Poetry Pantry #306

Photos of Stockholm, Sweden, Area

by Bjorn Rudberg

A Carpet of Wood Anemones

A Path Through a Hazel Grove

The Gate to Summer Opened

Woodland Path

Birch on a Hill

Wow, Sundays come around so quickly, it seems.  Today we have the photos of Bjorn Rudberg to enjoy.  Bjorn took them a few weeks ago when he was out walking in an area north of Stockholm. Thanks, Bjorn.  Beautiful views!

It was another busy week at Poets United.   If you haven't read Sherry's article featuring Grace last Monday, do take a look back.  Sumana's Midweek Motif prompt on Wednesday was 'commitment' and produced a lot of interesting poetry.  Thursday Rosemary shared a timely poem for I Wish I'd Written This --  Gail Hennessey's "Muhammed Ali - i.m."  It is a most enjoyable post, so please scroll back.

Tomorrow Sherry has a wonderful interview with a prolific male Californian.  Come back and find out who!   For Wednesday Susan's prompt is 'wind power, so we hope to see you then.

With no delay, let's share some poetry.  Link your poem below.  Stop in with a comment.  And visit others who share.  Have a good poetic week, all.

I Wish I'd Written This

Muhammed Ali

i.m.

By Gail Hennessy

you would not fight
those you did not hate
for those who hated you

and so �

you danced with words
like a caged bird

who knew how to sing

I'm sure everyone understands why I wanted to share this poem with you. Ali may have been a controversial figure once, but by the time of his recent death, and indeed long before, was greatly loved all over the world � a world which came to recognise him as a hero. This poem reminds us exactly why, and of his varied talents.

He too was a poet, remember. You think I exaggerate? Look again at his witty, tongue-in-cheek verses. They weren't meant to be literary, of course; they were meant to be fun, and memorable. But the way he put words together revealed a talent for it, even at his most insulting, and had something of the unexpected. Phrases such as the famous 'float like a butterfly, sting like a bee' are far above doggerel.

His greatest talent, of course, was for boxing. It's a sport I dislike, disapprove of, and don't watch � but I watched him. His exceptional grace and skill turned it into an art form. (The fact that he was so pretty � as he liked to remark � didn't hurt, either.)

The people of his home town, who knew him best and longest, attest to the fact that he was a clever and determined child and, above all, a good, kind man.

His qualities are conveyed with great economy and poignancy, encapsulating the essential, by this Australian poet who, I am pretty sure, never met him.

I have only just become acquainted with Gail Hennessy, as we are both participating this month at Project 366, a year-long blog featuring various Australian poets and artists, by invitation. She tells me, of herself:

I have been publishing my poetry since 1976 in newspapers, journals and anthologies. The most recent being A Slow Combusting Hymn edited by Jean Kent and Kit Kelen. My poem 'Finding the Words', highly commended by the Society of Women Writers, will be published in Ink3 and launched in November. I published a collection of new and previously published poems in Witnessing in 2010. Copies can be obtained from me through gailan@idl.net.au for $20 including postage.

(Overseas purchasers may have to double check whether postage is included for them.)

Reviewers of Witnessing say:

Gail Hennessy is a poet of deft statements, memorable distillations of experience that go far beyond the private to awaken reminiscences of enigmas worth reflecting on.

and:

Poem after poem shares with the reader the emotional intensity of its experience and the effect is cumulative. To read them is indeed a rich and moving experience.

The full reviews may be read at Google Books. Unfortunately there is no ebook, but a number of her poems may be found online, here. (I've saved you some Googling, by taking the first step.) And of course you can also find her poetry this month at Project 366 (see link above).

Material shared in 'I Wish I'd Written This' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings remain the property of the copyright owners, usually their authors.

