Sunday Poetry Reading, June 10 – It Is a Small Plant

It Is a Small Plant

William Carlos Williams

It is a small plant

delicately branched and

tapering conically

to a point, each branch

and the peak a wire for        

green pods, blind lanterns

starting upward from

the stalk each way to

a pair of prickly edged blue

flowerets: it is her regard,        

a little plant without leaves,

a finished thing guarding

its secret. Blue eyes—

but there are twenty looks

in one, alike as forty flowers        

on twenty stems—Blue eyes

a little closed upon a wish

achieved and half lost again,

stemming back, garlanded

with green sacks of        

satisfaction gone to seed,

back to a straight stem—if

one looks into you, trumpets—!

No. It is the pale hollow of

desire itself counting        

over and over the moneys of

a stale achievement. Three

small lavender imploring tips b

elow and above them two

slender colored arrows        

of disdain with anthers

between them and

at the edge of the goblet

a white lip, to drink from—!

And summer lifts her look        

forty times over, forty times

over—namelessly.

I never would have read this poem if I hadn’t signed up at Poets.Org for their “Poem-A-Day” emails. I’ve discovered a lot of poems through that so, if you like poetry, you should sign up.

Sunday Poetry Reading, May 27 – “Remember” by Christina Rossetti

REMEMBER

REMEMBER me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann’d:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

by Christina Rossetti

Leap Year.

I signed up at poets.org to get a poem-a-day in my email because, well, I like poetry.

Today’s poem is about Leap Year, so I thought I’d post it here.

Leap Year Poem
by Mother Goose

Thirty days hath September,
April, June and November.
All the rest have thirty-one,
Excepting February alone,
And that has twenty-eight days clear
And twenty-nine in each leap year.

Happy Leap Day, people!

Sunday Poetry Reading

Do not stand at my grave and weep

by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

Sunday Poetry Reading

If

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run –
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!

Sunday Poetry Reading

He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven

William Butler Yeats

Had I the heaven’s embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Sunday Poetry Reading

Do you have a favorite poem? I have lots. So, I’m going to try and post a poem every Sunday. I’ll be cultured and intelligent on Sundays that way.

The first poem will be my absolute favorite poem. Let me know what you think.

Solitude

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
    Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
    But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
    Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
    But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
    Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
    But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
    Be sad, and you lose them all,—
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
    But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
    Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
    But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
    For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
    Through the narrow aisles of pain.