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all-goats-coatsworth.jpg


All Goats

By Elizabeth J. Coatsworth


All goats have a wild-briar grace.

They are as elegant as thorns,

With little bells beneath their chins,

And pointed horns.


So quick are they upon their feet,

So light and gaily do they prance,

Their hoofs seem little castanets

To which they dance.


And as they raise sagacious heads

Disturbed by some crude passer-by

They look upon him with a most

Satiric eye.


Searched this morning for "goals", and got "goats". Probably just as well. I'm finding goal-setting difficult in the Time of Pandemic.

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on-the-birth-su.jpg

 

On the Birth of a Son

by Su Tung-Po

translated by Arthur Waley

 

Families when a child is born

Hope it will turn out intelligent.

I, through intelligence

Having wrecked my whole life,

Only hope that the baby will prove

Ignorant and stupid.

Then he'll be happy all his days

And grow into a cabinet minister.

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the-house-stevens.jpg


The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm

By Wallace Stevens


The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The reader became the book; and summer night


Was like the conscious being of the book.

The house was quiet and the world was calm.


The words were spoken as if there was no book,

Except that the reader leaned above the page,


Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be

The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom


The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

The house was quiet because it had to be.


The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:

The access of perfection to the page.


And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,

In which there is no other meaning, itself


Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself

Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

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For the penultimate day of July, poetic comfort food.

 

sweet-afton-burns.jpg

 

Sweet Afton
by Robert Burns
Flow gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev'ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
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I'm going to wrap this up tomorrow, and move on to another discipline (not quite sure what it's going to be yet).

 

Here are some extra poems that I didn't squeeze in during the month:

 

Herbsttag

by Rainer Maria Rilke
Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr gross.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.
Befiehl den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte Süsse in den schweren Wein.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.
Lord, it's time. The summer was grand.
Lay your shadow on the sundial,
Loose the wind over the fields.
Command the last fruits to ripen;
give them a few more southerly days,
bring them to completion and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy grapes.
Whoever has no home now, won't find one.
Whoever is alone now, stays alone,
wakes, reads, writes long letters,
wanders restlessly in the lanes
to and fro, as the leaves fall.
_________________________________
Language Lesson 1976
By Heather Mchugh
When Americans say a man
takes liberties, they mean
he’s gone too far. In Philadelphia today I saw
a kid on a leash look mom-ward
and announce his fondest wish: one
bicentennial burger, hold
the relish. Hold is forget,
in American.
On the courts of Philadelphia
the rich prepare
to serve, to fault. The language is a game as well,
in which love can mean nothing,
doubletalk mean lie. I’m saying
doubletalk with me. I’m saying
go so far the customs are untold.
Make nothing without words,
and let me be
the one you never hold.
_________________________________
Do You Speak Persian?
By Kaveh Akbar
Some days we can see Venus in mid-afternoon. Then at night, stars
separated by billions of miles, light travelling years
to die in the back of an eye.
Is there a vocabulary for this—one to make dailiness amplify
and not diminish wonder?
I have been so careless with the words I already have.
I don’t remember how to say home
in my first language, or lonely, or light.
I remember only
delam barat tang shodeh, I miss you,
and shab bekheir, goodnight.
How is school going, Kaveh-joon?
Delam barat tang shodeh.
Are you still drinking?
Shab bekheir.
For so long every step I’ve taken
has been from one tongue to another.
To order the world:
I need, you need, he/she/it needs.
The rest, left to a hungry jackal
in the back of my brain.
Right now our moon looks like a pale cabbage rose.
Delam barat tang shodeh.
We are forever folding into the night.
Shab bekheir.
_________________________________
The Borders Are Fluid Within Us
By Dan Vera
This is what is feared:
that flags do not nourish the blood,
that history is not glorious or truthful.
I sleep and dream in two languages.
I gain wisdom from more than one fountain.
I pass between borders
made to control what is owned.
The body cannot be owned.
The land cannot be owned,
only misunderstood or named by its knowing.
_________________________________
Here are some sites I used during this month:
_________________________________
Edited by brokenclay
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Last day of the month, last poem.

 

This is from the 1747 edition of Poor Richard's Almanac:

 

july-franklin.jpg

 

pra-1747-july.jpg

 

V Mon. July [1747] hath xxxi days.
By Benjamin Franklin
Men drop so fast, ere Life’s mid Stage we tread,
Few know so many Friends alive as dead;
Yet, as immortal, in our uphill Chace,
We press coy Fortune with unslacken’d Pace;
Our ardent Labours for the Toy we seek,
Join Night to Day, and Sunday to the Week,
Our very Joys are anxious, and expire
Between Satiety and fierce Desire.
Take care, everyone.
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What a grand run this has been~

 

Thank you! Thank you! for all these poems! Such grand company in these so uncertain times!

Moderation in everything, including moderation.

--Mark Twain

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I'm so glad you enjoyed them.

 

I found the exercise very beneficial - I looked forward to it every day, and it cut out some of the doom-scrolling :-).

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  • 2 months later...
  • 1 month later...

I'm resurrecting this - I've come back around to wanting to find something to write out every day for a while.

 

I'm not a Christian, but I love the O Antiphons of Advent, which start on December 17th. Since I'm two days late, here are the first three.

