Pam Webb

a writer's journey as a reader

Archive for the tag “National Poetry Month”

14 Apr 2015
2 Comments

NPM: #14–Fishy thoughts


What I most like about poetry is how it nudges me towards new perspectives. For instance, in Nancy Willards’ “A Wreath to the Fish”  I’m thinking thoughts about fish I hadn’t considered before. How they never leave their suit of mail, how they possess an abundance of silver, yet never spend it. How the destiny of a fish is one of thoughtful consideration–dinner? trophy? food for a bear?

Here is a fishy consideration as you contemplate today’s poem.

Nike

trotting out trout toed cleats image: USAToday.com

 

Posted in Poetry, Reflections and tagged , ,
13 Apr 2015
7 Comments

NPM: #13–how history does not sit still


I think I missed an opportunity. Had I known I would be teaching English, especially British literature, I would have minored in history. One cannot properly elucidate on the fineries of poems, prose, and short storis without dipping into the times of the work. There is a definite “why” as to “why” something is written. A mathematical equation of History times People to the greater value of Events–something like that. Which is why I didn’t get on so while in Mathematics.

Howard Altmann explains history’s restless nature. I almost imagine it as a cat that tiptoes around the room, exploring its way about. Or as that sunbeam or shaft of light that panders its way from the chair to the floor to the wall. Here’s the poem and here’s what he said about it:

About This Poem

“This short poem was conceived in Lisbon, where the light never rests on its laurels. It was put to bed a few years later in New York City, where the light crowds out the stars.”
—Howard Altmann (www.poets.org)

 

image: paulabflat/morguefile

Posted in education, Poetry, Reflections, writers and tagged , , ,
12 Apr 2015
2 Comments

NPM: #12–a love poem


Love

William Carlos Williams, 1883 – 1963

Love is twain, it is not single,
Gold and silver mixed to one,
Passion ‘tis and pain which mingle
Glist’ring then for aye undone.

Pain it is not; wondering pity
Dies or e’er the pang is fled;
Passion ‘tis not, foul and gritty,
Born one instant, instant dead.

Love is twain, it is not single,
Gold and silver mixed to one,
Passion ‘tis and pain which mingle
Glist’ring then for aye undone.

I first met William Carlos Williams whilst learning how ill-equipped I was to be in the Masters in the Teaching of writing program at Humboldt. I was quite illiterate when it came to poetry and the classics. My writing wasn’t up to snuff either. I even had a professor tersely whisper in my ear how I got in the program. The moment of crisis eventually passed once I gained understanding that poems weren’t really some mysterious language dropped out of the sky for mortals to puzzle over. Dr. Williams lent his red wheelbarrow to me one day, and I began to relax and realize that poetry was simply another way of listening to the heart.

Posted in Americans, education, Poetry, Reflections, writers and tagged , , ,
10 Apr 2015

NPM #10: Emily and the sun


Emily Dickinson

National Poetry Month wouldn’t be the same without a guest appearance from Emily. Image: Academy of American Poets

A Day

Emily Dickinson, 1830 – 1886

I’ll tell you how the sun rose, —
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”

But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while

Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.

It will no doubt take a lifetime to read and appreciate Emily D’s some 1000+ poems. I do so delight in finding one I haven’t seen before. How does she devise these slips of images that dazzle to the point of pause? What’s interesting to me is that she didn’t capitalize “sun” although she personified it, which did have a penchant for doing.

Have you a favorite Emily? Please share. Maybe I am not aware of it yet and I would like to make its acquaintance.

Posted in Americans, creativity, Literature, Poetry, Reflections, writers and tagged , , | Leave a comment
09 Apr 2015
4 Comments

NPM: #9–Wordsworth praises snow drops


On Seeing a Tuft of Snowdrops in a Storm

William Wordsworth, 1770 – 1850

When haughty expectations prostrate lie,
And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing,
Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring
Mature release, in fair society
Survive, and Fortune’s utmost anger try;
Like these frail snow-drops that together cling,
And nod their helmets smitten by the wing
Of many a furious whirlblast sweeping by.
Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great
May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand
The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate;
And so the bright immortal Theban band,
Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove’s command,
Might overwhelm, but could not separate!

We all know Wordsworth penchant for daffodils. They are the poster child for spring in my book. Then again, this poem of his extolling the strength of snow-drops has me thinking of how fragile something can appear, yet have a rooted strength unseen. I will have to pay more attention to my snow-drops. I also need to scamper to my allusions dictionary and look up Emathian and Jove. That Wordsworth–he tends to keep me on my toes.

image: OldGreySeaWolf/MorgueFile

Posted in Americans, creativity, Nature, Poetry, Reflections, Seasons, writers and tagged , , ,
08 Apr 2015

NPM: #8–the kind moon


The Night Is Still

Edith Matilda Thomas (1854-1925)

The night is still, the moon looks kind,
    The dew hangs jewels in the heath,
An ivy climbs across thy blind,
    And throws a light and misty wreath.

