Cool Tombs...by Carl Sandburg

When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs, he forgot the copperheads and the assassin ... in the dust, in the cool tombs.

And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street, cash and collateral turned ashes ... in the dust, in the cool tombs.

Pocahontas’ body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in November or a pawpaw in May, did she wonder? does she remember? ... in the dust, in the cool tombs?

Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries, cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin horns ... tell me if the lovers are losers ... tell me if any get more than the lovers ... in the dust ... in the cool tombs. 

 

 

~ ~ 

 

 

This morning working in the garden I was thinking about this poem.  I love its gentle pondering rhythm.  It starts out almost brutal--"shoveled into the tombs"--but it isn't a brutal poem.  And in the quietness of the tombs, the brusqueness doesn't matter, just as the other conflicts and violence don't matter any more.

 

 

A poem for the first day of Autumn

 
Ode to Autumn


1.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
        Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
    Conspiring with him how to load and bless
        With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
    To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
        And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
          To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
        With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
    And still more, later flowers for the bees,
  Until they think warm days will never cease,
          For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

2.
  Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
      Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
  Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
      Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
  Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
      Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
          Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
  And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
      Steady thy laden head across a brook;
  Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
       Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

3.
  Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
      Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
  While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
      And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
  Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
      Among the river sallows, borne aloft
          Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
  And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
      Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
      The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
          And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

by John Keats

(John Keats, a month before he wrote this poem.)

It's the first day of Autumn, so I give you this poem.  Keats surrounds us with a tapestry of the beauties of the waning year--the gentle mists, the apple trees thick with fruit, the humming gnats, the birds calling to each other as they prepare for their journey south.  No one does with words what he does.

This is Keats' first draft of "Ode to Autumn."  (See, even great poets cross stuff out!)

Pictures from Wikipedia. 

A poem by Wordsworth for September 3

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!
.

        ~ William Wordsworth
.
.

 I meant to post this in the morning, because it's a dawn poem...but just didn't get to it.  Anyway, here it is.  

Such a lovely moment--to be awake in the stillness of early morning, looking out over the city.  

Since it is getting late, here is a link to a poem by Sara Teasdale, called "September Midnight..."

"Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,

Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing..."

(Go read the rest!!)

a poem for Monday morning

The Windhover

to Christ our Lord

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-

    dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding

    Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

    As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding

    Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here

    Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

     

   No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

    Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

            ~ Gerard Manley Hopkins


A glimpse of a beautiful bird in the early morning... 

the other day I was out watering the garden and saw a scrub jay perched in a branch just a few feet away.  I was surprised to see him so close; then I realized he was appreciating the water I was freely bestowing.  

I think I should get a birdbath.  

 

A poem for today...

       ~ o ~

I dwell in Possibility—
A fairer House than Prose—
More numerous of Windows—
Superior—for Doors—

Of Chambers as the Cedars—
Impregnable of Eye—
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky—

Of Visitors—the fairest—
For Occupation—This—
The spreading wide of narrow Hands
To gather Paradise— 

~ Emily Dickinson

 
It's an overcast Sunday morning.  The air is mostly quiet; I can see the leaves just stirring, outside the French doors.

I can feel that I am losing my voice.  (this happens periodically...)

I was pondering what I want to do with this blog, and I have decided to post poetry.  

Poetry makes me happy.  Actually I think it's one of the best things ever.  So we're going to have poetry.  And mermaids.  And other things I'll think of as I come to it.  
  
My lovely black kitty just uttered a tiny "miaou?" to ask for her breakfast, so I will fetch it for her.  

Adieu.  A la prochaine.