A Poem A Day

[GlenV]

Here’s one 

 

[brokenclay]

7 hours ago, GlenV said:

Here’s one 

 

 

So lovely (both the poem and its rendering)! Thank you.

[GlenV]

Thank you brokenclay:) I’ve been practicing for 3-4 years to improve my writing, and writing poems or quotes that you like is really helpful to keep having fun practicing 

[brokenclay]

4 hours ago, GlenV said:

Thank you brokenclay:) I’ve been practicing for 3-4 years to improve my writing, and writing poems or quotes that you like is really helpful to keep having fun practicing 

 

You are clearly doing an awesome job on your handwriting! I, too, started copying out poems (and lots of other things) to improve my handwriting, although I have not yet aspired to anything as lovely as all the pointed and edged nib scripts/calligraphy you and many others have demonstrated here on FPN. I'm happy with a hand that's (hopefully) attractive and legible (the latter is apparently also questionable, according to my kids who try to read my shopping lists).

[brokenclay]

 

Delivered

by Cynthia Ventresca

 

She lived there for years in a

small space in a high rise that saw

her winter years dawn. When the past

became larger than her present,

she would call and thank us for cards

we gave her when we were small;

for Christmas, Mother's Day, her birthday,

our devotion scrawled amidst depictions

of crooked hearts and lopsided lilies.

 

She would write out new ones,

and we found them everywhere—unsent;

in perfect cursive she wished us joy,

chains of x's and o's circling her signature.

And when her time alone was over,

the space emptied of all but sunshine, dust,

and a cross nailed above her door,

those cards held for us a bitter peace;

they had finally been delivered.

 

[brokenclay]

 

Water Route

by Barry Sternlieb

 

Sailing the inside passage

through late mountain light,

allow for how form and texture

cultivate the mind

roughly like wind and water.

Call each island by the silence

great passion must follow

to teach true perspective.

Let wood rhyme with dolphin,

cloud with salt, north with now,

but consider the course

an ancient scroll

known more for the spirit

of its strict calligraphy

than for the meaning.

Be present as sight

is sworn in by sky and rock

which together make one seam

between desires, between ways to turn.

Get a sharp new take on darkness

and leave arrival

to those who would own

what they can't imagine.

Sailing the inside passage,

watch life eat away at the infinite

until only it remains.

[brokenclay]

 

No Less

by Alice B. Fogel

 

It was twilight all day.

 

Sometimes the smallest things weigh us down,

small stones that we can't help

admiring and palming.

 

Look at the tiny way

this lighter vein got inside.

Look at the heavy gray dome of its sky.

 

This is no immutable world.

We know less than its atoms, rushing through.

 

Light, light. Light as air, to them,

for all we know. Trust me on this one,

there is happiness at stake.

 

Boulder, grain. Planet, dust:

What fills the stones fills us.

 

I remember, or I have a feeling,

I could be living somewhere with you,

weighted down the way we aren't now.

 

Often the greatest things,

those you'd think would be the heaviest,

are the very ones that float.

[brokenclay]

 

Dworzec

by Emily Pérez

 

                                 on a line from Szymborska

My departure from the city of O.?

I took no leave.

 

I’d learned to sleep angry.

 

On a train I was contained.

 

The water under the bridge

was just that. Shunned metaphor.

 

It did not send waves of regret

or make me reflect.

It did not baptize, wash away, or cleanse.

 

The countryside appeared

like the sides of any country

where rain falls and cows chew yellow flowers.

 

The world was not too much

or too much with me.

 

I stomached it.

 

In the photograph I only look lonely

because I was alone.

 

You cannot see the envelope on my lap

or the letters lodged under sweaters in my suitcase.

 

I carried only one bag, what I could manage

in a crowd.

 

You can imagine I held a thick book

from which nothing could distract me.

You can imagine my head high, eyes dry.

 

I did not see my departure as a failure, or a fall.

I’d dodged a bullet. Been reborn. 

 

You can imagine it that way.

 

Only none of it was like that,

not like that at all.

 

Here is Wisława Szymborska's Dworzec:

 

Dworzec

Nieprzyjazd mój do miasta N.
odbył się punktualnie.

Zostałeś uprzedzony
niewysłanym listem.

Zdążyłeś nie przyjść
w przewidzianej porze.

Pociąg wjechał na peron trzeci.
Wysiadło dużo ludzi.

Uchodził w tłumie do wyjścia
brak mojej osoby.

Kilka kobiet zastąpiło mnie
pośpiesznie
w tym pośpiechu.

Do jednej podbiegł
ktoś nie znany mi,
ale ona rozpoznała go
natychmiast.

Oboje wymienili
nie nasz pocałunek,
podczas czego zginęła
nie moja walizka.

Dworzec w mieście N.
dobrze zdał egzamin
z istnienia obiektywnego.

Całość stała na swoim miejscu.
Szczegóły poruszały się
po wyznaczonych torach.

Odbyło sie nawet
umówione spotkanie.

Poza zasięgiem
naszej obecności.

W raju utraconym
prawdopodobieństwa.

Gdzie indziej.
Gdzie indziej.
Jak te słówka dźwięczą.