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Commitment

source

"Commitment is an act, not a word."---Jean- Paul Sartre

""In journalism just one fact that is false prejudices the entire work. In contrast, in fiction one single fact that is true gives legitimacy to the entire work. That's the only difference, and it lies in the commitment of the writer. A novelist can do anything he wants so long as he makes people believe in it."---Gabriel Garcia Marquez

"Blind commitment to a theory is not an intellectual virtue: it is an intellectual crime."---Imre Lakatos

"We cannot be sure of having something to live for unless we are willing to die for it."---Ernesto Che Guevara

                     Midweek Motif ~ Commitment

Commitment is "the state or quality of being dedicated to a cause, activity etc.". This is the dictionary-definition of commitment.

So it stops us from being selfish, being occupied with only ourselves. Rather it takes us to a broader context of life and motivates at try out things that are worth to be committed for.

It is a process of growth ensuring a life with purpose.

Let's see what you are committed to this week.


Write your poem on Commitment to whatever you wish....Relationship, Work, God, Nature, Excellence, anything.


A few poems to inspire you:

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Sonnet XXVVII

by Pablo Neruda


I do not love you as if you were salt-rose or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between thee shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers,
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Friendship IXX

by Khalil Gibran


And a youth says, "Speak to us of Friendship."
Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving
And he is your board and your fireside.
For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.
When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay".

                                                         (The rest is here.)



Please share your new poem with Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community.

(Next week Susan's Midweek Motif will be ~ (Wind Power )

Blog of the Week ~ Grace at Everyday Amazing

This week, my friends, we are pleased to feature the Canadian poet, Grace, who writes so beautifully at Everyday Amazing, where, Grace says, "I paint a canvas of my ever-changing world". As a long-time member of Poets United, we have featured Grace a few times over the years. Her Life of a Poet interview was in 2012, and we did a Blog of the Week in 2014, as well as some poems of the week, given how beautiful her writing is. (Her writing truly is Everyday Amazing! It was hard to limit myself to a few today.) Grace lives near Toronto, in Ontario, Canada. Pour yourself a cuppa, and let's enjoy a few of her gorgeous poems.

Sherry: Grace, so nice to be chatting with you again. 

Grace: Thanks for the feature.   As you know, writing poetry is a fun hobby for me.   I get my inspirations from my everyday life, like my weekday train rides, watching documentaries, (mostly nature), and reading the poetry of other poets.

Sherry: I still remember the woman in the yellow coat that brightened one of your winter morning train rides. Smiles. Grace, do you have any plans for your writing in the months ahead. Is there anything you'd like to tell us about?

Grace: I don't have plans of publishing my work, as it's only a hobby for me.    

I am busy with work at Downtown Toronto City, and keep myself professionally updated by studying and taking exams every year.

The big family event that happened was when my eldest son got married last year, May 31, 2015.  It was a memorable family reunion, as our families came  from different parts of the world. 

My daughter- in-law is wearing the red dress

Sherry: Oh congratulations! That must have been a wonderful event, a wedding and a family reunion.

Grace: As to writing, I wish I can write more, but I now refrain from linking up during weekends as I would like  to be more active and doing some other stuff (like hiking and visiting parks), specially during the warm seasons.  I am envious of poets who pour out their deep emotions and thoughts on the page and blogs about it.   I don't think I have reached that point yet as I keep myself in check.   You asked me before about my best work, and I believe, then and now, that my "best" is still coming.

Sherry: Wow, you already write brilliantly. I await future work with anticipation. Smiles.

Grace: What I enjoy most about writing poetry is the community of poets - they are warm and thoughtful writers.   And even though we have not met each other face to face, you get a glimpse of their hearts and lives though their words.

I now feel more comfortable sharing pictures of myself and my family.

During our autumn walk. I'm in the middle.

Sherry: Thanks so much, Grace. It is lovely to see you and your family! Yes, over the years, reading each other's deepest thoughts, we do get to know each other very well. 

Grace, recently, I was blown away by your poem "A Dance In the Sky". I loved it so much, I really wanted to hear about it in more depth. Let's dive in.

A dance in the sky

your umber words
undo
my laced-up ribbons

kindles fire
effervescent as wine
i snow melt

furrows to crown
& between fingertips
i grow fresh skin

throw wild air-kisses
to red-
crested cardinals

there's no time
swooning over you

because
you've already flown,
dancing with starlings

Dancing with starlings

Sherry: Your imagery in this piece is so gorgeous, Grace. Tell us the story of this poem, won't you?

