tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9503679638640524802024-03-05T13:59:25.370+00:00A Single Moment"And for a single moment my voice is everything" ~ David Bermanelaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comBlogger519125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-68914407684541333062016-02-21T09:48:00.000+00:002016-02-21T09:48:53.554+00:00Found Poetry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
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Beautiful voices</div>
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singing into the wind</div>
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floating on the trembling water</div>
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lilting</div>
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delicate</div>
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I fell into</div>
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the </div>
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dark reflecting moonlight</div>
elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-61953772251084156102016-01-30T14:19:00.001+00:002016-01-30T14:19:42.363+00:00poem for the day: now i become myself by may sarton<img alt="I love this poem of May Sarton: Now I become Myself: " class="pinImage rounded" data-load-state="pending" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/31/30/ef/3130ef1ae0d293a8a542cd1132707712.jpg" /><br />
<a data-ved="0ahUKEwjN14yZ3dHKAhVMVRQKHSHkC00QjRwIBw" href="http://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwjN14yZ3dHKAhVMVRQKHSHkC00QjRwIBw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fdowneast.com%2Ftag%2Fmay-sarton%2F&psig=AFQjCNG8-aAYwiWo5Q8p6pqTNzxIjfFkiw&ust=1454249812819931" id="irc_mil" jsaction="mousedown:irc.rl;keydown:irc.rlk;irc.il;" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="550" id="irc_mi" src="http://downeastss3.s3.amazonaws.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/dee1205sarton3-600x608.jpg" style="margin-top: 19px;" width="543" /></a><br />
elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-57201954762910755712016-01-25T10:42:00.001+00:002016-01-25T10:42:39.824+00:00poem for the day: Midnight was come by Thomas Sackville (1536-1608)<a data-ved="0ahUKEwi5uo_G4sTKAhXDuxQKHb98AroQjRwIBw" href="http://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwi5uo_G4sTKAhXDuxQKHb98AroQjRwIBw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.wirgdata.org%2Fsearchpro2.cgi%3Fpersonid%3D166&psig=AFQjCNHxhMJLBQFEun6755v2Pc5Oh_S6DQ&ust=1453804654924562" id="irc_mil" jsaction="mousedown:irc.rl;keydown:irc.rlk;irc.il;" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="562" id="irc_mi" src="http://www.wirgdata.org/photos/originals/Sackville,%20Thomas%201st%20Baron%20Buckhurst%20and%20Earl%20of%20Dorset%20(De%20Critz)_1.jpg" style="margin-top: 13px;" width="543" /></a><br />
<br />
Midnight was come, and every vital thing<br />
With sweet sound sleep their weary limbs did rest,<br />
The beasts were still, the little birds that sing,<br />
Now sweetly slept beside their mother's breast,<br />
The old and all well shrouded in their nest;<br />
The waters calm, the cruel seas did cease,<br />
The woods, the fields, and all things held their peace.<br />
<br />
The golden stars were whirl'd amid their race,<br />
And on the earth did with their twinkling light,<br />
When each thing nestled in his resting place,<br />
Forget day's pain with pleasure of the night;<br />
The hare had not the greedy hounds in sight,<br />
The fearful deer of death stood not in doubt,<br />
The partridge dreamt not of the falcon's foot.<br />
<br />
from: The Complaint of |Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckinghamelaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-32625437489668175372016-01-24T23:04:00.000+00:002016-01-24T23:04:05.923+00:00poem for the day: Hello, sun in my face by Mary Oliver“Hello, sun in my face.<br />
<br />
Hello, you who made the morning<br />
and spread it over the fields<br />
and into the faces of the tulips<br />
and the nodding morning glories,<br />
and into the windows of, even, the<br />
miserable and the crotchety – <br />
<br />
best preacher that ever was,<br />
dear star, that just happens<br />
to be where you are in the universe<br />
to keep us from ever-darkness,<br />
to ease us with warm touching,<br />
to hold us in the great hands of light –<br />
good morning, good morning, good morning.<br />
<br />
Watch, now, how I start the day<br />
in happiness, in kindness” <br />
<figcaption class="source" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1434715698512_578">— Mary Oliver</figcaption><figcaption class="source"> </figcaption><br />elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-32481195288672164282016-01-24T10:17:00.003+00:002016-01-24T10:17:52.827+00:00poem for the day: A Frosty Day - Lord de Tabley (1835-1895)<a data-ved="0ahUKEwiP6q3ymsLKAhVL1xoKHSUYA6UQjRwIBw" href="http://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwiP6q3ymsLKAhVL1xoKHSUYA6UQjRwIBw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.bbc.co.uk%2Farts%2Fyourpaintings%2Fpaintings%2Fthe-3rd-lord-de-tabley-18351895-103850&psig=AFQjCNE5-ZkHxgqLuCJGTgnI0WW0JXJp9w&ust=1453716536060464" id="irc_mil" jsaction="mousedown:irc.rl;keydown:irc.rlk;irc.il;" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="587" id="irc_mi" src="http://ichef.bbci.co.uk/arts/yourpaintings/images/paintings/tab/large/che_tab_233_4_large.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="487" /></a><br />
