I hope everyone has some exciting plans for the weekend. I have a busy weekend playing the organ for a wedding and a church service.
My chosen poem this week is by Hilda Doolittle who published under the name H.D. Doolittle was an American modernist poet.
Heat
O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.
Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air -
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and round the grapes.
Cut the heat -
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.
H.D
Happy Reading
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Happy Friday! I hope everyone has some fantastic plans for the weekend. I have spent most of today dissertation writing and will be doing the same over the weekend as well as prepping a church service for Sunday and practising music for two church services so I doubt I will get much fun reading in but I will try.
My chosen poem today is by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) who was an English novelist and poet. I must admit he is one of my favourite authors and I must get around to reading more of his work as I haven’t for a while.
WeathersI
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers be tumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly:
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at 'The Travellers' Rest',
And maids come forth sprig-muslim drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.
II
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh, and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throw,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate-bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.
Thomas Hardy
Happy Reading
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Facebook kindly reminded me that three years ago today I was on holiday in Barcelona. I must admit I would love to be on holiday right now but sadly that is unlikely to happen this year. So I have gone for a poem about the desire to travel.
The poem is by Edna St Vincent Millay who was an American poet and feminist activist, living in the first half of the twentieth century.
Travel
The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn't a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.
All night there isn't a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.
My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I'll not be knowing;
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,
No matter where it's going.
Edna St Vincent Millay
Happy Reading
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Happy Friday! I hope everyone is looking forward to the weekend.
My chosen poem today is by William Wordsworth. Wordsworth (1770-1850) was an English Romantic poet who was Poet Laureate from 1843 till his death in 1850.
I think this is a good poem for everyone who is finishing their studies this month for their summer break.
The Tables Turned
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll drop double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless -
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: -
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
William Wordsworth
I hope everyone has some good plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem for the week is from an old favourite. Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats is probably my all time favourite book of poetry, so I have chosen to share The Naming of Cats.
The Naming of Cats
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey -
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter -
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum -
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover -
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is enraged in rapt contemplation
Of the moment, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
T. S. Eliot
Happy Reading
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I hope everyone is looking forward to the weekend.
This weeks poem is by Laura Mucha. Mucha is an ex-lawyer and award-winning poet, writer and speaker.
The Land of Blue
Across the valley, it waits for you,
a place they call The Land of Blue.
It's far and near, it's strange yet known -
and in this land, you'll feel alone,
you might feel tears roll down your cheek,
you might feel wobbly, weary, weak.
I know this won't sound fun to you -
it's not - this is The Land of Blue.
It's blue - not gold or tangerine,
it's dark - not light, not bright or clean.
It's blue- and when you leave, you'll see
the crackly branches of the tree,
the golden skies, the purring cat,
the piercing eyes, the feathered het
and all the other things that come
when you escape from feeling glum.
Across the valley, it waits for you,
a place they call The Land of Blue
and going there will help you know
how others feel when they feel low.
Laura Mucha
Happy Reading
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I hope you all have some fantastic plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem today is by a new poet for me, Amy Levy. Amy Levy (10 November 1861 – 10 September 1889) was a British essayist, poet, and novelist best remembered for her literary gifts. She was also the first Jewish woman at Cambridge University.
A London Plane-Tree
Green is the plane-tree in the square,
The other trees are brown;
They droop and pine for country air;
The plane-tree loves the town.
Here, from my garret-pane, I mark
The plane-tree bud and blow,
Shed her recuperative bark,
And spread her shade below.
Among her branches, in and out,
The city breezes play;
The dun fog wraps her round about;
Above, the smoke curls grey.
Others the country take for choice,
And hold the town in scorn;
But she has listened to the voice
On city breezes borne.
Amy Levy
Happy Reading
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On this day in 1913, Emily Davison threw herself under the King’s horse at the Epsom Derby. Sadly, she died from her injuries four days later. Davison was a key part of the suffragette movement. The vote was given to women who met certain qualifications in 1918, women were given full voting rights in 1928.
Coming
Because the time is ripe, the age is ready,
Because the world her woman's help demands,
Out of the long subjection and seclusion
Come to our field of warfare and confusion
The mother's heart and hands.
Long has she stood aside, endured and waited,
While man swung forward, toiling on alone;
Now, for the weary man, so long ill-mated,
Now, for the world for which she was created,
Comes woman to her own.
Not for herself! though sweet the air of freedom;
Not for herself, though dear the new-born power;
But for the child, who needs a nobler mother,
For the whole people, needing one another,
Comes woman to her hour.
Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Happy Reading
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