Morning Song - Poetry by Sylvia Plath

 

Morning Song

Love set you going like a fat gold watch,

The midwife slapped your foot soles, and your bald cry

Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.

In a drafty museum, your nakedness

Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother

Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow

Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath

Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:

A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral

In my Victorian nightgown.

Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try

Your handful of notes;

The clear vowels rise like balloons.

~ Sylvia Plath ~

The Night Dances

A smile fell in the grass.

Irretrievable!

And how will your night dances

Lose themselves. In mathematics?

Such pure leaps and spirals --

Surely they travel

The world forever, I shall not entirely

Sit emptied of beauties, the gift

Of your small breath, the drenched grass

Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.

Their flesh bears no relation.

Cold folds of ego, the calla,

And the tiger, embellishing itself --

Spots, and a spread of hot petals.

The comets

Have such a space to cross,

Such coldness, forgetfulness.

So your gestures flake off --

Warm and human, then their pink light

Bleeding and peeling

Through the black amnesias of heaven.

Why am I given

These lamps, these planets

Falling like blessings, like flakes

Six-sided, white

On my eyes, my lips, my hair

Touching and melting.

Nowhere.

~Sylvia Plath ~

BIO: Born in Massachusetts in 1932, Sylvia Plath suffered deeply from depression, which she wrote about in her celebrated book, The Bell Jar. Her poetry collections include The Colossus, Crossing the Water, Winter Trees, and The Collected Poems, for which she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize. She was married to poet Ted Hughes and committed suicide by gas inhalation in London in 1963.

Black Earth

 

                                    (Nasa Earth Observatory)

Black Earth

by Marianne Moore

Openly, yes,

       With the naturalness

       Of the hippopotamus or the alligator

When it climbs out on the bank to experience the

Sun, I do these

Things which I do, which please

       No one but myself. Now I breathe and now I am sub-

       Merged; the blemishes stand up and shout when the object

In view was a

Renaissance; shall I say

       The contrary? The sediment of the river which

       Encrusts my joints, makes me very gray but I am used

To it, it may

Remain there; do away

       With it and I am myself done away  with, for the

       Patina of circumstance can but enrich what was

There to begin

With. This elephant skin

       Which I inhabit, fibered over like the shell of

       The coco-nut, this piece of black glass through which no light

Can filter -- cut

Into checkers by rut

       Upon rut of unpreventable experience --

       It is a manual for the peanut-tongued and the

Hairy toed. Black

But beautiful, my back

       Is full of the history of power. Of power? What

       Is powerful and what is not? My soul shall never

Be cut into

By a wooden spear; through-

       Out childhood to the present time, the unity of

       Life and death has been expressed by the circumference

Described by my

Trunk; nevertheless, I

       Perceive feats of strength to be inexplicable after

       All; and I am on my guard; external poise, it

Has its centre

Well nurtured -- we know

       Where--in pride, it spiritual poise, it has its centre where?

       My ears are sensitized to more than the sound of

The wind. I see

And I hear, unlike the

       Wandlike body of which one hears so much, which was made

       To see and not to see; to hear and not to hear,

That tree trunk without

Roots, accustomed to shout

       Its own thoughts to itself like a shell, maintained intact

       By who knows what strange pressure of the atmosphere; that

Spiritual

Brother to the coral

       Plant, absorbed into which, the equable sapphire light

       Becomes a nebulous green. The I of each is to

The I of each,

A kind of fretful speech

       Which sets a limit on itself; the elephant is?

       Black earth preceded by a tendril? It is to that

Phenomenon

The above formation,

       Translucent like the atmosphere--a cortex merely--

       That on which darts cannot strike decisively the first

Time, a substance

Needful as an instance

       Of the indestructability of matter; it

       Has looked at the electricity and at the earth-

Quake and is still

Here; the name means thick. Will

       Depth be depth, thick skin be thick, to one who can see no

       Beautiful element of unreason under it?

