Q&A with Josh Lanyon discussion
JUST FOR FUN
>
Read Me a Poem Sing Me a Song
Mod
I always loved this and admired Lewis Carroll's genius. I mean, he wrote it in 1871! There is also a happy ending ;-)
Jabberwock..."
Callooh! Callay! Indeed. :-D
Antonella wrote: "It's World Poetry Day! And poetry doesn't have to be so serious... I always loved this and admired Lewis Carroll's genius. I mean, he wrote it in 1871! There is also a happy ending ;-)
Jabberwock..."
I do love that poem. :)
Callooh callay for World Poetry Day!
Antonella wrote: "It's World Poetry Day! And poetry doesn't have to be so serious... I always loved this and admired Lewis Carroll's genius. I mean, he wrote it in 1871! There is also a happy ending ;-)
Jabberwock..."
And kudos to those who translated this poem! I would imagine poetry to be quite difficult to translate under more usual circumstances, but this one adds another layer.
I love the ASL version! Look here: http://www.sorensonvrs.com/ericm
Poet Joanne Kyger, poet influenced by Zen Buddhism, dies at 82.You can read some of her works here http://epc.buffalo.edu/authors/kyger/
I like the following poem. I'm sorry the layout changes when I copy it here:
Night Palace
"The best thing about the past
is that it's over"
when you die.
you wake up
from the dream
that's your life.
Then you grow up
and get to be post human
in a past that keeps happening
ahead of you
This is my wish for you: Comfort on difficult days, smiles when sadness intrudes, rainbows to follow the clouds, laughter to kiss your lips, sunsets to warm your heart, hugs when spirits sag, beauty for your eyes to see, friendships to brighten your being, faith so that you can believe, confidence for when you doubt, courage to know yourself, patience to accept the truth, Love to complete your life.I wanted to put this here because it is very beautiful and poetic.
It is alternately attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson, Rumi or ''Anonymous''. What do you think?
Antonella wrote: "This is my wish for you: Comfort on difficult days, smiles when sadness intrudes, rainbows to follow the clouds, laughter to kiss your lips, sunsets to warm your heart, hugs when spirits sag, beaut..."That's really nice, no matter who wrote it
Good old "Anonymous." I love that writer. :)
Mod
Such comforting, wise thoughts.
Mod
LOL!
Mod
A CLOUD SHADOW by Robert Frost
A breeze discovered my open book
And began to flutter the leaves to look
For a poem there used to be on Spring.
I tried to tell her: "There's no such thing!"
For whom would a poem on Spring be by?
The breeze disdained to make reply,
And a cloud shadow crossed her face
For fear I would make her miss the place.
Johanna wrote: "I was reading Robert Frost in bed last night and this poem stayed with me and sent me to sleep. :-)A CLOUD SHADOW by Robert Frost
A breeze discovered my open book
And began to flutter the leaves..."
Loved it! Thank you for sharing <3
Mod
It's lovely.
Probably too sentimental for Emerson, in my opinion.
Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children starts with a quote (which I put in italics) fromIllusions by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Flow, flow the waves hated,
Accursed, adored,
The waves of mutation:
No anchorage is.
Sleep is not, death is not;
Who seem to die live.
House you were born in,
Friends of your spring-time,
Old man and young maid,
Day's toil and its guerdon,
They are all vanishing,
Fleeing to fables,
Cannot be moored.
See the stars through them,
Through treacherous marbles.
Know, the stars yonder,
The stars everlasting,
Are fugitive also,
And emulate, vaulted,
The lambent heat-lightning,
And fire-fly's flight.
When thou dost return
On the wave's circulation,
Beholding the shimmer,
The wild dissipation,
And, out of endeavor
To change and to flow,
The gas become solid,
And phantoms and nothings
Return to be things,
And endless imbroglio
Is law and the world, —
Then first shalt thou know,
That in the wild turmoil,
Horsed on the Proteus,
Thou ridest to power,
And to endurance.
You'll find the whole poem here:
http://www.emersoncentral.com/illusio...
