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A Poet on a Magical Journey Home
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Tina Blue's Beginner's Guide to Prosody, exactly what the title says, and well worth reading.
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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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Primroses, by Martha M. Simpson
They shine upon my table there,
A constellation mimic sweet,
No stars in Heaven could shine more fair,
Nor Earth has beauty more complete;
And on my table there they shine,
Daddy to Son, by Malar Tamil
You are born.
Born to me you are fortunate
I am pregnant with endless poems.
Poems you speak spark meaningless words,
Kindle forgone days all along reminding
The Sea Maid, by John Le Gay Brereton
In what pearl-paven mossy cave
By what green sea
Art thou reclining, virgin of the wave,
In realms more full of splendid mystery
Than that strong northern flood whence came
May, by Edward Thurlow, Lord Thurlow
MAY! queen of blossoms,
And fulfilling flowers,
With what pretty music
Shall we charm the hours?
Wilt thou have pipe and reed,
Azrael, by Robert Gilbert Welsh
The angels in high places
Who minister to us,
Reflect God's smile, -- their faces
Are luminous;
Save one, whose face is hidden,
The Constant Lover, by Sir John Suckling
OUT upon it, I have loved
Three whole days together!
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings
Music I heard, by Conrad Aiken
Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.
Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
Happy Creek, by John Bernard O'Hara
The little creek goes winding
Thro' gums of white and blue,
A silver arm
Around the farm
It flings, a lover true;
Spring, by John Gould Fletcher
At the first hour, it was as if one said, "Arise."
At the second hour, it was as if one said, "Go forth."
And the winter constellations that are like patient ox-eyes
Sank below the white horizon at the north.
At the third hour, it was as if one said, "I thirst";
My Grief on the Sea, from the Irish, by Douglas Hyde
MY grief on the sea,
How the waves of it roll!
For they heave between me
And the love of my soul!
Abandon'd, forsaken,
Song of the Lotos-Eaters, by Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson
THERE is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
The Management of Grief, by Mary Frances Farrow
pick up a book,
put it down.
pick up a book,
put it down.
go outside.
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