• Category Archives Poetry
  • It’s Here. It’s Here. Stop the Political Ads Day Is Finally Here! Rejoice.

    Samhain                                                           Fallowturn Moon

    The 538 poll column gives Obama a 91.6% chance of winning the electoral college and 50.6% of the popular vote.  As the Wiccans say, “Blessed be.”  and “So mote it be.”

    (source)

    Here’s Walt Whitman.  We know he would have voted no on the marriage amendment:

    Election Day, November, 1884

    If I should need to name, O Western World, your

    powerfulest scene and show,
    ‘Twould not be you, Niagara–nor you, ye limitless

    prairies–nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
    Nor you, Yosemite–nor Yellowstone, with all its

    spasmic geyser-loops ascending to the skies,

    appearing and disappearing,
    Nor Oregon’s white cones–nor Huron’s belt of mighty

    lakes–nor Mississippi’s stream:
    –This seething hemisphere’s humanity, as now,

    I’d name–the still small voice vibrating–America’s

    choosing day,
    (The heart of it not in the chosen–the act itself the

    main, the quadriennial choosing,)
    The stretch of North and South arous’d–sea-board

    and inland–Texas to Maine–the Prairie States–

    Vermont, Virginia, California,
    The final ballot-shower from East to West–the

    paradox and conflict,
    The countless snow-flakes falling–(a swordless

    conflict,
    Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern

    Napoleon’s:) the peaceful choice of all,
    Or good or ill humanity–welcoming the darker

    odds, the dross:
    –Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to

    purify–while the heart pants, life glows:
    These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
    Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails.


  • Woolly Art

    Samhain                                                       Fallowturn Moon

    I’ve asked the Woollies for American cinquains in response to our tour of the Terra Cotta warriors.  Already have two responses and we’ve not gone to the museum yet.

    From Bill Schmidt:

    Wonder. . .

    Why men of clay,

    Buried many eons

    Show us rustic, simple beauty.

    Awesome.

    From Mark Odegard:

     


  • The American Cinquain

    Samhain                                                                Fallowturn Moon

    November Night

    by Adelaide Crapsey 

    Listen. . .

    With faint dry sound,
    Like steps of passing ghosts,
    The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
    And fall.

     

    Adelaide Crapsey

    was born in 1878. She is known for developing a variation on the cinquain now referred to as the “American cinquain.”*

    *a class of poetic forms that employ a 5-line pattern. Earlier used to describe any five-line form, it now refers to one of several forms that are defined by specific rules and guidelines.

    Adelaide Crapsey invented the modern form, known as American Cinquain[2][3] inspired by Japanese haiku and tanka,[4][5] akin in spirit to that of the Imagists[6].

    The first, fundamental form is a stanza of five lines of accentual verse, in which the lines comprise, in order, 1, 2, 3, 4, and 1 stresses.

    Then Crapsey decided to make the criterion a stanza of five lines of accentual-syllabic verse, in which the lines comprise, in order, 1, 2, 3, 4, and 1 stresses and 2, 4, 6, 8, and 2 syllables. Iambic feet were meant to be the standard for the cinquain, which made the dual criteria match perfectly.                 wikipedia


  • What He Said

    Fall                                                                Harvest Moon

    Hamatreya [excerpt]

    by Ralph Waldo Emerson

     

    EARTH-SONG

     

    “Mine and yours;
    Mine, not yours.
    Earth endures;
    Stars abide–
    Shine down in the old sea;
    Old are the shores;
    But where are old men?
    I who have seen much,
    Such have I never seen.

    “The lawyer’s ded
    Ran sure,
    In tail,
    To them, and to their heirs
    Who shall succeed,
    Without fail,
    Forevermore.

    “Here is the land,
    Shaggy with wood,
    With its old valley,
    Mound and flood.
    But the heritors?
    Fled like the flood’s foam.
    The lawyer, and the laws,
    And the kingdom,
    Clean swept herefrom.

