Poetry Sunday (04-18-10 edition)

I was introduced to a portion of this poem in a recent book Best Bet by Laura Pedersen. I googled it to see it in its entirety, and found it to be one of the most beautiful poems I've recently read. The Penguin book of French poetry: 1820-1950: with prose translations by William Rees says of the poet Anna de Noailles:

Anna de Noailles was an aristocrat, beautiful and gifted and a central figure in Parisian artistic life, admired and cultivated by Proust, Valery, Rostand, Cocteau and others.

She was a woman of strong passions and unapologetic sensuality, expressed concretely in a neo-Romantic and technically orthodox verse that renews from the feminine point of view the century-old themes of love and loss, God in Nature, solitude and the passage of time...

There is a pagan intensity in her response to her life and anticipation of death, and her commitment of her entire self to poetry excuses a certain verbosity.

I will press myself with such force against life, with an embrace so fierce and a grip so tight, that before the sweetness of the day is stolen away from me it will be warmed by my entwining arms.

The sea, spread abundantly over the world, will hold, in the wandering journey of its waters, the taste of my pain which is sour and salt and rolls like a ship on the shifting days.

I will leave of myself in the fold of the hills the warmth of my eyes which have seen them in blossom, and the cicada perched on the branches of the thornbush will be resonant with the piercing cry of my longing.

In the spring fields the fresh greenery and the tufted grass at the ditches' edge will feel, throbbing and elusive like wings, the ghosts of my hands which pressed them down so strongly.

Nature which was my joy and my domain will breathe in the air my unceasing fervour, and on the prostration of human sadness I will leave the unique configuration of my heart.

Poetry Sunday (04-04-10 edition)

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
by Robert Herrick
(1591-1674)

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may go marry:
For having lost but once your prime
You may for ever tarry.

Poetry Sunday (03-28-10 edition)

Flux Capacitor recently posted a portion of this poem on her blog, and it caught my eye. So I Googled it and tracked it down...

Song
by Thomas Moore

Have you not seen the timid tear
Steal trembling from mine eye?
Have not mark'd the flush of fear,
Or caught the murmur'd sigh?
And can you think my love is chill,
Nor fix'd on you alone?
And can you rend, by doubting still,
A heart so much your own?

To you my soul's affections move
Devoutly, warmly true;
My life has been a task of love,
One long, long thought of you.
If all your tender faith is o'er,
If still my truth you'll try;
Alas! I know but one proof more,--
I'll bless your name and die!

Poetry Sunday (03-21-10 edition)

This is one of those really long poems. So this is the "abridged" version in which I cut out the middle...

To a Skylark

by Percy Bysshe Shelley
(1803-1822)

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert-
That from heaven or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden light'ning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet, if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear,
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know;
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Poetry Sunday (01-10-10 edition)

This is one of my favorites by Petronius. There have been many translations of it. This particular translation is by Ben Jonson.


Doing, a filthy pleasure is, and short
by Gaius Petronius

Doing, a filthy pleasure is, and short;

And done, we straight repent us of the sport:

Let us not then rush blindly on unto it,

Like lustful beasts, that only know to do it:

For lust will languish, and that heat decay.

But thus, thus, keeping endless holiday,

Let us together closely lie and kiss,

There is no labour, nor no shame in this;

This hath pleased, doth please, and long will please; never

Can this decay, but is beginning ever.

Poetry Sunday (12-27-09 edition)

As I believe I've mentioned before, I love Ovid. He was erotic and bawdy, and at times he and Petronius can make me laugh (although Petronius was more the "dirty old man".)

This poem is quite long in its entirety, so here I give you just a sampling...


Either She Was Fool...
by Ovid

Either she was fool, or her attire was bad,

Or she was not the wench I wished to have had.

Idly I lay with her, as if I loved not,

And like a burden grieved the bed that moved not.

Though both of us performed our true intent,

Yet could I not cast anchor where I meant.

She on my neck her ivory arms did throw,

Her arms far whiter than the Scythian snow.

And eagerly she kissed me with her tongue,

And under mine her wanton thigh she flung,

Yes, and she soothed me up, and called me "Sir,"

And used all speech that might provoke and stir.

Yet like as if cold hemlock I had drunk,

It mocked me, hung down the head and sunk.

Like a dull cipher, or rude block I lay,

Or shade, or body was I, who can say?

What will my age do, age I cannot shun,

When in my prime my force is spent and done?

I blush, that being youthful, hot, and lusty,

I prove nor youth nor man, but old and rusty.

Poetry Sunday (12-13-09 edition)

I saw this posted the other day on Flux Capacitor by Maggie May. I loved it, and decided to share it here for Poetry Sunday:

I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance,
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom,
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.

-- Dawna Markova

Poetry Sunday (11-29-09 edition)

In Summer's Heat
by: Ovid (43 BC-17 AD?)