Mod
Illusions by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Flow, flow the waves hated,
Accursed, adored,
The wav..."
Nice one!
Mod
A CLOUD SHADOW by Robert Frost
A breeze discovered my open book
And began to flutter the leaves..."
Ha! I don't think I ever read that before.
Mod
CARREFOUR
Amy Lowell
O You,
Who came upon me once
Stretched under apple-trees just after bathing,
Why did you not strangle me before speaking
Rather than fill me with the wild white honey of your words
And then leave me to the mercy
Of the forest bees.
from Coterie, Easter 1920
I Wish You Time by Elli Michler (1923-2014)I do not wish you all sorts of gifts.
I just wish you, what most people don’t have:
I wish you the time to be happy and to laugh
and if you use it wise, you can make something of it.
I wish you the time for your actions and thinking,
not only for yourself, but also to give away.
I wish you the time – not to hurry and run,
but the time to know how to be content.
I wish you the time – not to simply just pass
I wish that you have enough
time to be amazed and to trust,
rather than just having to look at the watch.
I wish you the time to reach for the stars,
and the time to grow, to mature.
I wish you the time to hope anew and to love.
It makes no sense to postpone this time.
I wish you the time to find yourself,
to see the happiness in each day and each hour.
I wish you the time to forgive.
I wish you: to have time to live.
((Translation by a mom blogger))
Ich wünsche dir Zeit
Ich wünsche dir nicht alle möglichen Gaben.
Ich wünsche dir nur, was die meisten nicht haben:
Ich wünsche dir Zeit, dich zu freun und zu lachen,
und wenn du sie nützt, kannst du etwas draus machen.
Ich wünsche dir Zeit für dein Tun und dein Denken,
nicht nur für dich selbst, sondern auch zum Verschenken.
Ich wünsche dir Zeit – nicht zum Hasten und Rennen,
sondern die Zeit zum Zufriedenseinkönnen.
Ich wünsche dir Zeit – nicht nur so zum Vertreiben.
Ich wünsche, sie möge dir übrig bleiben
als Zeit für das Staunen und Zeit für Vertraun,
anstatt nach der Zeit auf der Uhr nur zu schaun.
Ich wünsche dir Zeit, nach den Sternen zu greifen,
und Zeit, um zu wachsen, das heißt, um zu reifen.
Ich wünsche dir Zeit, neu zu hoffen, zu lieben.
Es hat keinen Sinn, diese Zeit zu verschieben.
Ich wünsche dir Zeit, zu dir selber zu finden,
jeden Tag, jede Stunde als Glück zu empfinden.
Ich wünsche dir Zeit, auch um Schuld zu vergeben.
Ich wünsche dir: Zeit zu haben zum Leben !
Antonella wrote: "I Wish You Time by Elli Michler (1923-2014)I do not wish you all sorts of gifts.
I just wish you, what most people don’t have:
I wish you the time to be happy and to laugh
and if you use it wi..."
What nice wishes. I can take these to heart.
Mod
I do not wish you all sorts of gifts.
I just wish you, what most people don’t have:
I wish you the time to be happy and to laugh
and if you use it wi..."
That is for certain a lovely wish.
Wow, these are both so lovely. Thanks, you two. :)
Mod
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
The first lines of "The Waste Land" (T.S. Eliot, 1922) kind of snuck up on me this evening, musing over what has been an emotionally difficult month. I don't know the rest of the poem well, some of it at all, but it seems like one to add to a get-to-it-in-late-life list, perhaps along with reading Proust. ; )
Here's an online copy with annotations: http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html
Mod
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
The first lines of "The Waste Land" (T.S. Eliot, 1922) kin..."
How achingly beautiful.
Karen wrote: "April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
The first lines of "The Waste Land" (T.S. Eliot, 1922) kin..."
Lovely. I read The Waste Land a few years back and I remember really enjoying it. I doubt I will ever get to Proust. It's not high on the list. :)
This evening Jean-Luc Mélenchon, the left wing presidential candidate in France, ended his public speech with this poem by Paul Éluard. The title is probably Et un sourire..., sometime it is quoted with the first verse as a title though.And a smile...