     

    “They called me theirs,
    Who so controlled me;
    Yet every one
    Wished to stay, and is gone,
    How am I theirs,
    If they cannot hold me,
    But I hold them?”


  • Natural Piety

    Lugnasa                                                          Garlic Planting Moon

    My Heart Leaps Up
    by William Wordsworth

    My heart leaps up when I behold
    A rainbow in the sky:
    So was it when my life began;
    So is it now I am a man;
    So be it when I shall grow old,
    Or let me die!
    The Child is father of the Man;
    And I could wish my days to be
    Bound each to each by natural piety.


  • No Title

    Lugnasa                                               Hiroshima Moon

     

    The Spring Dumbledor

    An August Midnight
    by Thomas Hardy

    I

    A shaded lamp and a waving blind,
    And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:
    On this scene enter—winged, horned, and spined—
    A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore;
    While ‘mid my page there idly stands
    A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands…

    II

    Thus meet we five, in this still place,
    At this point of time, at this point in space.
    —My guests besmear my new-penned line,
    Or bang at the lamp and fall supine.
    “God’s humblest, they!” I muse. Yet why?
    They know Earth-secrets that know not I.


  • Step Outside

    Spring                                                    Bee Hiving Moon

    Boy, have you caught the sliver moon with Venus above it and Jupiter below?  Soon there will be tulips and crocus and snow drops.  The magnolia already lights up our patio.  A soft torch of white burning quietly.  Round Lake just a quarter mile from our house looks great right at sunset and in the dark with stars and the moon reflecting in it.

    The climate may be playing havoc with the seasons but the inescapable beauty of the natural world remains.

    Keats may have stretched it a bit, but not too far.  Truth is beauty.

    The good news here is that no .5%’er will ever corner the market on sliver moons or magnolia blossoms or reflections in that pond near your house.  These, the original art works, the masterpieces of our everyday world, belong to the commons.  All we have to do is step outside.


  • Higher Education Does Not Need The Humanities. But, We Do.

    Beltane                                                    Waning Last Frost Moon

    On a pile of essays, yet unread, sits one at the top, “The Great River of the Classics”, by Camille Paglia.  She is my heroine, an outspoken advocate for the content of the humanities, the deposit of art, music, literature and theater that flows from Western civilization’s beginnings in the fertile crescent, a river with a delta now rich with islands and streams, a fan of human experience at its most intense and intimate that nourishes the ocean that is Western humanity’s collective conscious and unconscious.

    Egypt’s splendor, the profundity and innovation of the Greeks, the ordered ambition of the Romans, the spirituality of the Celts, the deep feeling of the Russians and the Germans, the list is long and has depth.  Gilgamesh.  The Egyptian Book of the Dead.  The fragments of the Pre-Socratic.  Jewish texts.  Christian and Muslim texts.  The pyramids.  The parthenon.  Rome.  The pantheon. Fra Lippa.  Giorgio. Botticelli.  Michelangelo. Da Vinci.  Petrarch.  Erasmus.  Francis Bacon.  Titian.  Brueghel.  Boccaccio. Chaucer.  Beowulf.  The poetic eddas.  Ovid.  Turner.  Poussin.  Rembrandt.  Barye.   Tolstoy.  Dostoevsky.  Singer.  the Baal Shem Tov.  Racine.  Shakespeare.  Marlowe.  Haydn.  Mozart.  Beethoven.  Brahms.

    And the many, the very many left out of this brief evocation.

    Perhaps the humanities do not pass the test of occupational preparedness, a test now applied to departments in higher education.  Just yesterday an academic group released a study the dollar value of varying university degrees based on earnings over time and starting salaries.  In many colleges and universities humanities departments look like low hanging fruit when it comes to the budget ax.

    So.  If humanities degrees result in less earned income over a student’s life, does this make them, ipso facto, less valuable?  Obviously.  If, that is, the only yardstick is dollars.  No, I’m not going to make the argument that dollars are a grubby, undistinguished measure; each of us has to eat, reside somewhere, raise our children and nourish our dreams.

    Even the fact that the humanities stood at the very center of the project of higher learning at its inception does not privilege them now.  The needs and values of the middle ages were different from ours today.  No, the humanities must stand valuable by today’s standards more than they must reflect the values of past centuries.

    It may be that the university is no longer the place for the humanities.  It may be that higher education’s mission in contemporary life involves primarily occupational learning, a sort of advanced vocational training.  Institutions focuses change over time.  Their work must meet the needs of those whom they serve or they have no reason to exist.

    It does not bother me if higher education strips out the humanities.  Let the music department perish.  Banish the philosophers, the artists, the literati, the linguists and language crowd, let history go, too.  Leave the ivy covered walls with only economics, business, pre-law, pre-med, engineering, architecture, agriculture, veterinary science, family and child psychology.  Keep those subjects that inform the workers of today and tomorrow and let the fluff go.  Keep the hard stuff, abandon the soft disciplines.

    Why don’t these changes bother me?  Because an artist does not need an art department, she needs fellow artists and places to display and sell her goods, but art departments, no matter how good, no matter how well intentioned, are not necessary to artists.  Work is.  Literature, too.  Writers write because they must, because words and ideas matter to them.  No writer writes because there are good writing programs.  Of course, they can learn things in those programs, but writing does not depend on English departments.  Music, too, is part of the beating heart of culture.  Musicians, whether trained in universities or not, will make music.  Musicians will and do get trained in many other places than higher education.  Philosophers are stuck with the sort of minds that go to the root of things and they will dig deep without philosophy departments.  They need other philosophers, yes, but there are books and airplanes.

    The humanities are of, by and for humans.  Because they are of our essence, they will survive diminished or even eliminated university and college support.  Will they be poorer?  Probably.  For a while.  But not for long.  We need music to fill our souls.  We need literature to grasp the many ways there are to be human.  We need painting and sculpture and print making because beauty satisfies an essential yearning of the human spirit and because we need to experience the interior world of others as much as we can.  We need those among us who will ask the difficult, the unpopular questions and pursue them where they lead.

    We need all of these things; they do not need higher education.  It will be poorer without them, less reflective, more insular, more satisfied with apparently easy answers.

    What might happen is this.  After the humanities have been ejected from higher education, humanities practitioners and scholars will meet, find they still need each other.  An idea will occur to them.  Why not have a place where the humanities can be taught?  An institute, maybe.  A gymnasium.  An academy.  Or, maybe something new.  A virtual gathering space for artists and scholars, for writers and teachers.

    Out of these experiment might grow, what?  I don’t know.  Perhaps an educational institution with its primary mission immersing its students in the Great River of the Humanities, a baptism by art.  Could happen.


  • Old Stories, Old Poems, Old Men

    Imbolc                                             Waxing Bridgit Moon

    Jacob and Esau and Rebekah and Isaac came to life tonight as we felt our way into this peculiar, even troubling story of deception, betrayal, theophany and a redemptive moment followed by a warm hearted, unexpected ending.  These stories still resonate, still have the power to grab the attention, hold the heart and propose new perspectives.  These are stories by and for men, archetypal moments held close to the heart for thousands of years.

    After the reading of these stories and a conversation that followed many paths, a few left for bed:  Mark, Scott and Tom while Paul, Stefan, Charlie H., Jimmy, Warren and I sat up reading poems or, in Paul and Jimmy’s case, reciting poems from memory.  Poetry comes alive when one poem sparks another and books come out, dogeared and ragged from much use.  Rilke, Frost, Oliver, Pauly, Sarton, Rumi all visited us, speaking across the centuries or the decades, speaking directly into the heart.

    A magic, spontaneous moment, the stuff of which retreat memories are made.