BIO: With Bachelor degrees in biology and histology, Marianne Moore often used nature to convey profound observations about life. She was born in 1887, worked as the Editor of Dial

from 1925 - 1929, and created her best work in the 1930s and 1940s. Her Collected Poems (1951) earned her the Pulitzer Prize in poetry and a National Book Award. In 1953, she won the Bollingen Prize. The Complete Poems of Marianne Moore appeared in 1967. Before her death in 1972, she was given an honorary doctorate from Harvard University.

Love Poems from the Bard

Sonnet XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease shall hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometimes declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:

       So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

       So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Sonnet CXVI

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

       If this be error and upon me proved,

       I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

~ William Shakespeare ~

BIO: The question is not whether William Shakespeare lived, but whether he actually wrote the plays and other compositions he is known for. Records show that he was baptized on April 26, 1564 at Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon, England. During his lifetime, he belonged to the King's Men theatrical group and helped to establish the Globe Theatre in London. His 37 plays are still performed today. He is known for some of the finest sonnets ever written. While some people believe Christopher Marlowe or Francis Bacon secretly wrote Shakespeare's works, the consensus seems to be that William Shakespeare created his own body of works. He died in 1616 and was buried at Trinity Church.

 

Poems About Books

 

There is no Frigate like a Book

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry –

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll –

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul –

 

~ Emily Dickinson ~

 

The Land of Story-Books

 

These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.

So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.

~ Robert Louis Stevenson ~

When You are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

 

~ W.B. Yeats ~

Good Books

Good books are friendly things to own.
If you are busy they will wait.
They will not call you on the phone
Or wake you if the hour is late.
They stand together row by row,
Upon the low shelf or the high.
But if you're lonesome this you know:
You have a friend or two nearby.

The fellowship of books is real.
They're never noisy when you're still.
They won't disturb you at your meal.
They'll comfort you when you are ill.
The lonesome hours they'll always share.
When slighted they will not complain.
And though for them you've ceased to care
Your constant friends they'll still remain.

Good books your faults will never see
Or tell about them round the town.
If you would have their company
You merely have to take them down.
They'll help you pass the time away,
They'll counsel give if that you need.
He has true friends for night and day
Who has a few good books to read.

 

~ Edgar Albert Guest ~

 

The Bells - Edgar Allan Poe

graphic by dimdimich

The Bells

Hear the sledges with the bells --

       Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

     How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

       In the icy air of night!

     While the stars that oversprinkle

     All the heavens, seem to twinkle

       With a crystalline delight;

     Keeping time, time, time,

     In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells

     From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

       Bells, bells, bells --

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells --

       Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!

     Through the balmy air of night

     How they ring out their delight!--

     From the molten-golden notes,

       And all in tune,

     What a liquid ditty floats

     To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

       On the moon!

     Oh, from out the sounding cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

       How it wells!

       How it dwells

     On the Future! -- how it tells

     Of the rapture that impels

To the swinging and the ringing

     Of the bells, bells, bells, bells--

     Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

       Bells, bells, bells--

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells--

       Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror, now their turbulency tells!

     In the startled ear of night

     How they scream out their affright!

       Too much horrified to speak,

       They can only shriek, shriek,

         Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,

     Leaping higher, higher, higher,

     With a desperate desire,

       And a resolute endeavour

       Now--now to sit, or never,

     By the side of the pale-faced moon,

       Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

       What a tale their terror tells

         Of Despair!

     How they clang, and clash, and roar!

     What a horror they outpour

     On the bosom of the palpitating air!

       Yet the ear, it fully knows,

         By the twanging,

         And the clanging,

     How the danger ebbs and flows,

     Yet the ear distinctly tells,

       In the jangling,

       And the wrangling,

     How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking of the swelling in the anger of the bells--

       Of the bells--

     Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

       Bells, bells, bells--

In the clamor and the clanging of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells--

       Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

     In the silence of the night,

     How we shiver with affright

     At the melancholy menace of their tone!

     For every sound that floats

     From the rust within their throats

       Is a groan.

     And the people--ah, the people--

     They that dwell up in the steeple,

       All alone,

     And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,

       In that muffled monotone,

     Feel a glory in so rolling

       On the human heart a stone--

     They are neither brute nor human--

         They are Ghouls:--

     And their king it is who tolls:--

     And he rolls, rolls, rolls,

         Rolls

     A paen from the bells!

