A Poem A Day

[brokenclay]

O Oriens,

splendor lucis aeternae, et sol justitiae:

veni, et illumina sedentes in tenebris, et umbra mortis.

 

O Morning Star,

splendour of light eternal and sun of righteousness:

Come and enlighten those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.

 

Pelikan 120 with Pilot Namiki Black 

[hh1990]

 

 

Tecumseh - Mary Oliver

I went down not long ago
to the Mad River, under the willows
I knelt and drank from that crumpled flow, call it
what madness you will, there's a sickness
worse than the risk of death and that's
forgetting what we should never forget.
Tecumseh lived here.
The wounds of the past
are ignored, but hang on...
Sometimes
I would like to paint my body red and go out into
the glittering snow
to die.
His name meant Shooting Star.
From Mad River country north to the border
he gathered the tribes
and armed them one more time. He vowed
to keep Ohio and it took him
over twenty years to fail...
his body could not be found.
It was never found...
if we ever meet him, we'll know it,
he will still be
so angry.

[brokenclay]

 

Winter Sun

By Molly Fisk

How valuable it is in these short days, 

threading through empty maple branches, 

the lacy-needled sugar pines.

 

Its glint off sheets of ice tells the story 

of Death’s brightness, her bitter cold.

 

We can make do with so little, just the hint 

of warmth, the slanted light.

 

The way we stand there, soaking in it, 

mittened fingers reaching.

 

And how carefully we gather what we can 

to offer later, in darkness, one body to another.

 

Lamy 2000, M, Diamine Majestic Blue

[hh1990]

Song of Myself, 51 - Walt Whitman

The past and present wilt—I have fill'd them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?

Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?

 

[brokenclay]

 

Now Winter Nights Enlarge
By Thomas Campion

 

Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o’erflow with wine,
Let well-turned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep’s leaden spells remove.

 

This time doth well dispense
With lovers’ long discourse;
Much speech hath some defense,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.

 

Kaweco AL-Sport, 1.1mm stub, with Diamine Imperial Purple
 

[brokenclay]

O Rex Gentium, et desideratus earum,

lapisque angularis, qui facis utraque unum:

veni, et salva hominem,

quem de limo formasti.

 

O King of the nations, and their desire,

the cornerstone making both one:

Come and save the human race,

which you fashioned from clay.

 

Kaweco Classic Sport, F, Diamond Turquoise

 

[brokenclay]

7 hours ago, hh1990 said:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

 

 

Love this.

[brokenclay]

Last O Antiphon of the season:

 

 

O Emmanuel, Rex et legifer noster,

exspectatio Gentium, et Salvator earum:

veni ad salvandum nos, Domine, Deus noster.

 

O Emmanuel, our king and our lawgiver,

the hope of the nations and their Saviour:

Come and save us, O Lord our God.

 

[hh1990]

 

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

 

I. 

Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
 Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
   And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
 The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.
II.

 Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
 I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
   "Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
 Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."
III.

 And, as the (bleep) crew, those who stood before
 The Tavern shouted—"Open then the Door.
   You know how little while we have to stay,
 And, once departed, may return no more."

[brokenclay]

56 minutes ago, hh1990 said:

 And, as the (bleep) crew, those who stood before
 The Tavern shouted—"Open then the Door.
 

 

When AI goes bad...

[brokenclay]

\

 

You Are Your Own State Department

by Naomi Shihab Nye

 

Each day I miss Japanese precision. Trying to arrange things

   the way they would. I miss the call to prayer

at Sharjah, the large collective pause. Or

the shy strawberry vendor with rickety wooden cart,

single small lightbulb pointed at a mound of berries.

   In one of China’s great cities, before dawn.

 

      Forever I miss my Arab father’s way with mint leaves

    floating in a cup of sugared tea—his delicate hands

arranging rinsed figs on a plate. What have we here?

    said the wolf in the children’s story

stumbling upon people doing kind, small things.

    Is this small monster one of us?

 

When your country does not feel cozy, what do you do?

       Teresa walks more now, to feel closer to her

ground. If destination within two miles, she must

    hike or take the bus. Carries apples,

          extra bottles of chilled water to give away.

Kim makes one positive move a day for someone else.

I’m reading letters the ancestors wrote after arriving

       in the land of freedom, words in perfect English script. . .

describing gifts they gave one another for Christmas.

     Even the listing seems oddly civilized,

these 1906 Germans. . . hand-stitched embroideries for dresser

tops. Bow ties. Slippers, parlor croquet, gold ring, “pretty

            inkwell.”

 

How they comforted themselves! A giant roast

     made them feel more at home.