<br />
Grass afield wears silver thatch;<br />
Palings all are edged with rime;<br />
Frost-flowers pattern round the latch;<br />
Cloud nor breeze dissolve the clime;<br />
<br />
When the waves are solid floor,<br />
And the clods are iron-bound,<br />
And the boughs are crystall'd hoar,<br />
And the red leaf nailed a-ground.<br />
<br />
When the fieldfare's flight is slow,<br />
And a rosy vapour rim,<br />
Now the sun is small and low,<br />
Belts along the region dim.<br />
<br />
When the ice-crack flies and flaws,<br />
Shore to shore, with thunder shock,<br />
Deeper than the evening daws,<br />
Clearer than the village clock.<br />
<br />
When the rusty blackbird strips,<br />
Bunch by bunch, the coral thorn;<br />
And the pale day-crescent dips,<br />
Now to heaven, a slender horn.elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-31450306698129202142016-01-10T10:16:00.002+00:002016-01-10T10:16:24.758+00:00poem for the day: morning poem by mary oliver<img alt="Morning Poem - Mary Oliver.: " class="pinImage rounded" data-load-state="pending" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/4d/49/4d/4d494d422d9212911478be3cedc9c8ef.jpg" />elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-25043802702579477932015-10-21T10:56:00.000+01:002015-10-21T10:56:03.789+01:00poem for the day: An Autumn perspective by eric jong<img alt="Inge Look postcard 16 I'm moving house!: " class="pinImage rounded" data-load-state="pending" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/1e/06/a1/1e06a1689b86152efa6e7d32a0e476e0.jpg" /><br />
<br />
Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,<br />the radio playing to bare walls,<br />picture hooks left stranded<br />in the unsoiled squares where paintings were,<br />and something reminding us<br />this is like all other moving days;<br />finding the dirty ends of someone else's life,<br />hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,<br />and burned-out matches in the corner;<br />things not preserved, yet never swept away<br />like fragments of disturbing dreams<br />we stumble on all day. . .<br />in ordering our lives, we will discard them,<br />scrub clean the floorboards of this our home<br />lest refuse from the lives we did not lead<br />become, in some strange, frightening way, our own.<br />And we have plans that will not tolerate<br />our fears-- a year laid out like rooms<br />in a new house--the dusty wine glasses<br />rinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelves<br />sagging with heavy winter books.<br />Seeing the room always as it will be,<br />we are content to dust and wait.<br />We will return here from the dark and silent<br />streets, arms full of books and food,<br />anxious as we always are in winter,<br />and looking for the Good Life we have made.<br /><br />I see myself then: tense, solemn,<br />in high-heeled shoes that pinch,<br />not basking in the light of goals fulfilled,<br />but looking back to now and seeing<br />a lazy, sunburned, sandaled girl<br />in a bare room, full of promise<br />and feeling envious.<br /><br />Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forward<br />into the future--as if, when the room<br />contains us and all our treasured junk<br />we will have filled whatever gap it is<br />that makes us wander, discontented<br />from ourselves.<br /><br />The room will not change:<br />a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paint<br />won't make much difference;<br />our eyes are fickle<br />but we remain the same beneath our suntans,<br />pale, frightened,<br />dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time,<br />dreaming our dreaming selves.<br /><br />I look forward and see myself looking back. elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-56580919272220573422015-07-24T21:57:00.001+01:002015-07-24T21:57:33.666+01:00poem for the day: Nocturne by Edith Sodergran<br />
<img alt="~ A collection of CLICK ON THE PICTURE (gif) AN WATCH IT COME TO LIFE. ....♡♥♡♥♡♥Love★it" class="pinImage" height="640" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/6b/d9/4f/6bd94f9b393bd854d9125c4304db721c.gif" width="426" /><br />
<br />
Moonlit evening, silver clear<br />
and the night's blue billows,<br />
sparkling waves, numberless,<br />
follow one another.<br />
Shadows fall along the path,<br />
on the shore the bushes softly weep,<br />
black giants guard its silver in their keep.<br />
Silence deep in summer's midst,<br />
sleep and dream, -<br />
the moon glides out across the sea<br />
white tender gleam.elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-11751597291503166532015-06-15T08:35:00.000+01:002015-06-15T08:35:53.393+01:00poem for the day: the healing improvisation of hair by jay wright<div class="aap_tools">