[brokenclay]

 

The Lady of Shalott

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

Part I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

       To many-tower'd Camelot;

And up and down the people go,

Gazing where the lilies blow

Round an island there below,

       The island of Shalott.

 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

Little breezes dusk and shiver

Thro' the wave that runs for ever

By the island in the river

       Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers,

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

       The Lady of Shalott.

 

By the margin, willow veil'd,

Slide the heavy barges trail'd

By slow horses; and unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd

       Skimming down to Camelot:

But who hath seen her wave her hand?

Or at the casement seen her stand?

Or is she known in all the land,

       The Lady of Shalott?

 

Only reapers, reaping early

In among the bearded barley,

Hear a song that echoes cheerly

From the river winding clearly,

       Down to tower'd Camelot:

And by the moon the reaper weary,

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,

Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy

       Lady of Shalott."

[brokenclay]

 

The Lady of Shalott

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

Part II

There she weaves by night and day

A magic web with colours gay.

She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay

       To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so she weaveth steadily,

And little other care hath she,

       The Lady of Shalott.

 

And moving thro' a mirror clear

That hangs before her all the year,

Shadows of the world appear.

There she sees the highway near

       Winding down to Camelot:

There the river eddy whirls,

And there the surly village-churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls,

       Pass onward from Shalott.

 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

       Goes by to tower'd Camelot;

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

       The Lady of Shalott.

 

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

       And music, went to Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed:

"I am half sick of shadows," said

       The Lady of Shalott.

 

[brokenclay]

 

The Lady of Shalott

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley-sheaves,

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,

And flamed upon the brazen greaves

       Of bold Sir Lancelot.

A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd

To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,

       Beside remote Shalott.

 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

       As he rode down to Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

       Beside remote Shalott.

 

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

       As he rode down to Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

       Moves over still Shalott.

 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

       As he rode down to Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

"Tirra lirra," by the river

       Sang Sir Lancelot.

 

She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro' the room,

She saw the water-lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

       She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

"The curse is come upon me," cried

       The Lady of Shalott.

 

 

[brokenclay]

 

The Lady of Shalott

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

       Over tower'd Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat

Beneath a willow left afloat,

And round about the prow she wrote

       The Lady of Shalott.

 

And down the river's dim expanse

Like some bold seër in a trance,

Seeing all his own mischance—

With a glassy countenance

       Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

       The Lady of Shalott.

 

Lying, robed in snowy white

That loosely flew to left and right—

The leaves upon her falling light—

Thro' the noises of the night

       She floated down to Camelot:

And as the boat-head wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her singing her last song,

       The Lady of Shalott.

 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her blood was frozen slowly,

And her eyes were darken'd wholly,

       Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

       The Lady of Shalott.

 

Under tower and balcony,

By garden-wall and gallery,

A gleaming shape she floated by,

Dead-pale between the houses high,

       Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

And round the prow they read her name,

       The Lady of Shalott.

 

Who is this? and what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they cross'd themselves for fear,

       All the knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;

He said, "She has a lovely face;

God in his mercy lend her grace,

       The Lady of Shalott."

 

THE END

[BigBlot]

The Cats

 

Babels of blocks to the high heavens tow’ring,
Flames of futility swirling below;
Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flow’ring,
Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.

Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,
Cobwebs of cable by nameless things spun;
Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos delivers
Streams of live foetor, that rots in the sun.

Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
Shrieking and ringing and scrambling insane,
Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,
Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.

Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal,
Howling and lean in the glare of the moon,
Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,
Yelling the burden of Pluto’s red rune.

Tall tow’rs and pyramids ivy’d and crumbling,
Bats that swoop low in the weed-cumber’d streets;
Bleak broken bridges o’er rivers whose rumbling
Joins with no voice as the thick tide retreats.

Belfries that blackly against the moon totter,
Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac’d,
And living to answer the wind and the water,
Only the lean cats that howl in the waste!

 

- H.P. Lovecraft, 1925

[GlenV]

My hand is not super steady today yet a poem anyway...

this is only parts of the poem

[brokenclay]

19 hours ago, GlenV said:

this is only parts of the poem

 

Lovely, thank you!

[mizgeorge]

And a happy sigh from a Keats scholar here

[GlenV]

He wrote so well, my son would think it’s funny though if accused of being a scholar haha

[lauriond]

 

Beads 

 

Beads around your neck aglow,

frogheads in the lake below.

Lambkin droppings,

lambkin droppings in the snow.

 

Rose within the moon's halo,

gold belt round your waist to go.

Hempen knottings

knotted round my neck just so.

 

Skirted legs so subtly swinging,

bell-tongue in its bell a-ringing,

river-mirror

with two swaying poplars' winging.

 

Skirted legs so subtly calling,

bell-tongue in its bell a-tolling,

river-mirror

with the dumb leaves falling, falling.

 

(Turner, Frederick; Zsuzsanna Ozsvath

 

 

Publisher Bloodaxe Books, Newcastle

Source of the quotation The Iron-Blue Vault)

[jandrew]

[brokenclay]

@jandrew, @lauriond, thank you for these poems! Both lovely and thought-provoking.