     And his merry bosom swells

     With the paen of the bells!

     And he dances, and he yells;

       Keeping time, time, time,

       In a sort of Runic rhyme,

         To the paen of the bells:--

           Of the bells:

       Keeping time, time, time

       In a sort of Runic rhyme,

         To the throbbing of the bells--

         Of the bells, bells, bells:--

       Keeping time, time, time,

         As he knells, knells, knells,

       In a happy Runic rhyme,

         To the rolling of the bells--

         Of the bells, bells, bells:--

         To the tolling of the bells--

       Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

           Bells, bells, bells--

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

~ Edgar Allan Poe ~

BIOGRAPHY: (1809-1849) A member of the Romantic Movement, Edgar Allan Poe was an American author, poet, editor, and literary critic whose writings laid the ground work for future horror, mystery, detective, and science fiction writers. In 1835, he married his thirteen-year-old cousin, Virginia Clemm, who died a few years later from tuberculosis. Poe died mysteriously in Baltimore, Maryland in 1849. He is best known for his works of the macabre.

 

Saint Nikolaus's Companion, Knecht Ruprecht

 

From out the forest I now appear,

To proclaim that Christmastide is here!

For at the top of every tree

Are golden lights for all to see;

And there from heaven's gate on high

I saw our Christ-child in the sky.

And in among the darkened trees,

A loud voice it was that called to me:

"Knecht Ruprecht, old fellow," it cried,

"Hurry now, make haste. Don't hide!

All the candles have now been lit --

Heaven's gate has opened wide!

Both young and old should now have rest

Away from cares and daily stress;

And when tomorrow to earth I fly

'It's Christmas again!' will be the cry."

And then I said: "O Lord so dear.

My journey's end is now quite near;

But to the town I've still to go,

Where the children are good, I know."

"But have you then that great sack?"

"I have," I said, "It's on my back,

For apples, almonds, fruit and nuts

For God-fearing children are a must."

"And is that cane there by your side?"

"The cane's there too," I did reply;

"But only for those, those naughty ones,

Who have it applied to their backsides."

The Christ-child spoke: "Then that's all right!

My loyal servant, go with God this night!"

From out the forest I now appear;

To proclaim that Christmastide is here!

Now speak, what is there here to be had?

Are there good children, are there bad?

Theodor Storm

Translated from the German by Denis Jackson, Isle of Wight.

BIO: Theodor Storm (1817-1888) was a German poet, novelist, and lawyer known for the lyrical quality of his work. He died of cancer in 1888. Knecht Ruprecht (Krampus) is still a popular figure seen in Germany at Christmas, even today.

Winter Poems - William Blake

 

Echo Summit, South Lake Tahoe, by Jared Manninen

To Winter

O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:

The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark

Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs,

Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.

He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep

Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd; sheathed

In ribbed steel, I dare not lift mine eyes;

For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.

Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings

To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks:

He withers all in silence, and his hand

Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.

He takes his seat upon the cliffs, the mariner

Cries in vain. Poor little wretch! that deal'st

With storms; till heaven smiles, and the monster

Is drv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.

Silent, Silent Night

Silent Silent Night

Quench the holy light

Of thy torches bright

For possessed of Day

Thousand spirits stray

That sweet joys betray

Why should joys be sweet

Used with deceit

Nor with sorrows meet

But an honest joy

Does itself destroy

For a harlot coy

Soft Snow

I walked abroad in a snowy day

I asked the soft snow with me to play

She playd & she melted in all her prime

And the winter calld it a dreadful crime

BIO: William Blake (1757-1827) was a poet, painter, engraver, and mystic. Born in London, he studied at the Royal Academy School. He became proficient at watercolors and often illustrated books for a living. A dreamer, he hated rationalism and materialism, which stressed science and acute awareness of the physical world. He believed in freedom of thought and inspiring the imagination. He published three books of poetry between 1783 and 1794. He also published several works of mystical writings -- The Book of Thel (1789), The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (1791), and The Song of Los (1795).