 

O Sapientia, quae ex ore Altissimi prodiisti,
attingens a fine usque ad finem,
fortiter suaviterque disponens omnia:
veni ad docendum nos viam prudentiae.

 

O Wisdom, coming forth from the mouth of the Most High,
reaching from one end to the other,
mightily and sweetly ordering all things:
Come and teach us the way of prudence.

 

O Adonai, et Dux domus Israel,
qui Moysi in igne flammae rubi apparuisti,
et ei in Sina legem dedisti:
veni ad redimendum nos in brachio extento.

 

O Adonai, and leader of the House of Israel,
who appeared to Moses in the fire of the burning bush
and gave him the law on Sinai:

Come and redeem us with an outstretched arm.

 

O radix Jesse, qui stas in signum populorum,
super quem continebunt reges os suum,
quem Gentes deprecabuntur:
veni ad liberandum nos, jam noli tardare.

 

O Root of Jesse, standing as a sign among the peoples;
before you kings will shut their mouths,
to you the nations will make their prayer:
Come and deliver us, and delay no longer.

 

Pelikan M200, brown marble, stub nib by Custom Nib Studio.

IMG_1893.jpg

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10 hours ago, hh1990 said:

@brokenclayI saw this thread and thought it would be a great kick in the pants to start reading poetry more regularly. 

I used to look forward each day to Garrison Keillor’s The Writer’s Almanac on Public Radio-it was 5 minutes of diversion each morning, ending with a poem, that helped expand my experience with writing and poets I otherwise would never have found.  Alas, it hasn’t been on air for a few years, and, to my knowledge, hasn’t been resurrected by anyone new.  I believe the episodes have been archived and available for listening.  I’ve attached a link to an episode, to give anyone interested a taste of what it was like.

 

https://www.writersalmanac.org/index.html

A link to the Archive:

https://www.writersalmanac.org/episodes/2017.html

 

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14 hours ago, hh1990 said:

@brokenclay, is it okay if others join in on the fun? I saw this thread and thought it would be a great kick in the pants to start reading poetry more regularly. 

 

Please do! Yes! A good starting point is https://www.poetryfoundation.org; I'll often either start reading with their poem of the day or just come up with a random (or not so random) search phrase and see where it leads me.

 

3 hours ago, Carrau said:

I used to look forward each day to Garrison Keillor’s The Writer’s Almanac on Public Radio-it was 5 minutes of diversion each morning, ending with a poem, that helped expand my experience with writing and poets I otherwise would never have found.  Alas, it hasn’t been on air for a few years, and, to my knowledge, hasn’t been resurrected by anyone new.  I believe the episodes have been archived and available for listening.  I’ve attached a link to an episode, to give anyone interested a taste of what it was like.

 

https://www.writersalmanac.org/index.html

A link to the Archive:

https://www.writersalmanac.org/episodes/2017.html

 

 

Thanks for the reminder and link, I enjoyed the Writer's Almanac when it was being broadcast as well.

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O thank you, Brokenclay!!

 

Here in WI it's been gray for days and seeing poems again (in ink!) has brightened things considerably :-)

Moderation in everything, including moderation.

--Mark Twain

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33AC1736-C0F8-4D35-BA33-1648C3800143.jpeg

 

 

Poem for my Birthday

by Lisel Mueller

 

I have stopped being the heroine

of my bad dreams. The melodramas

of betrayal and narrow escapes

from which I wake up grateful

for an unexciting life

are starring my troubled young friend

or one of my daughters. I'm not the one

who swims too far out to sea;

I am the one who waves from shore

vainly and in despair.

Life is what happens to someone else;

I stand on the sidelines and wring my hands.

Strange, that my dreams should have accepted

the minor role I've been cast in

by stories since stories began.

Does that mean I have solved my life?

I'm still afraid in my dreams, but not for myself.

Fear gets rededicated

with a new stone that bears a needier name.

 

Pelikan P20 Twist Stars Pink with Akkerman SBRE Brown

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EA65BE63-3EB0-4C4E-A38E-0161BE05F7A6.jpeg

 

O Clavis David, et sceptrum domus Israel;
qui aperis, et nemo claudit;
claudis, et nemo aperit:
veni, et educ vinctum de domo carceris,
sedentem in tenebris, et umbra mortis.

 

O Key of David and sceptre of the House of Israel;
you open and no one can shut;
you shut and no one can open:
Come and lead the prisoners from the prison house,
those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.

 

Italix Parson's Essential, Broad Cursive, with Organics Studio Ralph Waldo Emerson

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Absolutely wonderful!  (now if only I could remember my dreams...)

 

Thank you!!!

 

Moderation in everything, including moderation.

--Mark Twain

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2020-12-20_17-47-48.png.6c9e5a9b8475018707c1a3098d429d00.png

 

2020-12-20_17-49-56.png.6b8fa5e3e5b0f44a098d53f35f00aa70.png

 

“Soneta 17” de Cien Sonetas de Amor

 

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio

o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:

te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,

secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

 

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva

dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,

y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo

el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

 

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,

te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:

así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

 

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,

tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,

tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.

 

“Sonnet 17” from One Hundred Love Sonnets

 

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:

I love you as one loves certain obscure things,

secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

 

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries

the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,

and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose

from the earth lives dimly in my body.

 

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,

I love you directly without problems or pride:

I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,

 

except in this form in which I am not nor are you,

so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,

so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

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