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Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,

Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,

Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between

Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.

 

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration

Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze

Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,

Faces of people streaming across my gaze.

 

And I, what fountain of fire am I among

This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed

About like a shadow buffeted in the throng

Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.

 

                                                                ~ D. H. Lawrence

 

“Spring in Gościeradz” by Leon Wyczółkowski, 1933

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Blizzard

Snow:

years of anger following

hours that float idly down –

the blizzard

drifts its weight

deeper and deeper for three days

or sixty years, eh? Then

the sun! a clutter of

yellow and blue flakes –

Hairy looking trees stand out

in long alleys

over a wild solitude.

The man turns and there –

his solitary track stretched out

upon the world.

 

~ William Carlos Williams

 

Posted with warm thoughts to all my friends and colleagues on the East Coast.

 

Richard Dorrell, courtesy of the Creative Commons Attribution license

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End of Winter

Over the still world, a bird calls

waking solitary among black boughs.

 

You wanted to be born; I let you be born.

When has my grief ever gotten

in the way of your pleasure?

 

Plunging ahead

into the dark and light at the same time

eager for sensation

 

as though you were some new thing, wanting

to express yourselves

 

all brilliance, all vivacity

 

never thinking

this would cost you anything,

never imagining the sound of my voice

as anything but part of you—

 

you won’t hear it in the other world,

not clearly again,

not in birdcall or human cry,

 

not the clear sound, only

persistent echoing

in all sound that means good-bye, good-bye—

 

the one continuous line

that binds us to each other.

 

                            ~ Louise Glück

 

Simon Glücklich Frühlingslied (1863-1943)

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March

The stormy March has come at last,

With winds and clouds and changing skies;

I hear the rushing of the blast

That through the snowy valley flies.

 

~ William Cullen Bryant

 

"Snowy Landscape" by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1870-1875

“Snowy Landscape” by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1870-1875

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Pain—has an Element of Blank—

It cannot recollect

When it begun—Or if there were

A time when it was not—

 

It has no Future—but itself—

It’s Infinite contain

It’s Past—enlightened to perceive

New Periods—Of Pain.

 

~ Emily Dickinson

 

Marcel Rieder (1862-1942)

Marcel Rieder (1862-1942)

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Art

In placid hours well-pleased we dream

Of many a brave unbodied scheme.

But form to lend, pulsed life create,

What unlike things must meet and mate:

A flame to melt—a wind to freeze;

Sad patience—joyous energies;

Humility—yet pride and scorn;

Instinct and study; love and hate;

Audacity—reverence. These must mate,

And fuse with Jacob’s mystic heart,

To wrestle with the angel—Art.

 

           ~ Herman Melville

 

"Jacob Wrestling with the Angel" by Eugène Delacroix, between 1854 and 1861

“Jacob Wrestling with the Angel” by Eugène Delacroix, between 1854 and 1861

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It’s a motley lot.  A few still stand

at attention like sentries at the ends

of their driveways, but more lean

askance as if they’d just received a blow

to the head, and in fact they’ve received

many, all winter, from jets of wet snow

shooting off the curved, tapered blade

of the plow.  Some look wobbly, cocked

at oddball angles or slumping forlornly

on precariously listing posts.  One box

bows steeply forward, as if in disgrace, its door

lolling sideways, unhinged.  Others are dented,

battered, streaked with rust, bandaged in duct tape,

crisscrossed with clothesline or bungee cords.

A few lie abashed in remnants of the very snow

that knocked them from their perches.

Another is wedged in the crook of a tree

like a birdhouse, its post shattered nearby.

I almost feel sorry for them, worn out

by the long winter, off-kilter, not knowing

what hit them, trying to hold themselves

together, as they wait for news from spring.

 

                               ~ Jeffrey Harrison

 

Scottius 11

Scottius 11

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