Night is never total
There is always, since I say it
Since I affirm it
At the end of sorrow
An open window
A lit window
There is always a dream that remains
Desire to fulfil, hunger to satisfy
A generous heart
A hand held out, a hand open
Attentive eyes
A life, life to be shared.
((translation made by a woman from Brittany living in Ireland))
La nuit n'est jamais complète.
Il y a toujours puisque je le dis,
Puisque je l'affirme,
Au bout du chagrin,
une fenêtre ouverte,
une fenêtre éclairée.
Il y a toujours un rêve qui veille,
désir à combler,
faim à satisfaire,
un cœur généreux,
une main tendue,
une main ouverte,
des yeux attentifs,
une vie : la vie à se partager.
Mod
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
The first lines of "The Waste Land" (T.S. Eliot, 1922) kin..."
Lovely.
Mod
Mod
Amy Lowell
Lilacs,
False blue,
White,
Purple,
Color of lilac,
Your great puffs of flowers
Are everywhere in this my New England.
Among your heart-shaped leaves
Orange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing
Their little weak soft songs;
In the crooks of your branches
The bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on spotted eggs
Peer restlessly through the light and shadow
Of all Springs.
Lilacs in dooryards
Holding quiet conversations with an early moon;
Lilacs watching a deserted house
Settling sideways into the grass of an old road;
Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom
Above a cellar dug into a hill.
You are everywhere.
You were everywhere.
You tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon,
And ran along the road beside the boy going to school.
You stood by the pasture-bars to give the cows good milking,
You persuaded the housewife that her dishpan was of silver.
And her husband an image of pure gold.
You flaunted the fragrance of your blossoms
Through the wide doors of Custom Houses—
You, and sandal-wood, and tea,
Charging the noses of quill-driving clerks
When a ship was in from China.
You called to them: “Goose-quill men, goose-quill men,
May is a month for flitting.”
Until they writhed on their high stools
And wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers.
Paradoxical New England clerks,
Writing inventories in ledgers, reading the “Song of Solomon” at night,
So many verses before bed-time,
Because it was the Bible.
The dead fed you
Amid the slant stones of graveyards.
Pale ghosts who planted you
Came in the nighttime
And let their thin hair blow through your clustered stems.
You are of the green sea,
And of the stone hills which reach a long distance.
You are of elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell kites and marbles,
You are of great parks where every one walks and nobody is at home.
You cover the blind sides of greenhouses
And lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass
To your friends, the grapes, inside.
Lilacs,
False blue,
White,
Purple,
Color of lilac,
You have forgotten your Eastern origin,
The veiled women with eyes like panthers,
The swollen, aggressive turbans of jeweled pashas.
Now you are a very decent flower,
A reticent flower,
A curiously clear-cut, candid flower,
Standing beside clean doorways,
Friendly to a house-cat and a pair of spectacles,
Making poetry out of a bit of moonlight
And a hundred or two sharp blossoms.
Maine knows you,
Has for years and years;
New Hampshire knows you,
And Massachusetts
And Vermont.
Cape Cod starts you along the beaches to Rhode Island;
Connecticut takes you from a river to the sea.
You are brighter than apples,
Sweeter than tulips,
You are the great flood of our souls
Bursting above the leaf-shapes of our hearts,
You are the smell of all Summers,
The love of wives and children,
The recollection of gardens of little children,
You are State Houses and Charters
And the familiar treading of the foot to and fro on a road it knows.
May is lilac here in New England,
May is a thrush singing “Sun up!” on a tip-top ash tree,
May is white clouds behind pine-trees
Puffed out and marching upon a blue sky.
May is a green as no other,
May is much sun through small leaves,
May is soft earth,
And apple-blossoms,
And windows open to a South Wind.
May is full light wind of lilac
From Canada to Narragansett Bay.
Lilacs,
False blue,
White,
Purple,
Color of lilac.
Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England,
Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England,
Lilac in me because I am New England,
Because my roots are in it,
Because my leaves are of it,
Because my flowers are for it,
Because it is my country
And I speak to it of itself
And sing of it with my own voice
Since certainly it is mine.
Mod
Ah, and poem to go with them! Our lilac bush has become a tree (well, a very, very tall and broad bush). It has been incredible for over a month, so fragrant with an abundance of blooms. Just in the past few days the blossoms are finally dried out.
Mod
Amy Lowell
Lilacs,
False blue,
White,
Purple,
Color of lilac,
Your great puffs of flowers
Are everywhere in this my New England.
Among your heart-shaped leaves
Orange orioles hop li..."
Ooooh. Lovely.
My grandparents' place had such voluminous lilac bushes. This poem sent me right back to those childhood summers spent there playing in my grandparents' farm, in the middle of lilac blooms. :-)
Mod
Ah, and poem to go with them..."
How wonderful.
Mod
And lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass
To your friends, the grapes, inside.
Who but a poet would think like this? :)
Mod
This is just to say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
We had a very funny discussion about this poem. When I asked how they would feel if someone left them a note like that, their responses included anger and revenge ("I'd eat their lunch!"). Then I shared that I too would feel disappointment and anger, but afterward would realize that I'd been gifted a poem.
A few days after I asked them to journal describing what they know about poetry. Apparently a number of them now believe "a note that is a poem" is a form of poetry, like haiku. :)
I forgot to bring home examples of their follow-up poems this weekend, but will share one or two next week.
Mod
And lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass
To your friends, the grapes, inside.
Who but a poet would think like this? :)"
Right? :-)
Mod
Thank you so much for sharing this, Karen. I'm currently pampering myself with french toast for breakfast and perfecting the moment by reading this topic and listening to swing music. Rereading the lilac poem Josh posted earlier and reading about your poetry adventures with your students have now put a long-lasting happy smile on my face. :-)
Also, I just love the logic of children. :-D And these children are such lucky ones to have you -- your wise ways -- to guide them in these daily adventures. I love imagining you having these thought-provoking conversations with them!
Karen wrote: "I have been doing a poetry unit with my nine to eleven year-old students using a rather charming curriculum guide that includes poems by Sarah Teasdale (!) and the William Carlos Williams poem, "Th..."This is so awww-worthy. And one of the cutest "misconceptions" students can make. :-)
That's lovely, Karen. Thanks for sharing your stories. Johanna's right, those kids are fortunate to have such a great teacher. :)And I do love that plum poem so much. It's a favourite. It's so vivid and everyday.
You don’t have to understand Life’s nature by Rainer Maria RilkeYou don’t have to understand Life’s nature,
then it becomes a grand affair.
Let every day just of itself occur
like a child walks away from every hurt
and happens upon the gift of many flowers.
To collect and the blossoms spare,
that never enters the child’s mind.
She gently unties them from her hair,
where they were kept captive with such delight,
and the hands of the loving, youthful years
reach out to embrace the new.
((translated by Cliff Crego))
Du mußt das Leben nicht verstehen
Du mußt das Leben nicht verstehen,
dann wird es werden wie ein Fest.
Und laß dir jeden Tag geschehen
so wie ein Kind im Weitergehen
von jedem Wehen
sich viele Blüten schenken läßt.
Sie aufzusammeln und zu sparen,
das kommt dem Kind nicht in den Sinn.
Es löst sie leise aus den Haaren,
drin sie so gern gefangen waren
und hält den lieben jungen Jahren
nach neuen seine Hände hin.
Mod
That's a great lesson and story. :-)
Mod
You don’t have to understand Life’s nature,
then it becomes a grand affair.
Let every day just of itself occur
like a child walks a..."
What a true and gentle thought.
I found a short, witty poem by Wislawa Szymborska, but I cannot copy the translation, so check it out here translated by Clare Cavanagh in Map: Collected and Last Poems.There Are Those Who by Wislawa Szymborska
There are those who conduct life more precisely.
They keep order within and around them.
A way for everything, and a right answer.