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The Healing Improvisation of Hair</h1>
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<span class="node-title">Jay Wright</span>, <span class="date-display-single" content="1934-05-25T00:00:00-04:00" datatype="xsd:dateTime" property="dc:date">1934</span> </span></h2>
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<pre>If you undo your do you wóuld
be strange. Hair has been on my mind.
I used to lean in the doorway
and watch my stony woman wind
the copper through the black, and play
with my understanding, show me she cóuld
take a cup of river water,
and watch it shimmy, watch it change,
turn around and become ash bone.
Wind in the cottonwoods wakes me
to a day so thin its breastbone
shows, so paid out it shakes me free
of its blue dust. I will arrange
that river water, bottom juice.
I conjure my head in the stream
and ride with the silk feel of it
as my woman bathes me, and shaves
away the scorn, sponges the grit
of solitude from my skin, laves
the salt water of self-esteem
over my feathering body.
How like joy to come upon me
in remembering a head of hair
and the way water would caress
it, and stress beauty in the flair
and cut of the only witness
to my dance under sorrow’s tree.
This swift darkness is spring’s first hour.
I carried my life, like a stone,
in a ragged pocket, but I
had a true weaving song, a sly
way with rhythm, a healing tone.</pre>
<pre><img alt="Jay Wright" src="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/uploads/authors/3af327dcff/448x/jaywright1.jpg" /></pre>
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elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-62448489180735783172015-06-14T07:50:00.000+01:002015-06-14T07:50:45.214+01:00poem for the day: Dust if you must by Rose Milligan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<img alt="This sweet poem was first published on September 15th 1998 in the 21st edition of The Lady (“in continuous publication since 1885 and widely respected as England’s longest running weekly magazine for women”). ‘Dust if you Must’ was written by Mrs Rose Milligan from Lancaster in Lancashire. Good points to remember" class="pinImage" height="640" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/38/2d/b9/382db931f5efb09ee90dc9812ce99155.jpg" width="480" /></div>
elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-85606497756307243902015-06-13T00:29:00.000+01:002016-01-24T23:02:48.389+00:00poem for the day: The Moment by Margaret Atwood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<img alt="Margaret Atwood" class="pinImage" height="640" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/32/e0/00/32e0005506bbb3bbbaf8c96753b65389.jpg" width="460" /></div>
elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-16865981782819817762015-06-11T08:14:00.000+01:002015-06-11T08:14:37.396+01:00poem for the day: the best time of day by raymond carver<img alt=""Summer Night" by AkagenoSaru. This is absolutely beautiful and captures a summer night perfectly." class="pinImage" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/44/b2/d2/44b2d2d353332dd0202db3f8a09954f0.jpg" /><br />
<br />
<br />
Cool summer nights.<br />
Windows open.<br />
Lamps burning.<br />
Fruit in the bowl.<br />
And your head on my shoulder.<br />
These the happiest moments in the day.<br />
Next to the early morning hours,<br />
of course. And the time<br />
just before lunch.<br />
And the afternoon, and<br />
early evening hours.<br />
But I do love<br />
these summer nights.<br />
Even more, I think,<br />
than those other times.<br />
The work finished for the day.<br />
And no one who can reach us now.<br />
Or everelaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-621706406443880002015-06-10T09:28:00.000+01:002015-06-10T09:28:22.558+01:00poem for the day: Dreamhouse by Mary Oliver<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<img alt="Mary Oliver <3" class="pinImage" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/61/69/9b/61699bec764f3fc96d62c61d33964abb.jpg" /></div>
elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-1721002798717592652015-06-09T14:05:00.001+01:002015-06-09T14:05:43.946+01:00poem for the day: Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey by Wm. wordsworth<a data-ved="0CAcQjRw" href="http://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CAcQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fsoundinmylungs.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F1646127052%2Ftintern-abbey-is-a-ruined-medieval-monastery-on&ei=6-N2VemMBMjSUa7ngYgJ&bvm=bv.95039771,d.d24&psig=AFQjCNEASwu_1ocl8At-2n0o47WBTDN7sw&ust=1433941226445738" id="irc_mil" jsaction="mousedown:irc.rl;keydown:irc.rlk;irc.il;" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="476" id="irc_mi" src="http://36.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lc9yctsLTO1qd64i8o1_1280.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
<table border="0"><tbody>