Grace: I was watching the video of the murmuration of the starlings, and I was awed by their beauty and flight.   The winter season is long in my part of the world, so I was looking forward to the return of the birds and advent of spring.    I also wrote this as a word challenge - in 44 words only.

Sherry: You described  it to perfection in those few words, Grace. Another poem with birds in it really spoke to me: your "Lost Brotherhood". Let's take a look.

Migrating Siberian cranes over the Himalayas

Lost Brotherhood

white against white
    sky is an open road
       above ice-capped mountains

wild is the call of wind
    that rushes in our lungs
       as we cross continents & rivers

to where the sun greens
     every blade of grass, browns earth-
        worms, yellows fish in marshlands

we fear not the crossing
     the flock is brotherhood
        marking the journey old as sea

our wingspan fight
     against eagles and vultures
         yet we fear not
              as we smell rain clouds
       above the marsh & bogs
       
as we travel  
      on and on       
           don't lead us astray
                     with your hunting games
                 for our prized plumes
         for our tender meat

leave us 
      in our untamed earth
            dense, unsettled as clouds  
               with the wind as our choir      
                       we move as kindred souls 
                                   in silent geometry
                                     
                            Let this be not our  
                                                         last
                                                                 j o u r
                                                                             n
                                                                                 e
                                                                                      y


Sherry: I pray it isn't their last journey too. I love "leave us...unsettled as clouds / with the wind as our choir..." Beautifully done, Grace.

Grace: Sadly, these long-lived cranes are on the list of endangered species, as its population has greatly diminished in the last three decades.

"Lost Brotherhood" was a prompt for eco-poetry which I hosted for D'verse.   I wanted to write about the plight of Siberian cranes when they are migrating between seasons.  I used the words to create a wing-like formation when they are flying, and the eventual fall from the skies.   I think it's fun to play with the format of the words on the page. 

Sherry: You succeeded. very well, Grace. The way the closing word fades and drifts off the page really underscores the plight of the cranes.  

Your poem "Traveler's Heart" spoke directly to me, as I have written many poems about traveling. Your imagery is, as always, glorious in this poem. And I love the changing formats of your poems, which look so wonderful on the page.

      

Traveler's heart

Give me 

autumn's billowing wind

Ruffling falling leaves to wet canvas 

I am blue butterfly trifling the wheat fields

Up north, I travel to gaze snow-capped mountains

Down south, I gather shells & listen to sun-lit chimes

I flicker back and forth between cities and seasons

To the east, I drink green tea & feast on pink lotus

To the west, I sip ripe wine & study cathedrals

My luggage is not yet filled of souvenirs

 With colorful shirts and silver spoons 

Like clouds, I will not rest, not yet

For I have a traveler's 

   w

       a

           n

               d

                   e

                     r

                l

       u

s

                                                     t

Sherry: I have it too, though now I do my traveling through words and the imagination. Which is why your words lift me up and carry me off so wonderfully.

Grace: I am also inspired by the photography of other artists. I must admit I find it hard to write without pictures or having a mental picture in my head. Along with the title, I wanted to create a shaped or visual poem, to complement my words. To do this, I first write the words in a normal way, then I play with the format on the page. 

My most challenging shaped or visual poem was "When It's the Real Thing". After that exercise, I felt bolder to experiment with the words!

When it's the real thing

I'd like to buy 

the world a poem 

for all 365 days, I

will not keep it 

company but will 

let it tumble, rip, 
crash, hobble, run,

slam, burst as autumn 

red leaves drifting by 

the river canal, falling 

over bridges & archways

until the verses settle down:  

a torchlight, bell, majestic river.

I'd like to give the world a view:

happiness, not bought & sugared,

nor snowed white as turtle doves

but simple yellow morning bloom.

