How Can It Be? Birthday 43

This year that I turned forty 3

I think I feel now much more free

The threshold of forty was just so great

enriching my life, to so much

I could relate

But adding 3, has further added color to my tapestry

Looking forward to many more years

colors and hues to life's veneers 

yet to darn

there will be no tears

~ Nalini Jyotsana Chaturvedi

via Poem Hunter

We just realised it's Friday the 13th. Remember: hiding in a duvet and reading books is a safe place. Nothing will hurt you there.
— Orion Publishing (@orionbooks) February 13, 2015

Maybe I will skip plans today, realizing the temperature is in the single digits, order in birthday cake, &; just stay under duvet - reading.
— AuntieNettie'sAttic (@NettiesAttic) February 13, 2015

And that's pretty much what I did - except for the cake.
Cake came later.

Photo of the Day: Illuminating Island in the Sand

Cape Cod Beach, October 2013

A Tiny Grain of Sand

By Pearl Sturgis

I'm just a tiny grain of sand
upon the beach of life.
It's hard for me to understand
my part in peace or strife.

What service could I render
contributing my all?
How could I help or hinder,
for I am just so small?

Full poem can be found here.

Retroblogging: Favorite Childhood Poem about a Horse

After all this "poetry" from my childhood, we need a palate cleanser. I know I've mentioned a few times that I was horse crazy as a kid, but I was so horse crazy that I also collected equine-themed poetry and people created computer graphic equine art. (Look, it was the 1980s ... computer graphics and printers were limited to DOS programs and dot-matrix printers. Cut us a break!)

It was hard to keep dibs on this poem. Long narrative epic poems aren't always in fashion and I couldn't always find it in anthologies. I have a version I transcribed in pencil, the copy seen above typed into an early version of a word-processing document on the computer, and now this one - all saved for posterity.

The Arab to his Favorite Steed
By Caroline Norton

My Beautiful! My beautiful that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,
Fret not to roam the desert, with all thy winged speed;
I may not mount on thee again, - thou’rt sold, my Arab steed,
Fret not with impatient hooves – snuff not the breezy wind
The farther that thy fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein-thy master hath his gold,
Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell; thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold.

Farewell! Those free untried limbs full mile must roam.
To reach the chill and wintry sky which cloud the stranger’s home
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare,
The silky mane, I braided once must be another’s care!
The morning’s sun shall down again, but never again with thee,
Shall I gallop through the desert path; where we wont to be;
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o’er the sandy plain,
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! The wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master’s house-from all of these my exiled one must fly,
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet.
And vainly shall thou arch thy neck, thy master’s hand to meet,
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright,
Only in sleep shall I hear thy step so firm and light.
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I, starting wake to feel, thou’rt sold my Arab steed,
Ah, rudely, then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide.
‘Til form-wreathes lie, like crested waves along thy panting side;
And the rich-blood that's in thee swells in thy indignant pain,
‘Til careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein
Will they ill-use thee, If I thought-but no, it can not be.
Thou art so swift, yet easily curbed, so gentle, yet so free.
And yet, if hap’ly, when thou’rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,
Can the hand which casts thee from it, now command thee to return.

Return! Alas! My Arab steed, what shall thy master do,
When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance cheats thy eye, and though the gathering tears,
Thy bright form, for a moment, like eye false mirage appears;
Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone,
Where, with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on,
And sitting down by that green well, I’ll pause and sadly think,
It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink,

When last I saw thee drink! – Away!- The fevered dream is o’er –
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!
They tempted thee, my beautiful, for hunger’s powers strong,
Who said I have given thee up? Who said that thou wast sold?
‘Tis false! – ‘Tis false my Arab steed, I fling them back their gold,
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scout the distant plain,
Away, who over takes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

Retroblogging: Dubious Childhood Poetry III

Just when you thought it was bad before --- just wait ... and there's a bonus haiku! What really makes it, and you won't see it because I'm not posting a photo -- is that these are all written in turquoise ink -- and I got A+s for them ... Really? I didn't get comments like oh, "trite," "give it up," and "stop writing, for the Bard's sake!"

Friend

Friend, is all he thinks I am,
But, I think of him, more,

We've only known each other for a year,
But, boy, does it seem more.

I've seen him in all my classes,
Spanish, math, and more

Friend is all he thinks of me,
But, of him, I think of, more.

Rain

Rain, pouring down,
Upon the thirsty ground
Which drinks it up,
And make the flowers jump.

Why

Why do you like me?
Please tell me why,
If you don't I fear that I
will die.

You try to show you like me
And I still do not know why
And people look at me like,
"Do you like that guy?"

You seem to say you like me.
Please tell me
Why?

Haiku

Horses, red, brown, bay
black, white, dun, dapple, and grey
I love all horses.

Retroblogging: Dubious Childhood Poetry II

Ah, middle school ... The onset of adolescent angst, relationship roller-coasters, and pre-teen passions. Oh, woe was me.