In summer's heat, and mid-time of the day,

To rest my limbs, upon a bed I lay;

One window shut, the other open stood,

Which gave such light as twinkles in a wood,

Like twilight glimpse at setting of the sun,

Or night being past, and yet not day begun;

Such light to shamefaced maidens must be shown

Where they may sport, and seem to be unknown:

Then came Corinna in her long loose gown,

Her white neck hid with tresses hanging down,

Resembling fair Semiramis going to bed,

Or Lais of a thousand wooers sped.

I snatched her gown being thin, the harm was small,

Yet strived she to be covered therewithal,

And striving thus as one that would be cast,

Betrayed herself, and yielded at the last.

Stark naked as she stood before mine eye,

Not one wen in her body could I spy.

What arms and shoulders did I touch and see,

How apt her breasts were to be pressed by me,

How smooth a belly under her waist saw I,

How large a leg, and what a lusty thigh.

To leave the rest, all liked me passing well;

I clinged her naked body, down she fell:

Judge you the rest, being tired she bade me kiss;

Jove send me more such afternoons as this!




Translated into English by Christopher Marlowe

Poetry Sunday (11-22-09 edition)

Today is one of my own poems. I haven't written poetry in over 10 years, but this one just hit me out of the "blue" the other day...

Bluebird

Just call me bluebird,
for it's a new day.
A breeze has come my way,
spreading my wings to make me fly,
until I drop from the sky,
exhausted and vulnerable.
Just give me a little shelter,
for just a day.
Then I'll be on my way again,
for spring is just around the corner.
Just call me bluebird.

-- Heather Johnson, 11/20/09

Poetry Sunday (11-15-09 edition)

Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae
by Ernest Dowson

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara!-- In my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara!-- In my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara!-- In my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee Cynara!-- In my fashion.

Poetry Sunday (11-08-09 edition)

And wilt thou leave me thus?
by Sir Thomas Wyatt

And wilt thou leave me thus ?
Say nay ! say nay ! for shame
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame.
And wilt thou leave me thus ?
Say nay ! Say nay !

And wilt thou leave me thus ?
That hath lov'd thee so long ?
In wealth and woe among :
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus ?
Say nay ! Say nay !

And wilt thou leave me thus ?
That hath given thee my heart
Never for to depart ;
Neither for pain nor smart :
And wilt thou leave me thus ?
Say nay ! Say nay !

And wilt thou leave me thus ?
And have no more pity,
Of him that loveth thee ?
Alas ! thy cruelty !
And wilt thou leave me thus ?
Say nay ! Say nay !

Poetry Sunday (11-01-09 edition)

Love's Philosophy
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever,
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle:--
Why not I with thine?

See! the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:--
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Poetry Sunday (10-18-09 edition)

Love's Philosophy
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever,
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle:--
Why not I with thine?

See! the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:--
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Poetry Sunday (10-11-09 edition)

Love Me Little, Love Me Long
Author Anonymous
Originally Printed in 1569

Love me little, love me long!
Is the burden of my song:
Love that is too hot and strong
Burneth soon to waste.
Still I would not have thee cold,--
Not too backward, nor too bold,
Love that lasteth till 't is old
Fadeth not in haste.
Love me little, love me long!
Is the burden of my song.

If thou lovest me too much,
'T will not prove as true a touch;
Love me little more than such,--
For I fear the end.
I'm with little well content,
And a little from thee sent
Is enough, with true intent
To be steadfast, friend.

Say thou lovest me, while thou live
I to thee my love will give,
Never dreaming to deceive
While that life endures;
Nay, and after death, in sooth,
I to thee will keep my truth,
As now when in my May of youth:
This my love assures.

Constant love is moderate ever,
And it will through life persevere;
Give me that with true endeavor,--
I will it restore.
A suit of endurance let it be,
For all weathers,--that for me,--
For the land or for the sea:
Lasting evermore.

Winter's cold or summer's heat,
Autumn's tempests on it beat;
It can never know defeat,
Never can rebel:
Such the love that I would gain,
Such the love, I tell thee plain,
Thou must give, or woo in vain:
So to thee-- farewell!

Poetry Sunday (10-04-09 edition)

One of my most memorable teachers in my 12 years of school was Mrs. Linn. It was 5th grade, and Mrs. Linn was full of exuberance and enthusiasm and adventure! She made school fun in many ways. She also introduced all of us to poetry. On Monday we would be given a new poem to learn. We would have the week to memorize it, and on Friday we would each take our turn at standing at the front of the class and reciting the new poem. I excelled at this. I learned during this process that I had a memory that allowed me to memorize a poem quite quickly. By the end of the school year it was only taking me about 15 minutes to memorize a long poem that covered two pages in my poetry notebook.

This poem is the first poem I ever learned and recited. I'm a few weeks late with it though, since it is now fall...

September
Written by Edwina Fallis

A road like brown ribbon,
A sky that is blue,
A forest of green
With the sky peeping through.
Asters, deep purple,
A grasshopper's call,
Today it is summer,
Tomorrow is fall.