Then I'd teach the world to sing  

in perfect harmony with trees, 

with each fading leaf color and 

passing clouds. Because there's a

poem to be found even in empty

road, lonely mountain, rainy days,

rusted can, or walking hand in hand.

Life tastes good when you keep it real. 

Sherry: It looks beautiful on the page, and I love its message. So positive!

Thank you so much for starting our week off so beautifully, Grace. And for your loyalty to Poets United. We appreciate you, and look forward to enjoying much more of your work in the years to come. 

I hope you enjoyed these lovely poems as much as we did, my poet friends. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Poetry Pantry #305

Photographs of Buda Homestead, 

City of Castlemaine,

Victoria, Australia

by Rosemary Nissen-Wade

Good Sunday to you all!  Today, for the second week, we are sharing some photos taken by Rosemary Nissen-Wade.   Her visit to Castlemaine included a tour of this historic homestead. During the gold rush era it belonged to a Hungarian immigrant, Ernest Leviny, a jeweller and silversmith. He and his wife had four sons and six daughters. Only one of the daughters married. The Buda website tells us:

The five unmarried daughters lived most of their lives at Buda. Each of the daughters was creative in some form of art or craft. Mary, the eldest, had much to do in helping to run the household, and was a major contributor to making everyone's clothes, embroidering, smocking and decorating. Hilda specialised in embroidery, Gertrude in woodcarving, Kate in photography, and Dorothy in metal and enamel work. Examples of their work are to be seen throughout the house and garden.

They were greatly influenced by the British Arts and Crafts movement of the time, redecorating their home accordingly in a lighter and brighter style. They were responsible for just about everything that is on display, including furniture and paintings. 

Rosemary's photos show some results of their work, as well as two display cases of items produced by their father.

We had another great week at Poets United.  If you didn't see the interview of "Old Egg," be sure to take a look back at the update interview done by Sherry.  Robin is a most regular participant here, recently celebrated his 80th birthday, and a fine poet.  And Susan provided a most interesting prompt for Midweek Motif: Parents, Guardians, Significant Adults in the Lives of Children.  If you have some time & want to read a few great poems on the subject, take a look back!   And just yesterday Rosemary Nissen-Wade featured a poem of Robert Frost for The Living Dead.  I enjoyed reading his poem "The Last Mowing" because, for me at least, it is less familiar than many of his poems, and it is always nice to contemplate something new.

In the week ahead, Sherry will feature a poet who is a very familiar face in the blogosphere, someone anyone who has participated at any of a number of poetry sites will have encountered one time or another. Do return tomorrow for another fascinating interview.  And on Wednesday Sumana is prompting at Midweek Motif.  Her prompt is "Commitment," so feel free to get an early start on a poem!  And, oh...next week here in the Pantry we will be seeing some of Bjorn's photos, which is definitely something to look forward to!

With no further delay, let's share poetry.  Link your one poem below. Stop in and make a comment of hello below, and visit poems of others who link.  Have a good week, all!

The Living Dead

~ Honouring our poetic ancestors ~

The Last Mowing
By Robert Frost (1874-1963

There's a place called Far-away Meadow
We never shall mow in again,

Or such is the talk at the farmhouse:
The meadow is finished with men.
Then now is the chance for the flowers
That can't stand mowers and plowers.
It must be now, through, in season
Before the not mowing brings trees on,
Before trees, seeing the opening,
March into a shadowy claim.
The trees are all I'm afraid of,
That flowers can't bloom in the shade of;
It's no more men I'm afraid of;
The meadow is done with the tame.
The place for the moment is ours
For you, oh tumultuous flowers,
To go to waste and go wild in,
All shapes and colors of flowers,
I needn't call you by name.

It occurred to me that I hadn't yet featured Robert Frost, considered one of the greatest � if not THE greatest � of American poets. I didn't want to use the ones that are most well-known, so had a hunt and found this one which was new to me. I hope it may be new to some of you as well.

I like it because of the way the speaker so exults over the wildflowers he anticipates in the discarded meadow. There is an exuberance, both about the imagined flowers and in the speaker's voice. It's rather a nice follow-on from Angie Walker's celebration of flowers in 'I Wish I'd Written This' last week.