<tr><td>Five years have past; five summers, with the length</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Of five long winters! and again I hear</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="line4"></a>With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Which on a wild secluded scene impress</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>The landscape with the quiet of the sky.</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>The day is come when I again repose</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Here, under this dark sycamore, and view </td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Among the woods and copses lose themselves,</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>The wild green landscape. Once again I see</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms,</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>With some uncertain notice, as might seem, </td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire</td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>The hermit sits alone. <br />
<br />
(On revisiting the banks of the Wye during a tour - July 13, 1798)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-42402266505107800422015-06-08T09:53:00.002+01:002015-06-08T09:53:43.114+01:00Poem for the day: the garden by andrew marvell<span class="at4-icon aticon-facebook" style="background-color: #305891;"><span class="at_a11y"></span></span><br />
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<div class="tab-content active" id="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
How vainly men themselves amaze </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
To win the palm, the oak, or bays, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
And their uncessant labours see </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Crown’d from some single herb or tree, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Whose short and narrow verged shade </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Does prudently their toils upbraid; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
While all flow’rs and all trees do close </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
To weave the garlands of repose. </div>
<br /><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
And Innocence, thy sister dear! </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Mistaken long, I sought you then </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
In busy companies of men; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Your sacred plants, if here below, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Only among the plants will grow. </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Society is all but rude, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
To this delicious solitude. </div>
<br /><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
No white nor red was ever seen </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
So am’rous as this lovely green. </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Cut in these trees their mistress’ name; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Little, alas, they know or heed </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
How far these beauties hers exceed! </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
No name shall but your own be found. </div>
<br /><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
When we have run our passion’s heat, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Love hither makes his best retreat. </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
The gods, that mortal beauty chase, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Still in a tree did end their race: </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Apollo hunted Daphne so, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Only that she might laurel grow; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
And Pan did after Syrinx speed, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. </div>
<br /><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
What wond’rous life in this I lead! </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Ripe apples drop about my head; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
The luscious clusters of the vine </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Upon my mouth do crush their wine; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
The nectarine and curious peach </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Into my hands themselves do reach; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Stumbling on melons as I pass, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Ensnar’d with flow’rs, I fall on grass. </div>
<br /><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Withdraws into its happiness; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
The mind, that ocean where each kind </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Does straight its own resemblance find, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Yet it creates, transcending these, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Far other worlds, and other seas; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Annihilating all that’s made </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
To a green thought in a green shade. </div>
