Children’s Hour” was first published in the September 1860 edition of The Atlantic Monthly.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was probably one of the first poets encountered as a child. Who hasn’t encountered his “Song of Hiawatha?” He is well known for many poems, and one of my favorites is his tribute to his children. I can imagine his little “banditti” sneaking up on him and him gathering them up all shrieks and giggles.

The Children’s Hour

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807 – 1882
Between the dark and the daylight,
   When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,
   That is known as the Children’s Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
   The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
   And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
   Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
   And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
   Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
   To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
   A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
   They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
   O’er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
   They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
   Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
   In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
   Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
   Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
   And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
   In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
   Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
   And moulder in dust away!
Posted in Americans, children, Family, Poetry, Reflections, writers and tagged , ,

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