A Light Exists in Springs by Emily Dickinson A Light exists in Spring Not present on the Year At any other period — When March is scarcely here A Color stands abroad On Solitary Fields That Science cannot overtake But Human Nature feels. It waits upon the Lawn, It shows the furthest Tree Upon the furthest Slope you know It almost speaks to you. Then as Horizons step Or Noons report away Without the Formula of sound It passes and we stay — A quality of loss Affecting our Content As Trade had suddenly encroached Upon a Sacrament.
Evening Poetry, March 19
Time is Doing Something To Us
by Annie Lighthart
Time is doing something to us so gradually and softly we don't notice for years, and then the work is done-- we are older. A craftsman who works this slowly is a master, and it seems unwise to challenge that art. Then what? Then feel the morning air. Walk out at night as if into the sky. It is just a little while after all. The tree you are under will tell you it moved into time and grew deeper. We too can do this. The master leaves a mystery that breaks out once in leaf, once in clarifying fire. You can find this in Pax.
Evening Poetry, March 18
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Compassion by Miller Williams Have compassion for everyone you meet even if they don't want it. What seems conceit, bad manners or cynicism is always a sign of things no ears have heard, no eyes have seen. You do not know what wars are going on down there where the spirit meets the bone. You can find this poem in Healing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection.
Evening Poetry, March 17
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St. Patrick’s Day
By Jean Blewett
There’s an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea,
Here’s to the Saint that blessed it!
And here’s to the billows wild and free
That for centuries have caressed it!
Here’s to the day when the men that roam
Send longing eyes o’er the water!
Here’s to the land that still spells home
To each loyal son and daughter!
Here’s to old Ireland—fair, I ween,
With the blue skies stretched above her!
Here’s to her shamrock warm and green,
And here’s to the hearts that love her!
You can find this poem in Jean Blewett's Poems.
Evening Poetry, March 16
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Song
by James Joyce
My love is in a light attire
Among the apple trees,
Where the gay winds do most desire
To run in companies.
There, where the gay winds stay to woo
The young leaves as they pass,
My love goes slowly, bending to
Her shadow on the grass.
And where the sky’s a pale blue cup
Over the laughing land,
My love goes lightly, holding up
Her dress with dainty hand.
You can read this poem in James Joyce-Collected Poems.
Evening Poetry, March 15
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To A Child Dancing in the Wind by W.B. Yeats Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water’s roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool’s triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind. What need have you to dread The monstrous crying of wind? You can find this poem in The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats.
Evening Poetry, March 14
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It’s Pi Day, so I found a poem about pie 🙂
Perfect for Any Occasion by Alberto Ríos Pies have a reputation. And it’s immediate—no talk of potential Regarding a pie. It’s good Or it isn’t, but mostly it is—sweet, very sweet Right then, right there, blue and red. It can’t go to junior college, Work hard for the grades, Work two jobs on the side. It can’t slowly build a reputation And a growing client base. A pie gets one chance And knows it, wearing as makeup Those sparkling granules of sugar, As a collar those diamond cutouts Bespeaking Fair Day, felicity, contentment. I tell you everything is great, says a pie, Great, and fun, and fine. And you smell nice, too, someone says. A full pound of round sound, all ahh, all good. Pies live a life of applause. 2. But then there are the other pies. The leftover pies. The ones Nobody chooses at Thanksgiving. Mincemeat? What the hell is that? people ask, Pointing instead at a double helping of Mr. “I-can-do-no-wrong” pecan pie. But the unchosen pies have a long history, too. They have plenty of good stories, places they’ve been— They were once fun, too— But nobody wants to listen to them anymore. Oh sure, everybody used to love lard, But things have changed, brother—things have changed. That’s never the end of the story, of course. Some pies make a break for it— Live underground for a while, Doing what they can, talking fast, Trying to be sweet pizzas, if they’re lucky. But no good comes of it. Nobody is fooled. A pie is a pie for one great day. Last week, It was Jell-O. Tomorrow, it’ll be cake. You can find this poem in The Dangerous Shirt.
Evening Poetry, March 13
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An Old Woman of the Roads by Padraic Calum O, to have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and all! The heaped up sods against the fire, The pile of turf against the wall! To have a clock with weights and chains And pendulum swinging up and down! A dresser filled with shining delph, Speckled and white and blue and brown! I could be busy all the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, And fixing on their shelf again My white and blue and speckled store! I could be quiet there at night Beside the fire and by myself, Sure of a bed and loth to leave The ticking clock and the shining delph! Och! but I’m weary of mist and dark, And roads where there’s never a house nor bush, And tired I am of bog and road, And the crying wind and the lonesome hush! And I am praying to God on high, And I am praying Him night and day, For a little house – a house of my own Out of the wind’s and the rain’s way. You can find this poem in Selected Poems of Padraic Colum.
Evening Poetry, March 12
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March by Emily Dickinson We like March, his shoes are purple, He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder’s tongue his coming, And begets her spot. Stands the sun so close and mighty That our minds are hot. News is he of all the others; Bold it were to die With the blue-birds buccaneering On his British sky. You can find this poem in The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson.
Evening Poetry, March 11
Plastic: A Personal History
by Elizabeth Bradfield
How can I find a way to praise
it? Do the early inventors & embracers
churn with regret? I don’t think my parents
—born in the swing toward ubiquity—chew
& chew & chew on plastic. But of course they
do. Bits in water, food-flesh, air.
And their parents? I remember Dad
mocking his mother’s drawer of saved
rubber bands and his father-in-law’s red,
corroded jerry can, patched and patched,
never replaced for new, for never-
rusting.
Cash or plastic? Plastic. Even
for gum. We hate the $5 minimum.
Bills paperless, automatic, almost
unreal.
My toys were plastic, castle
and circus train and yo-yo. Did my lunches
ever get wrapped in waxed paper or
was it all Saran, Saran, Saran?
Sarah’s mom
was given, in Girl Scouts, a blue sheet
of plastic to cut, sew, and trim with white piping
into pouches for camping. Sarah has it still,
brittle but useful. Merit badge for waterproofing.
For everlasting.
You, too, must have heard stories,
now quaint as carriages, of first plastic, pre-plastic.
Eras of glass, waxed cloth, and tin.
Of shared syringes.
All our grocery bags, growing up,
were paper. Bottom hefted on forearm, top
crunched into grab. We used them
to line the kitchen garbage pail.
Not that long
ago, maybe a decade, I made purses for my sisters
out of putty-colored, red-lettered plastic Safeway
bags. I’d snag a stack each time I went, then fold
and sew, quilt with bright thread, line with thrift store
blouses. They were sturdy and beautiful. Rainproof
and light. Clever. So clever.
I regret them.
And the plastic toothpicks, folders, shoes that seemed
so cheap, so easy, so use-again and thus
less wasteful, then. What did we do before
to-go lids? Things must have just spilled
and spilled.
Do you know
what I mean? I mean, what pearl forms
around a grain of plastic in an oyster?
Is it as beautiful? Would you wear it?
Would you buy it for your daughter
so she in turn could pass it down and
pass it down and pass it down?
Find this poem at poetryfoundation.org
Life of Kim 