The dew hangs jewels in the heath,
    Buds bloom for which the bee has pined;
I haste along, I quicker breathe,
    The night is still, the moon looks kind.

Buds bloom for which the bee has pined,
    The primrose slips its jealous sheath,
As up the flower-watched path I wind
    And come thy window-ledge beneath.

The primrose slips its jealous sheath,—
    Then open wide that churlish blind,
And kiss me through the ivy wreath!
    The night is still, the moon looks kind.

 

Beyond the rich imagery, there is somthing else noticable about this poem. The lines repeat themselves ever so subtly. This is not a mistake. No, this is art and Thomas reveals her ability to render a lovely villanelle where the first and third lines repeat themselves. Villanelles are tricky, since the poet must repeat the lines to meet the form’s requirements; however, the artist must weave in these lines so they are not obvious.

image: Maryhere/Morguefil

Posted in Nature, Poetry, Reflections and tagged , , , | Leave a comment
07 Apr 2015

NPM: #7–life is a mystery


Life

Henrietta Cordelia Ray (1849-1917)

Life! Ay, what is it? E’en a moment spun
    From cycles of eternity. And yet,
    What wrestling ’mid the fever and the fret
Of tangled purposes and hopes undone!
What affluence of love! What vict’ries won
    In agonies of silence, ere trust met
    A manifold fulfillment, and the wet,
Beseeching eyes saw splendors past the sun!
What struggle in the web of circumstance,
    And yearning in the wingèd music! All,
        One restless strife from fetters to be free;
Till, gathered to eternity’s expanse,
    Is that brief moment at the Father’s call.
        Life! Ay, at best, ’tis but a mystery!

I usually shy away from poems exclaiming exclamation marks. Yet, I am caught up in the imagery of the lines “tangled purposes”, “splendors past the sun”, “web of circumstance”. Plus, this type of poetry fits the time period, because as a future songwriter trebled out the “times they were a changing.”

In the poet notes I saw that in 1876 Ray’s poem “Lincoln” was read at the unveiling of the Emancipation Memorial in Washington, which indicates a tribute and an honor to both Ray and Lincoln.

 

image: Savanne/Morguefile

Posted in Americans, Christianity, Poetry, Reflections, writers and tagged , , | Leave a comment
05 Apr 2015
14 Comments

NPM: #5: a winter sonnet


Sonnet to Winter

Emily Chubbuck Judson (1817-1854)

Thy brow is girt, thy robe with gems inwove;
    And palaces of frost-work, on the eye,
    Flash out, and gleam in every gorgeous dye,
The pencil, dipped in glorious things above,

Can bring to earth. Oh, thou art passing fair!
But cold and cheerless as the heart of death,
Without one warm, free pulse, one softening breath,
    One soothing whisper for the ear of Care.
Fortune too has her Winter. In the Spring,
    We watch the bud of promise; and the flower
    Looks out upon us at the Summer hour;

And Autumn days the blessed harvest bring;
    Then comes the reign of jewels rare, and gold,
    When brows flash light, but hearts grow strangely cold.

 

Although I am ever so glad winter is passing into spring, this sonnet reminds me that beauty can be found in the harshness of our coldest season.

image: EricBerthe/MorgueFile

Posted in celebrations, Poetry, Reflections, Seasons, writers and tagged , , ,
04 Apr 2015
1 Comment

NPM: #4–Ezra and Francesca


Francesca

Ezra Pound, 1885 – 1972

You came in out of the night
And there were flowers in your hands,
Now you will come out of a confusion of people,
Out of a turmoil of speech about you.

I who have seen you amid the primal things
Was angry when they spoke your name
In ordinary places.
I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind,
And that the world should dry as a dead leaf,
Or as a dandelion seed-pod and be swept away,
So that I might find you again,
Alone.

Ezra Pound imagery is always so mesmerizing. I want to research Francesca to see what it was about her that a poem would speak so eloquently about the need to be alone with her…again. Sounds like the makings of a lovely Italian mystery set in the thirties or forties.

Posted in creativity, Poetry, Reflections, writers and tagged , ,
03 Apr 2015

NPM: #3–Serenity found in brooks…


Serenity

Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887)

Brook,
Be still,—be still!
Midnight’s arch is broken
In thy ceaseless ripples.
Dark and cold below them                 
Runs the troubled water,—
Only on its bosom,
Shimmering and trembling,
Doth the glinted star-shine
                  Sparkle and cease.

                  Life,
Be still,—be still!
Boundless truth is shattered
On thy hurrying current.
Rest, with face uplifted,
Calm, serenely quiet;
Drink the deathless beauty—
Thrills of love and wonder
Sinking, shining, star-like;
Till the mirrored heaven
Hollow down within thee
Holy deeps unfathomed,
Where far thoughts go floating,
And low voices wander
              Whispering peace.

 

Although I am drawn to the ocean, I think I favor the quiet charm of a brook ensconced in the cradle of the woods. What is it about archaic language that makes reflections so much more profound?

 

image: Natureworks/Morguefile

Posted in Nature, Poetry, Reflections, writers and tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Post Navigation

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →