A Victorian Christmas

 

MY GIFT

 

What can I give Him

Poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd,

I would give Him a lamb,

If I were a Wise Man,

I would do my part --

But what can I give Him,

Give my heart.

 

Christina Rossetti

 

CHRISTMAS BELLS

 

The time draws near the birth of Christ:

The moon is hid, the night is still;

The Christmas bells from hill to hill

Answer each other in the mist.

 

Four voices of four hamlets round,

From far and near, on mead and moor,

Swell out and fail, as if a door

Were shut between me and the sound;

 

Each voice four changes on the wind,

That now dilate, and now decrease;

Peace and good will, good will and peace;

Peace and good will to all mankind.

 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

A SONG FOR A CHRISTMAS TREE

 

Cold and wintry is the sky,

Bitter winds go whistling by,

Orchard boughs are bare and dry,

Yet here stands a faithful tree.

Household fairies kind and dear,

With loving magic none need fear,

Bade it rise and blossom here,

Little friends, for you and me.

 

Come and gather as they fall,

Shining gifts for great and small;

Santa Claus remembers all

When he comes with goodies piled.

Corn and candy, apples red,

Sugar horses, gingerbread,

Babies who are never fed,

Are handing here for every child.

 

Shake the boughs and down they come,

Better fruit than peach or plum,

'T is our little harvest home;

For though frosts the flowers kill,

Though birds depart and squirrels sleep,

Though snows may gather cold and deep,

Little folks their sunshine keep,

And mother-love makes summer still.

 

Gathered in a smiling ring,

Lightly dance and gaily sing,

Still at heart remembering

The sweet story all should know,

Of the little child whose birth

Has made this day throughout the earth

A festival for childish mirth,

Since the first Christmas long ago.

 

Louisa May Alcott

 

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!

Songs for Thanksgiving

 

Over the River and Through the Wood

 

Over the river, and through the wood,

To Grandfather's house we go;

The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh

Through the white and drifted snow.

 

Over the river, and through the wood,

Now Grandmother's cap I spy! --

Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?

Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

 

Lydia Maria Child, 1844

 

Praise God, from Whom all Blessings Flow

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;

Praise Him, all creatures here below;

Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.

 

Thomas Ken, 1674

 

Now Thank We All Our God

 

Now thank we all our God, with heart and hands and voices,

Who wondrous things has done, in whom this world rejoices;

Who from our mothers' arms has blessed us on our way

With countless gifts of love, and still is ours today.

 

Martin Rinkart, 1636

 

Come, Ye Thankful People, Come

 

Come, ye thankful people, come,

Raise the song of harvest home!

All is safely gathered in,

Ere the winter storms begin.

God, our Maker, doth provide

For our wants to be supplied;

Come to God's own temple come;

Raise the song of harvest home!

 

Henry Alford, 1844

 

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

 

Dawn Pisturino

 

(artwork by Currier and Ives)



The Screaming Skull and Other Poems

 

 

THE SCREAMING SKULL

 

by Dawn Pisturino

 

The skull screams when the moon is bright,

Warning of evil a-foot in the night,

Calling to phantoms hidden from sight,

Keeping them all at bay.

 

Shrieking aloud when the zombies fight,

It glows in the darkness, waking with fright,

Shivering children, crying for light,

Fearful 'til break of day.

 

High on a shelf, when the bats take flight,

The dead skull cries with all its might,

Disrupting dreams, however slight,

Sending them all away.

 

September 20, 2011

 

 

THE GHOST

 

by Dawn Pisturino

 

Creeping footfalls on the stair warn me that a ghost is there.

Shivering in my bed with fright, the door creaks open . . .

I TOLD YOU HE WAS REAL!

(good night)

 

January 5, 2012

 

 

THE FAIRIES

 

by Dawn Pisturino

 

Deep within the forest,

Inside a magic ring,

Fairy lads pluck at their harps

While fairy maidens sing.

Queen Mab, arrayed in starlight,

Sits upon her chair,

Plotting all the dirty tricks

No other folk would dare.

Last spring they stole poor Margaret,

Sound asleep in bed.

They laid her in the Irish Sea

With stones beneath her head.

The fishes kept close vigil,

Traditional at wakes.

"Too bad," remarked a hungry shark.

"A lovely corpse she makes!"

 

January 19, 2012

 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

 

 

 

All Poems Published on Danse Macabre du Jour, October 30, 2013.

All poems copyright 2011-2013 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

 

JUNE

by James Russell Lowell

And what is so rare as a day in June?
   Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
   And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
   An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
   Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
   Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
   The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there’s never a leaf nor a blade too mean
   To be some happy creature’s palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
   Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o’errun
   With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, –
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? 

Now is the high tide of the year,
   And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer,
   Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
’T is enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
   That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack,
   We could guess it all by yon heifer’s lowing, –
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
   Tells all in his lusty crowing!

BIO: Born in 1819, James Russell Lowell became a member of the Fireside Poets, a New England group of Romantic poets whose popularity rivaled the great British poets of the era. In 1857, he was appointed editor of The Atlantic Monthly. He used his poetry to promote abolitionism and social reform. Lowell died in 1891.

Artwork: "Flaming June" by Sir Frederic Leighton, 1895.

Butterfly, Butterfly



by Dawn Pisturino

For my daughter Ariel

Butterfly, Butterfly,

Dappled with red,

Night-time is coming,

Fly home to your bed!

The white moon is rising,

He hasn't a care;

The bright stars are shining,

Reflecting him there.

Oh, Butterfly, Butterfly,

What shall you do?

If darkness enfolds you,

How will you get through?

Fly home on a moonbeam,

Guided by stars,

Or maybe such planets

As Venus and Mars?

Or, drifting along on a

Sweet summer breeze,

You'll land where you want

And do as you please?

Float down on a flower,

The sweet nectar there,

Drawing you inward

And filling the air?

You'll suck up your supper,

Then lay down to sleep,

Your wings folded neatly,

Their beauty to keep.

And when, in the morning,

You suddenly wake,

The sun will be rising,

A new day will break.

Then, Butterfly, Butterfly,

Fly away home!

Or follow your instincts

To wander and roam.

But come again - do! -

If you happen this way,

Night-time or daytime

Or any old day!

February 8, 1986

This poem was set to music by composer and film maker Barry Gremillion and recorded in October 2013 by Barry Gremillion and Ariel Pisturino.

Thanks, Ariel and Barry!







THE CHANGING LIGHT

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The changing light

                    at San Francisco

          is none of your East Coast light

                    none of your

                              pearly light of Paris

The light of San Francisco

                         is a sea light

                                        an island light

And the light of fog

                    blanketing the hills

          drifting in at night

                         through the Golden Gate

                                        to lie on the city at dawn

And then the halcyon late mornings

          after the fog burns off

               and the sun paints white houses

                                        with the sea light of Greece

               with sharp clean shadows

                    making the town look like

                         it had just been painted

But the wind comes up at four o'clock

                                        sweeping the hills

And then the veil of light of early evening

And then another scrim

                    when the new night fog

                                        floats in

And in that vale of light

                    the city drifts

                              anchorless upon the ocean

From How to Paint Sunlight, Copyright 2000 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. All Rights Reserved.

BIO: Lawrence Ferlinghetti was a leading member of the "Beat" movement of the 1950s and continues to be an important political activist to this day. A beloved San Francisco icon, he was named San Francisco's Poet Laureate in August 1998. His City Lights Booksellers & Publishers has published works by Charles Bukowski, Allen Ginsberg, and Jack Kerouac. A Coney Island of the Mind, published in 1958, remains his best-known collection of poems.



DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

BIO:  Dylan Marlais Thomas was born on October 27, 1914 in Swansea, South Wales. His father, an  English literature professor, recited Shakespeare to the young boy, instilling in him a lifelong love of poetry. At the age of 16, Thomas quit school and became a junior reporter for the South Wales Daily Post. In 1932, Thomas quit working to become a full-time poet, winning the Poet's Corner book prize in 1934. His first book, 18 Poems, was released to rave reviews. Thomas loved the poetry of Hopkins, Yeats, Poe, and D.H. Lawrence. Attracted to the ballads of the Romantic tradition, he wrote in lyrical rhythms that evoked deep emotions. He died of complications related to alcoholism on November 9, 1953 in New York City.