((...))
(view spoiler)
A tribute to the 26.5 millions trees dying in Southern California...Read the article here: https://www.wired.com/2017/05/trees-w...
TREES
BY JOYCE KILMER
"I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree."
Mod
Read the article here: https://www.wired.com/2017/05/trees-w...
TREES
BY JOYCE KILMER
"I think that I shall never s..."
This was a favorite poem in a sadly long-lost poetry anthology from my childhood, a poem I loved and memorized, and used in a group-written avant-weird play presented by my high school "humanities" class in an eerie little sequence (way back in 1970). It is old-school sentimental, and still affecting.
There is something quite chilling in the notion that after all the poem may outlive the tree.
Mod
Read the article here: https://www.wired.com/2017/05/trees-w...
TREES
BY JOYCE KILMER
"I think that I shall never s..."
I've never heard of this poem before. And I love it. Thank you, Mtsnow.
A Memory Of June - Poem by Claude McKayWhen June comes dancing o'er the death of May,
With scarlet roses tinting her green breast,
And mating thrushes ushering in her day,
And Earth on tiptoe for her golden guest,
I always see the evening when we met--
The first of June baptized in tender rain--
And walked home through the wide streets, gleaming wet,
Arms locked, our warm flesh pulsing with love's pain.
I always see the cheerful little room,
And in the corner, fresh and white, the bed,
Sweet scented with a delicate perfume,
Wherein for one night only we were wed;
Where in the starlit stillness we lay mute,
And heard the whispering showers all night long,
And your brown burning body was a lute
Whereon my passion played his fevered song.
When June comes dancing o'er the death of May,
With scarlet roses staining her fair feet,
My soul takes leave of me to sing all day
A love so fugitive and so complete.
All In June - Poem by William Henry DaviesA week ago I had a fire
To warm my feet, my hands and face;
Cold winds, that never make a friend,
Crept in and out of every place.
Today the fields are rich in grass,
And buttercups in thousands grow;
I'll show the world where I have been--
With gold-dust seen on either shoe.
Till to my garden back I come,
Where bumble-bees for hours and hours
Sit on their soft, fat, velvet bums,
To wriggle out of hollow flowers.
Mod
Mod
The Arrival of the Past
You wake wanting the dream
you left behind in sleep,
water washing through everything,
clearing away sediment
of years, uncovering the lost
and forgotten. You hear the sun
breaking on cold grass,
on eaves, on stone steps
outside. You see light
igniting sparks of dust
in the air. You feel for the first
time in years the world
electrified with morning.
You know something has changed
in the night, something you thought
gone from the world has come back:
shooting stars in the pasture,
sleeping beneath a field
of daisies, wisteria climbing
over fences, houses, trees.
This is a place that smells
like childhood and old age.
It is a limb you swung from,
a field you go back to.
It is a part of whatever you do.
~ Scott Owens
Johanna wrote: "Here's a Solstice poem Dianne Thies shared on FB this morning. I think it's lovely.The Arrival of the Past
You wake wanting the dream
you left behind in sleep,
water washing through everything,..."
Beautiful!
Johanna wrote: "Here's a Solstice poem Dianne Thies shared on FB this morning. I think it's lovely.The Arrival of the Past
You wake wanting the dream
you left behind in sleep,
water washing through everything,..."
Quite lovely! Thank you for sharing Johanna
Bed In SummerIn winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet
Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
-Robert Louis Stevenson
Q&A with Josh Lanyon
Books mentioned in this topic
Mr. Cogito (other topics)Don't Mention the Children (other topics)
Writing Haiku: A Beginner's Guide to Composing Japanese Poetry (other topics)
Dear Writer: Pep Talks & Practical Advice for the Creative Life (other topics)
The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World (other topics)
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Authors mentioned in this topic
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Michael Rosen (other topics)
Michael Rosen (other topics)
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I always loved this and admired Lewis Carroll's genius. I mean, he wrote it in 1871! There is also a happy ending ;-)
Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
PS: Here you can find samples of translations in many languages: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jabberw...