Life

Life ain't bin no crystal stair,
That I'll admit.
Brothers
parents
moves
even friends.
Times when
I
don't think I'll make
it another day.
but
when I get up the next morning,
I think,
It ain't that bad at all.

Retroblogging: Dubious Childhood Poetry I

More entries from the "lost" archives of my youth. Not only did I think I could be an artist, but apparently, I thought I was a poet; though no good, and I just didn't know it.

I call these the Roses are Red series. I cannot claim that they are any good at all. In fact, they are pretty awful. Sadly, later odes don't get any better. Enjoy? (Don't say I didn't warn you...)

Poems c. December 1982

Roses are Red

1.
Roses are red.
Tree bark is brown
I just got slapped
For an improper noun.

2.
Roses are red
Pansies are purple
Drink too much pop
And you're liable to burble.

3.
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
The chef caught his toe
And fell in the stew.

National Poetry Month: The Highwayman

Any girl of a certain age who loved reading the Anne of Green Gables series by L.M. Montgomery also loved the Kevin Sullivan productions of the films based on those novels.

This poem was excerpted for the production and was the "gateway" through which many new narrative poem lovers were introduced to this epic poem by Albert Noyes.

(Purists, please note: I know the second to last line of each stanza should be indented. I just can't get it to format on this post!)

The Highwayman

Part One

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler, listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter:
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand;
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Part Two

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead;
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest:
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years;
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her Love's refrain.

Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned; he spurred him Westward; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her Love in the moonlight; and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

~Alfred Noyes

Pgs 96-100
Story Poems: An Anthology of Narrative Verse selected and edited by Louis Untermeyer, Washington Square Press, New York 1961

Excerpts as used in the Sullivan film Anne of Green Gables, as performed by Megan Follows.

If you can't see it, click here or cut and paste this into your browser: http://youtu.be/wcAzEea4j-w

It's also been put to music by Loreena McKennitt.

If you can't load the video, click here, or cut and paste this into your browser: http://youtu.be/teq2m0BN-Wo

Now, I bet you can't get this out of your head for the rest of the day!

National Poetry Month: Old Ironsides

What kind of New Englander would I be, if I didn't preserve this one for my little Red Sox nieces and nephews? I've been on this warship, and a majestic reminder of our nautical past she is indeed.

The "Constitution" was a small warship (technically a frigate) that had fought so well and so often in the War of 1812 that it had been nicknamed "Old Ironsides." In 1830 the Secretary of the Navy considered she had outlived her usefulness, and recommended that the vessel be disposed of or demolished. When he heard of this, Oliver Wendell Homes, the New England poet, editor, and essayist, wrote a sad and ironic poem about the old "eagle of the sea." The poem was reprinted everywhere, and there was so much public resentment that "Old Ironsides" was saved from "the harpies of the shore," those who would have profited from its destruction. Instead of being sold or broken up, "Old Ironsides" was rebuilt and remained afloat, a symbol of glorious achievement.

Old Ironsides
September 14, 1830

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long hast it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it run the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar--
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee--
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!

~ Oliver Wendell Holmes

pgs. 219-221
Story Poems: An Anthology of Narrative Verse selected and edited by Louis Untermeyer, Washington Square Press, New York 1961

National Poetry Month: The Necklace

The Necklace

Take, from my palms, for joy, for ease,
A little honey, a little sun,
That we may obey Persephone's bees.

You can't untie a boat unmoored.
Fur-shod shadows can't be heard,
Nor terror, in this life, mastered.

Love, what's left for us, and of us, is this
Living remnant, loving revenant, brief kiss
Like a bee flying completed dying hiveless

To find in the forest's heart a home,
Night's never-ending hum,
Thriving on meadowsweet, mint, and time.
Take, for all that's good, for all that is gone,
That it may lie rough and real against your collarbone,
This string of bees, that once turned honey into sun.

(November 1920)

Stolen Air: The Selected Poems of Osip Mandlestam, translated by Christian Wiman (Ecco, $15.99 trade paper, 9780062099426, March 27, 2012)

National Poetry Month: Reading Itself Might Be a Ritual

Reading Itself Might Be a Ritual

Tall-backed chair by the fire
in the sun-room, plants lining the sunny side
two dogs asleep
warming feet,
tea to my right--
unless it is a very small glass
of deep red wine--
and bowl of
nuts or
crackers
or piece of dark chocolate
raisins and figs
apple slices,
not all and not too much.

Or the rocker in the living room
feet up on the stool covered with a
unicorn needlepointed by
my mother while my father
was in World War
Two--it still serves well these
many wars later--tea still
to my right--unless it is the wine--
with bowl of nuts,
or fruit, or crackers,
or that piece of dark chocolate,
unless I am lucky and have a
marzipan confection.

~ Alice Sather for Shelf Awareness newsletter