Hangin, LittleBluestem, All - more poems

Discussion in 'Fibromyalgia Main Forum' started by windblade, May 13, 2006.

  1. windblade

    windblade Active Member


    Here is a wonderful one by Vassar Miller "Prayer Upon Waking.

    Hope it will be available.
    [This Message was Edited on 05/14/2006]
    [This Message was Edited on 05/17/2006]
  2. windblade

    windblade Active Member

    Do they have ANY of Vassar Miller's poems?
    I could pick out some more.

    SO GLAD that you love the George Herbert's!!!

    You are so much fun to do this with.

    I will look for other poets meanwhile.

    Love ya.
  3. windblade

    windblade Active Member

    Vassar Miller had cerebral palsy since birth, and always was in great pain and limitations. She is one of the most important "religious" poets of our time.

    How about the library to get her work??? Her collected poems are called "If I Had Wheels Or Love".
    There are other titles if you need them. Does your library mail to you?

    I am THRILLED that poetry has come back to you. I usually have no-one to share these with. So excited.

    Okay, let's try again.


    Poet: 'Emily Dickinson' title or first line: "Death is a dialogue between...

    poet: 'Jane Kenyon',title: " Notes from the Other Side"
    and title: "Back from the City"
  4. windblade

    windblade Active Member

    John Donne - " A Hymne to God the Father"

    George Herbert " The Flower"
  5. windblade

    windblade Active Member

    I FOUND a Vassar Miller poem: "Without Ceremony" using my favorite search-engine 'dogpile'. It contains at least 4 or 5 major ones, google,yahoo, etc.

    This one is www.stauros.org/notebooks/v2on2a09html

    And another of her poems for you to read 'Subterfuge' is on


  6. LittleBluestem

    LittleBluestem New Member

    I just went to see the Poetry thread on the Worship board. It is, of course, about religious poetry. I like religious poetry, but I like other poetry too.

    A good web site for information about American Poets and their poetry is : www.americanpoems.com/
    You can hear poets reading their own work at : PoetryArchive.org/

    Here is one of my favorite poems by Emily Dickinson:

    If I can stop one heart from breaking,
    I shall not live in vain;
    If I can ease one life the aching,
    Or cool one pain,
    Or help one fainting robin
    Unto his nest again,
    I shall not live in vain.

    A charming children’s book, appropriate for all ages, about a student learning to appreciate poetry is :
    “Love That Dog” by Sharon Creech.
  7. hangininthere

    hangininthere Well-Known Member

    Talking To Grief

    Talking to Grief - by Denise Levertov

    Ah, Grief, I should not treat you
    like a homeless dog
    who comes to the back door
    for a crust, for a meatless bone.
    I should trust you.

    I should coax you
    into the house and give you
    your own corner,
    a worn mat to lie on,
    your own water dish.

    You think I don't know you've been living
    under my porch.
    You long for your real place to be readied
    before winter comes. You need
    your name,
    your collar and tag. You need
    the right to warn off intruders,
    to consider
    my house your own
    and me your person
    and yourself
    my own dog.

    September 1961 - by Denise Levertov

    This is the year the old ones,
    the old great ones
    leave us alone on the road.

    The road leads to the sea.
    We have the words in our pockets,
    obscure directions. The old ones

    have taken away the light of their presence,
    we see it moving away over a hill
    off to one side.

    They are not dying,
    they are withdrawn
    into a painful privacy

    learning to live without words.
    E. P. "It looks like dying"--Williams: "I can't
    describe to you what has been

    happening to me"--
    H. D. "unable to speak."
    The darkness

    twists itself in the wind, the stars
    are small, the horizon
    ringed with confused urban light-haze.

    They have told us
    the road leads to the sea,
    and given

    the language into our hands.
    We hear
    our footsteps each time a truck

    has dazzled past us and gone
    leaving us new silence.
    One can't reach

    the sea on this endless
    road to the sea unless
    one turns aside at the end, it seems,

    the owl that silently glides above it
    aslant, back and forth,

    and away into deep woods.

    But for us the road
    unfurls itself, we count the
    words in our pockets, we wonder

    how it will be without them, we don't
    stop walking, we know
    there is far to go, sometimes

    we think the night wind carries
    a smell of the sea...