<br /><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Casting the body’s vest aside, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
My soul into the boughs does glide; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
There like a bird it sits and sings, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Then whets, and combs its silver wings; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
And, till prepar’d for longer flight, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Waves in its plumes the various light. </div>
<br /><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Such was that happy garden-state, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
While man there walk’d without a mate; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
After a place so pure and sweet, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
What other help could yet be meet! </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
To wander solitary there: </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Two paradises ’twere in one </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
To live in paradise alone. </div>
<br /><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
How well the skillful gard’ner drew </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Of flow’rs and herbs this dial new, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Where from above the milder sun </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Does through a fragrant zodiac run; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
And as it works, th’ industrious bee </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Computes its time as well as we. </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
How could such sweet and wholesome hours </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs!</div>
</div>
</div>
elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-56248401822995104932015-06-05T08:13:00.000+01:002015-06-05T08:13:39.730+01:00poem for the day: There is pleasure in the pathless woods by george gordon byron“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,<br />
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,<br />
There is society, where none intrudes,<br />
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:<br />
I love not man the less, but Nature more…<br />
— Byron”<br />
<br />
<a data-ved="0CAcQjRw" href="http://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CAcQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.poetryfoundation.org%2Fbio%2Flord-byron&ei=4KVoVeSVFIHa7gaq84DICg&bvm=bv.94455598,d.ZGU&psig=AFQjCNHQsXLMSbn-H3uHG4vSpHLfF80jOA&ust=1433007957380728" id="irc_mil" jsaction="mousedown:irc.rl;keydown:irc.rlk;irc.il;" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;"><img src="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/uploads/authors/lord-byron/448x/lord-byron.jpg" height="293" id="irc_mi" style="margin-top: 159px;" width="448" /></a>elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-85310789783023982352015-06-04T08:48:00.000+01:002015-06-04T08:48:48.160+01:00poem for the day: loafing by raymond carver<h5>
Loafing</h5>
<br />
I looked into the room a moment ago,<br />
and this is what I saw—<br />
my chair
in its place by the window,<br />
the book turned facedown on the table.<br />
And on
the sill, the cigarette<br />
left burning in its ashtray.<br />
Malingerer! my uncle
yelled at me<br />
so long ago. He was right.<br />
I’ve set aside time today,<br />
same
as every day,<br />
for doing nothing at all.
-Raymond Carver<br />
<br />
<img alt="Raymond Carver in 1984, by Bob Adelman" src="http://blog.ricecracker.net/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/071224_r16910_p323.jpg" height="365" title="Raymond Carver in 1984, Bob Adelman" width="323" />elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-6565719852412015062015-06-03T09:52:00.001+01:002015-06-03T09:53:49.533+01:00poem for the day: Vanished Summers by Margaret Sackville<a href="http://blessedbysweetsoutherncharm.tumblr.com/image/25896290296"><img border="0" src="http://40.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4gegtuDey1rrh29zo1_500.png" /></a><br />
Vanished Summers, passed and gone,<br />
Here find resurrection. -<br />
Each crowned corn-head closely filled,<br />
Packed and pressed with suns distilled<br />
Into lively sap which throws<br />
Rays of sunlight as it grows. -<br />
These enchanted, waving tall<br />
Golden ears contain them all:<br />
All the long delightful days,<br />
When June met us face to face;<br />
Light and laughing grace re-born<br />
In great fields of upright corn. -<br />
Earth's tremendous charity<br />
Full-accomplished here we see<br />
Who gives us for familiar food<br />
The lovely lilt of July's mood. -<br />
One minute, brown husk contains<br />
Summer's shadow, Autumn rains,<br />
Spring's delicious wayward green,<br />
Even Winter's pallid, lean<br />
Blood of mingled frost and snows<br />
Virtue on our sheaves bestows.<br />
So to give us daily bread<br />
The very sky's transfigured.elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-48131621904172803752015-06-01T22:23:00.000+01:002015-06-01T22:23:15.331+01:00poem for the day: Life by Henry van dyke<br />