            Posthumous medals of honor for

     coming, continuing—could we do that?

And where would we go?

         My father’s hope for Palestine

stitching my bones, “no one wakes up and

        dreams of fighting around the house”—

 

somebody soon the steady eyes of children in Gaza,

     yearning for a little extra electricity

to cool their lemons and cantaloupes, will be known.

              Yes?

    We talked for two hours via Google Chat,

they did not complain once. Discussing stories,

       books, families, a character who does

                 what you might do.

Meanwhile secret diplomats are what we must be,

   as a girl in Qatar once assured me,

       each day slipping its blank visa into our hands.

[hh1990]

 

Rise up this mornin'
Smile with the risin' sun
Three little birds
Pitched by my doorstep
Singin' sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true
Sayin', "This is my message to you, whoo-hoo"

[hh1990]

2 hours ago, brokenclay said:

\

 

You Are Your Own State Department

by Naomi Shihab Nye

 

Each day I miss Japanese precision. Trying to arrange things

   the way they would. I miss the call to prayer

at Sharjah, the large collective pause. Or

the shy strawberry vendor with rickety wooden cart,

single small lightbulb pointed at a mound of berries.

   In one of China’s great cities, before dawn.

 

      Forever I miss my Arab father’s way with mint leaves

    floating in a cup of sugared tea—his delicate hands

arranging rinsed figs on a plate. What have we here?

    said the wolf in the children’s story

stumbling upon people doing kind, small things.

    Is this small monster one of us?

 

When your country does not feel cozy, what do you do?

       Teresa walks more now, to feel closer to her

ground. If destination within two miles, she must

    hike or take the bus. Carries apples,

          extra bottles of chilled water to give away.

Kim makes one positive move a day for someone else.

I’m reading letters the ancestors wrote after arriving

       in the land of freedom, words in perfect English script. . .

describing gifts they gave one another for Christmas.

     Even the listing seems oddly civilized,

these 1906 Germans. . . hand-stitched embroideries for dresser

tops. Bow ties. Slippers, parlor croquet, gold ring, “pretty

            inkwell.”

 

How they comforted themselves! A giant roast

     made them feel more at home.

            Posthumous medals of honor for

     coming, continuing—could we do that?

And where would we go?

         My father’s hope for Palestine

stitching my bones, “no one wakes up and

        dreams of fighting around the house”—

 

somebody soon the steady eyes of children in Gaza,

     yearning for a little extra electricity

to cool their lemons and cantaloupes, will be known.

              Yes?

    We talked for two hours via Google Chat,

they did not complain once. Discussing stories,

       books, families, a character who does

                 what you might do.

Meanwhile secret diplomats are what we must be,

   as a girl in Qatar once assured me,

       each day slipping its blank visa into our hands.

 

I loved this. Thank you for sharing. 

[hh1990]

21 hours ago, brokenclay said:

 

When AI goes bad...

 

Just noticed this 😃

[brokenclay]

1 hour ago, hh1990 said:

 

Rise up this mornin'
Smile with the risin' sun
Three little birds
Pitched by my doorstep
Singin' sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true
Sayin', "This is my message to you, whoo-hoo"

 

Oh, yeah, every little thing gonna be all right!

[brokenclay]

1 hour ago, hh1990 said:

 

I loved this. Thank you for sharing. 

 

I had never heard of this poet, and now I have 2 of her books on hold at the library.

[hh1990]

 

 

From “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” by Dr. Suess

Every Who down in Whoville, the tall and the small,
Was singing! Without any presents at all!
He HADN'T stopped Christmas from coming! IT CAME!
Somehow or other, it came just the same!
And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow,
Stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so?"
"It came with out ribbons! It came without tags!"
"It came without packages, boxes or bags!"
And he puzzled three hours, till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before!
"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store."
"Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"

[inkstainedruth]

@ brokenclay -- Thanks for posting that poem.  I wasn't familiar with the author but now will be looking for more of her work (and the poem itself got copied and pasted into a file folder on my computer of poems and song lyrics that strike me.  

Ruth Morrisson aka inkstainedruth

[brokenclay]

 

A December Day

by Sara Teasdale

 

Dawn turned on her purple pillow,

And late, late came the winter day;

Snow was curved to the boughs of the willow,

The sunless world was white and grey.

 

At noon we heard a blue-jay scolding,

At five the last cold light was lost

From blackened windows faintly holding

The feathery filigree of frost.

[hh1990]

 

Invitation - Shel Silverstein

 

If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer . . .
If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire,
For we have some flax golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!