There is a long article on his poetics at The Poetry Foundation, detailing his interesting position as neither strictly a traditionalist nor yet a modern free-versifier. Rather, he worked to make metrical verse convey current rhythms of spoken language � particularly that of the New England he inhabited.

Wikipedia has a briefer account of his life and work, including such highlights as his four Pulitzer Prizes, his teaching and farming careers, and the fact that he was chosen to deliver a poem at President Kennedy's Inauguration.

I am going to have to leave you to research these further yourself, as I am having internet problems due to wild weather, and need to schedule this post while I can. I imagine many of you do already know a lot about Frost, and perhaps learned about him in school.

Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may be out of copyright)

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Parents, Guardians, Significant Adults in the Lives of Children

Children give carnations to parents on Parents' Day in South Korea

�When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, 
my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. 
You will always find people who are helping.� 
? Fred Rogers

�Children need to be raised in loving environments. Whenever domination is present love is lacking. Loving parents, be they single or coupled, gay or straight, headed by females or males, are more likely to raise 
healthy, happy children with sound self-esteem. � 
? bell hooks, Feminism is for Everybody

�I'm inspired by the love people have for their children. And I'm inspired by my own children, how full they make my heart. They make me want to work to make the world a little bit better. And they make me want to be a better man.� 
? Barack Obama

The International Day for Protection of Children, Children's Day,
is celebrated in many countries on June 1st, though the date varies.

Midweek Motif ~ Parenthood

Parents, Guardians, Significant Adults 

According to Wikipedia:  

Parents' Day is a holiday combining the concepts of a Fathers' Day and Mothers' Day.  The United Nations proclaimed June 1 to be the Global Day of Parents "to appreciate all parents in all parts of the world for their selfless commitment to children and their lifelong sacrifice towards nurturing this relationship.".^[1] It is the same day as International Children's Day.

When I taught high school English, it was easy to tell which students suffered from a lack of nurturing adult presence in their lives.  At times these children needed my attention more than they needed an English lesson. I wondered if spending an hour a day with children in classes of more than 30 students was anything like parenting.  Could parents see 170 children a day, even if only for an hour?  My own parents struggled financially early on and were too angry and scared to be consistently loving until I was a pre-teen.  I feel love and gratitude for them now. 

Your Challenge:  Write a new poem, in which you take on the voice of a child with real or ideal adults parenting them.  

I Go Back to May 1937

Related Poem Content Details

BY SHARON OLDS

I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges, 

I see my father strolling out 

under the ochre sandstone arch, the   

red tiles glinting like bent 

plates of blood behind his head, I 

see my mother with a few light books at her hip 

standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks, 

the wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its 

sword-tips aglow in the May air, 

they are about to graduate, they are about to get married,   

they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are   

innocent, they would never hurt anybody.   

. . . . 

Read the rest HERE.

Lullaby in Fracktown

Related Poem Content Details

BY LILACE MELLIN GUIGNARD

Child, when you�re sad put on your blue shoes.

You know that Mama loves you lollipops

and Daddy still has a job to lose.

So put on a party hat. We�ll play the kazoos

loud and louder from the mountaintop.

Child, when you�re sad put on your blue shoes

and dance the polka with pink kangaroos,

dolphin choirs singing �flip-flop, flip-flop.�

Hey, Daddy still has a job to lose?�?

. . . . 

Read the Rest HERE.

Driving My Parents Home at  Christmas

BY ROBERT BLY

As I drive my parents home through the snow

their frailty hesitates on the edge of a mountainside.

I call over the cliff

only snow answers.

They talk quietly

of hauling water of eating an orange

of a grandchild's photograph left behind last night.

When they open the door of their house they disappear.

And the oak when it falls in the forest who hears it 

through miles and miles of silence?

They sit so close to each other; �

as if pressed together by the snow.

***

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and 

visit others in the spirit of the community.

                       

 (Next week Sumana's Midweek Motif will be - Commitment)