<br />
<br />
Let me but live my life from year to year,<br />
With forward face and unreluctant soul;<br />
Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal;<br />
Not mourning for the things that disappear<br />
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear<br />
From what the future veils; but with a whole<br />
And happy heart, that pays its toll<br />
To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.<br />
So let the way wind up the hill or down,<br />
O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy:<br />
Still seeking what I sought when but a boy,<br />
New friendship, high adventure, and a crown,<br />
My heart will keep the courage of the quest,<br />
And hope the road's last turn will be the best.<br />
<br />
<a data-ved="0CAcQjRw" href="http://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CAcQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fstatusmind.com%2Fcategory%2Fauthors%2Fhenry-van-dyke%2F&ei=QBdnVcjgMoajU72DgfgB&bvm=bv.93990622,d.d24&psig=AFQjCNE0miVX62dv_SK8vHNRzphobycGbA&ust=1432905908167077" id="irc_mil" jsaction="mousedown:irc.rl;keydown:irc.rlk;irc.il;" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;"><img src="http://statusmind.com/images/2014/03/Life-Quotes-37131-statusmind.com.jpg" height="400" id="irc_mi" style="margin-top: 106px;" width="600" /></a>elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-52892974571472429932015-05-30T07:43:00.001+01:002015-05-30T07:43:33.717+01:00poem for the day: When death comes by mary oliver"When it's over, I want to say: all my life<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I was a bride married to amazement.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
When it's over, I don't want to wonder</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
or full of argument.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
-Mary Oliver</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a data-ved="0CAcQjRw" href="http://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CAcQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.marquette.edu%2Fmagazine%2Frecent.php%3Fsubaction%3Dshowfull%26id%3D1358182719&ei=8VtpVZCuKOmv7Ab3roCwCw&bvm=bv.94455598,d.ZGU&psig=AFQjCNGoWitmGGRDnUVuOvEHPtbr4n761A&ust=1433054570708633" id="irc_mil" jsaction="mousedown:irc.rl;keydown:irc.rlk;irc.il;" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="250" id="irc_mi" src="http://www.marquette.edu/magazine/images/winter2013/bnr-oliver.jpg" style="margin-top: 181px;" width="700" /></a></div>
elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-83698285021486347672015-05-29T08:21:00.001+01:002015-05-29T08:21:12.683+01:00poem for the day: Notes for the Legend of Salad Woman by michael ondaatjeSince my wife was born<br />she must have eaten<br />the equivalent of two-thirds<br />of the original garden of Eden.<br />Not the dripping lush fruit<br />or the meat in the ribs of animals<br />but the green salad gardens of that place.<br />The whole arena of green<br />would have been eradicated<br />as if the right filter had been removed<br />leaving only the skeleton of coarse brightness.<br /><br />All green ends up eventually<br />churning in her left cheek.<br />Her mouth is a laundromat of spinning drowning herbs.<br />She is never in fields<br />but is sucking the pith out of grass.<br />I have noticed the very leaves from flower decorations<br />grow sparse in their week long performance in our house.<br />The garden is a dust bowl.<br /><br />On our last day in Eden as we walked out<br />she nibbled the leaves at her breasts and crotch.<br />But there's none to touch<br />none to equal<br />the Chlorophyll Kiss<br />
<br />
<a data-ved="0CAcQjRw" href="http://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CAcQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fgalleryhip.com%2Fmichael-ondaatje.html&ei=ThNoVbjCKMqW7Aa1koD4CA&v6u=https%3A%2F%2Fs-v6exp1-ds.metric.gstatic.com%2Fgen_204%3Fip%3D86.152.118.82%26ts%3D1432884043227857%26auth%3D3c4v5kjef3g4mb36t6njl242wvipbnxp%26rndm%3D0.5014365995451799&v6s=2&v6t=4325&bvm=bv.93990622,d.ZGU&psig=AFQjCNF2J_nz4BN10BytWhuwm20h5LH1kQ&ust=1432970443150707" id="irc_mil" jsaction="mousedown:irc.rl;keydown:irc.rlk;irc.il;" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="611" id="irc_mi" src="http://317am.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/bech-mo-ad.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="482" /></a>elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-54343934199771825412015-05-28T08:49:00.000+01:002015-05-28T08:49:32.151+01:00poem for the day: A song of enchantment by walter de la mareA song of Enchantment I sang me there,<br />
In a green-green wood, by waters fair,<br />
Just as the words came up to me<br />
I sang it under the wild wood tree. <br />
<br />
Widdershins turned I, singing it low,<br />
Watching the wild birds come and go;<br />
No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen<br />
Under the thick-thatched branches green. <br />
<br />
Twilight came: silence came:<br />
The planet of Evening's silver flame;<br />