    The Moose
    by Elizabeth Bishop

    For Grace Bulmer Bowers

    From narrow provinces

    of fish and bread and tea,

    home of the long tides

    where the bay leaves the sea

    twice a day and takes

    the herrings long rides,

    where if the river

    enters or retreats

    in a wall of brown foam

    depends on if it meets

    the bay coming in,

    the bay not at home;

    where, silted red,

    sometimes the sun sets

    facing a red sea,

    and others, veins the flats'

    lavender, rich mud

    in burning rivulets;

    on red, gravelly roads,

    down rows of sugar maples,

    past clapboard farmhouses

    and neat, clapboard churches,

    bleached, ridged as clamshells,

    past twin silver birches,

    through late afternoon

    a bus journeys west,

    the windshield flashing pink,

    pink glancing off of metal,

    brushing the dented flank

    of blue, beat-up enamel;

    down hollows, up rises,

    and waits, patient, while

    a lone traveller gives

    kisses and embraces

    to seven relatives

    and a collie supervises.

    Goodbye to the elms,

    to the farm, to the dog.

    The bus starts. The light

    grows richer; the fog,

    shifting, salty, thin,

    comes closing in.

    Its cold, round crystals

    form and slide and settle

    in the white hens' feathers,

    in gray glazed cabbages,

    on the cabbage roses

    and lupins like apostles;

    the sweet peas cling

    to their wet white string

    on the whitewashed fences;

    bumblebees creep

    inside the foxgloves,

    and evening commences.

    One stop at Bass River.

    Then the Economies

    Lower, Middle, Upper;

    Five Islands, Five Houses,

    where a woman shakes a tablecloth

    out after supper.

    A pale flickering. Gone.

    The Tantramar marshes

    and the smell of salt hay.

    An iron bridge trembles

    and a loose plank rattles

    but doesn't give way.

    On the left, a red light

    swims through the dark:

    a ship's port lantern.

    Two rubber boots show,

    illuminated, solemn.

    A dog gives one bark.

    A woman climbs in

    with two market bags,

    brisk, freckled, elderly.

    "A grand night. Yes, sir,

    all the way to Boston."

    She regards us amicably.

    Moonlight as we enter

    the New Brunswick woods,

    hairy, scratchy, splintery;

    moonlight and mist

    caught in them like lamb's wool

    on bushes in a pasture.

    The passengers lie back.

    Snores. Some long sighs.

    A dreamy divagation

    begins in the night,

    a gentle, auditory,

    slow hallucination. . . .

    In the creakings and noises,

    an old conversation

    --not concerning us,

    but recognizable, somewhere,

    back in the bus:

    Grandparents' voices


    talking, in Eternity:

    names being mentioned,

    things cleared up finally;

    what he said, what she said,

    who got pensioned;

    deaths, deaths and sicknesses;

    the year he remarried;

    the year (something) happened.

    She died in childbirth.

    That was the son lost

    when the schooner foundered.

    He took to drink. Yes.

    She went to the bad.

    When Amos began to pray

    even in the store and

    finally the family had

    to put him away.

    "Yes . . ." that peculiar

    affirmative. "Yes . . ."

    A sharp, indrawn breath,

    half groan, half acceptance,

    that means "Life's like that.

    We know it (also death)."

    Talking the way they talked

    in the old featherbed,

    peacefully, on and on,

    dim lamplight in the hall,

    down in the kitchen, the dog

    tucked in her shawl.

    Now, it's all right now

    even to fall asleep

    just as on all those nights.

    --Suddenly the bus driver

    stops with a jolt,

    turns off his lights.

    A moose has come out of

    the impenetrable wood

    and stands there, looms, rather,

    in the middle of the road.

    It approaches; it sniffs at

    the bus's hot hood.

    Towering, antlerless,

    high as a church,

    homely as a house

    (or, safe as houses).

    A man's voice assures us

    "Perfectly harmless. . . ."

    Some of the passengers

    exclaim in whispers,

    childishly, softly,

    "Sure are big creatures."

    "It's awful plain."

    "Look! It's a she!"

    Taking her time,

    she looks the bus over,

    grand, otherworldly.

    Why, why do we feel

    (we all feel) this sweet

    sensation of joy?

    "Curious creatures,"

    says our quiet driver,

    rolling his r's.

    "Look at that, would you."

    Then he shifts gears.

    For a moment longer,

    by craning backward,

    the moose can be seen

    on the moonlit macadam;

    then there's a dim

    smell of moose, an acrid

    smell of gasoline.

    [This Message was Edited on 07/26/2009]
  8. windblade

    windblade Active Member

    YES! Please join in ! I love that Dickinson poem. Who are some of your favorite poets?

    I also love Eliz. Bishop, Denise Levertov, W.C. Williams,
    Wallace Stevens, Marianne Moore, Billy Collins (the funniest poet!) and others.

    So very glad you're here! Bring everything you love!
  9. windblade

    windblade Active Member

    That was a great site you found on V. Miller. It has a lot of essays on her that I want to read. Will print out.
    But when I read through the poems, they're only parts of the poems that they're citing.

    The same thing with the Jane Kenyon - Back from the City - the second half of the poem is missing. That's the part I thought you'd love, and also it completes the idea of what she discovered that day.

    Maybe someplace else will have it. I can really relate to her because she suffered from severe depression her whole life.

    Going to check out the worship thread. So excited!
  10. windblade

    windblade Active Member

    A great one! 'The Hound of Heaven' by Francis Thompson.

    This one could go on the prayer thread.

  11. morningsonshine

    morningsonshine New Member

    YOu guys are going NUTZ!

    Isn't the hounds of heaven a really long poem?

    I'll have to jump over and check it out!
  12. windblade

    windblade Active Member

    Hi Sweetie,

    There was only one half poem ,Jane Kenyon. LOL - I loved it when she got home too. Please keep it there, and I'll try and fill it in when I can and then you'll have the wonderful task of piecing it together. Ha.

    Do you feel overloaded yet? Or should I pick out more?

    The other ones that were just parts of poems were on the Vassar Miller sites . We didn't use them. The one on the poetry thread is complete, and one of her very best.
  13. windblade

    windblade Active Member

    Hi hon - how good to see you here!!! I've been trying to find some more contemporary poems, but they're harder to find on the internet.

    I do love the "metaphysical poets", like George Herbert and John Donne. They have such deep, passionate love for God. Both of those were pastors in England.

    Hangin is cutting and pasting, not typing. The Hound of Heaven would take about 30 years to type even though she's a whiz. :)

    We're having so much fun!!!!!
  14. windblade

    windblade Active Member

    Any poems by Macrina Wiederkehr, and any by Ted Loder. They're all good. If your library has them, I would highly recc. them.

    Ted Loder is "Guerrillas of Grace":prayers for the Battle.

    and "Seasons of your Heart" by Macrina Wiederkehr. (Name of Books)
  15. windblade

    windblade Active Member

    John Donne "holy Sonnet" first line "Batter my heart three person'd God.

    p.s I love your personal comments on the poems!!!
  16. LittleBluestem

    LittleBluestem New Member

    I enjoy poetry, but am not a heavy-duty fan. I like traditional, rhymed poetry for the most part. My favorite poet is Robert Frost. I also like Emily Dickinson and Ogden Nash. When I was a child, I liked Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Childs Garden of Verses”. Does Dr. Seuss count as a poet? He is one of my favorite authors.

    Some of my favorites by Robert Frost are:
    Nothing Gold Can Stay
    Mending Wall
    Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Acquainted With the Night
    The Runaway
    The Road Not Taken
    The Pasture
    The Aim Was Song
    Fire and Ice

    A couple more Emily Dickinson favorites are:
    Because I could not stop for Death
    To make a prairie

    A couple of Ogden Nash favorites are:
    The Tale of Custard the Dragon
    The Pelican
    Ogden Nash’s poems seem to have been removed from the American Poems site “at the insistence of the copyright holder”. This makes me wonder if they received permission from any of the poets/copyright holders before putting the poetry on their site.
  17. LittleBluestem

    LittleBluestem New Member

    Nature's first green is gold,
    Her hardest hue to hold.
    Her early leaf's a flower;
    But only so an hour.
    Then leaf subsides to leaf.
    So Eden sank to grief,
    So dawn goes down to day.
    Nothing gold can stay.

    ---- Robert Frost
  18. LittleBluestem

    LittleBluestem New Member

    To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
    One clover, and a bee,
    And revery.
    The revery alone will do,
    If bees are few.

    ---- Emily Dickinson
  19. LittleBluestem

    LittleBluestem New Member

    Here's one I just found by a poet I have never heard of.

    A gift of spring, one early morn,
    for me, a sprightly filly born.
    Adobe with a blaze of white,
    mane and tail of blackest night,
    strong legs to run, three socks adorn.

    At sixteen hands she stood highborn,
    with quickstep gait to strut, forewarn,
    her carriage, speed, a true delight,
    a gift of spring.

    We rode as one, my heart was sworn;
    with me her faults and fears were shorn,
    together we were quite a sight,
    in pride and sorrow, I now write.
    Her early death, I ever mourn...
    my gift from spring.

    ----Judi Van Gorder
  20. LittleBluestem

    LittleBluestem New Member

    This is a form of Japanese syllabic verse.

    I shut my eyes
    But nothing whatsoever
    Surfaces in my mind
    In my utter loneliness
    I open them up again

    ----Takuboku (19th century)

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