By darkening paths I wandered through<br />
Thickets trembling with drops of dew. <br />
<br />
But the music is lost and the words are gone<br />
Of the song I sang as I sat alone,<br />
Ages and ages have fallen on me -<br />
On the wood and the pool and the elder tree. <br />
<!-- .KonaBody --> <br />
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
<img alt="Wallingford, England, beautiful country lane......" class="pinImage" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/52/c0/d5/52c0d52fee265e6a3014b98ed4313e65.jpg" /></div>
elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-66325865070603034582015-05-27T08:08:00.000+01:002015-05-27T08:08:06.763+01:00poem for the day: Late Fragment by Raymond CarverAnd did you get what<br />
you wanted from this life, even so?<br />
I did.<br />
And what did you want?<br />
To call myself beloved, to feel myself<br />
beloved on the earth.<br />
<br />
<img alt="Let the sun shine through the darkest parts of your soul." class="pinImage" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/96/76/1a/96761afa5195e7ad0bdf7fb652ce6119.jpg" />elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-76117897579216176152015-05-26T08:18:00.000+01:002015-05-26T08:18:57.940+01:00poem for the day: within the circuit of this plodding life by Henry david thoreau<h1 class="pageTitle">
</h1>
<div class="entry-content clearfix">
<div id="content">
<div class="node">
<div class="content-poetry">
<!--paging_filter-->Within the circuit of this plodding life<br />
There enter moments of an azure hue,<br />
Untarnished fair as is the violet<br />
Or anemone, when the spring strews them<br />
By some meandering rivulet, which make<br />
The best philosophy untrue that aims<br />
But to console man for his grievances<br />
I have remembered when the winter came,<br />
High in my chamber in the frosty nights,<br />
When in the still light of the cheerful moon,<br />
On every twig and rail and jutting spout,<br />
The icy spears were adding to their length<br />
Against the arrows of the coming sun,<br />
How in the shimmering noon of summer past<br />
Some unrecorded beam slanted across<br />
The upland pastures where the Johnswort grew;<br />
Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind,<br />
The bee's long smothered hum, on the blue flag<br />
Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill,<br />
Which now through all its course stands still and dumb<br />
Its own memorial,—purling at its play<br />
Along the slopes, and through the meadows next,<br />
Until its youthful sound was hushed at last<br />
In the staid current of the lowland stream;<br />
Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned,<br />
And where the fieldfare followed in the rear,<br />
When all the fields around lay bound and hoar<br />
Beneath a thick integument of snow.<br />
So by God's cheap economy made rich<br />
To go upon my winter's task again<br />
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elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950367963864052480.post-49265213772403320672015-05-25T10:15:00.000+01:002015-05-25T10:15:03.111+01:00poem for the day: At night by amy lowell<img alt="...For peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning / To where the cricket sings; / There midnight's all a glimmer, / And noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. ~W.B. Yeats" class="pinImage" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/a2/12/82/a212823092094fb2490650bc9dd5a2c5.jpg" /><br />
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<a class="taxonomy-image-links" href="http://www.best-poems.net/amy_lowell/index.html"><img alt="Amy Lowell" class="taxonomy-image-term-2864 taxonomy-image-vid-7" src="http://www.best-poems.net/files/imagecache/poet/category_pictures/Amy%20Lowell.jpg" height="90" title="Amy Lowell was born in 1874 on her family’s estate, Sevenels, in Brookline, Massachusetts. The youngest of five children, she developed an affection for books and a love of reading and writing at an early age. Lowell and her mother, Katherine, composed and published a book of stories and poetry called Dream Drops; or, Stories from Fairyland in 1887. While she seemed diligent in her studies of literature, Lowell’s schoolteachers reported her as undisciplined and a troublemaker, teasing her classmates and disrespecting those in authority." width="80" /></a></div>
The wind is singing through the trees to-night,<br />
A deep-voiced song of rushing cadences<br />
And crashing intervals. No summer breeze<br />
Is this, though hot July is at its height,<br />
Gone is her gentler music; with delight<br />
She listens to this booming like the seas,<br />
These elemental, loud necessities<br />
Which call to her to answer their swift might.<br />
Above the tossing trees shines down a star,<br />
Quietly bright; this wild, tumultuous joy<br />
Quickens nor dims its splendour. And my mind,<br />
O Star! is filled with your white light, from far,<br />
So suffer me this one night to enjoy<br />
The freedom of the onward sweeping wind.</div>
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elaine http://www.blogger.com/profile/17075935631756457901noreply@blogger.com