Woolly Mutts

Another Monday, another poem.

Happy Monday!  We have been blessed with frequent little snow storms this December, leaving the ground covered with beautiful white.  I won't mention the ice.  That part isn't so much fun and more is expected tomorrow.  Today we'll simply focus on snow.

Today's poem is actually a Christmas carol and one of my very favorites.  You can listen to the melody here.  The imagery of falling snow and safe slumber is an enchanting mix.

Still, Still, Still

Still, still, still,
One can hear the falling snow.
For all is hushed,
The world is sleeping,
Holy Star its vigil keeping.
Still, still, still,
One can hear the falling snow.

Sleep, sleep, sleep,
'Tis the eve of our Saviour's birth.
The night is peaceful all around you,
Close your eyes,
Let sleep surround you.
Sleep, sleep, sleep,
'Tis the eve of our Saviour's birth.

Dream, dream, dream,
Of the joyous day to come.
While guardian angels without number,
Watch you as you sweetly slumber.
Dream, dream, dream,
Of the joyous day to come.

Yup, it's that day again.

Mondays do seem to come around pretty quickly don't they?  I can almost hear the collective, "not another poem" on the lips of many of you readers and if it's making you crazy, I apologize.  I think poetry, like music, has the ability to reach people on a deep, personal level.  It might be only a line or two, or even just how a few words work together, but epiphanies happen through the catalyst of poetry.  What I'm hoping is that one of these days I'll post a poem and someone is gonna read it and a little fire is going to be lit.  An "a ha" moment that will turn poetry from boring to something that might be interesting.  And I warn you, I'm not going to give up easily. (m-wah-huh-huh...cue maniacal laugh.) 

Today, a quote from Earl W. Count, of whom I know nothing about except that he had an eloquent way with words.  A holiday thought for my weaving friends.

Shall we liken Christmas to the web in a loom? There are many weavers, who work into the pattern the experience of their lives. When one generation goes, another comes to take up the weft where it has been dropped. The pattern changes as the mind changes,

yet never begins quite anew. At first, we are not sure that we discern the pattern, but at last we see that, unknown to the weavers themselves, Something has taken shape before our eyes, and that they have made something very beautiful, something which compels our understanding.

Something a little mystical.

Today something fanciful from an unknown author.

Winging Home

Somewhere near the forest floor

there is a tiny hidden door

Invisible to our human eyes

known only as the fairy flies.

Guarded by the woodland friends

near where the path of ages ends.

Surrounded by the trees of old

embracing secrets never told.

And in each window candle light

illuminates their home at night,

where soundless wings perform their best

to bring the fairies home to rest.

What wonder is this tiny place

where magic shines her lovely face,

that we might dare to let go free

the things that none but dreamers see.

A little Rilke and a movie.

Today, a little something written by Rainer Maria Rilke.  You may recall Rilke's "Letters to a Young Poet", which is often required reading in poetry or literature classes.  I've long been a fan of Rilke for the depth of his written emotion and his love of all things possible.  The image today is "Spellbound" by Daniel Merriam.

Love Song

By Rainer Maria Rilke

How can I keep my soul in me, so that

it doesn't touch your soul? 

How can I raise it high enough, past you, to other things?

I would like to shelter it, among remote

lost objects, in some dark and silent place

that doesn't resonate when your depths resound.

Yet everything that touches us, me and you,

takes us together like a violin's bow,

which draws one voice out of two seperate strings.

Upon what instrument are we two spanned?

And what musician holds us in his hand?

Oh sweetest song.

And while we are on the topic of music, Amazing Husband and I caught a sneak preview of August Rush this weekend.  You must see this film.  Really.....go.  Don't listen to the heartless people that say it is cheesy or trite.  It is beautiful and moving and I will see it again and again. The trailer is below.  (If I figured out how to insert the trailer.)

Except that it is Tuesday

Remember "Beauty and the Beast"?  Oh man, I had it bad for this show.  Every Friday night at 7:00 pm the world stopped for one hour while I got my fix of romance and poetry and Vincent.  Sigh.  He was my main man.  (Get it, MANE man? yuk, yuk) What I really loved best about this show was how it intertwined great literature and offered it in a way that opened the door to search for more.  Today's poem is one that Vincent called his own, and for good reason.  He had a lot to be bummed about, but one thing the guy could do well was keep his priorities straight.

Sonnet 29 gives me chills and makes me tear up every single time I read it.  It is possibly the most romantic thing Shakespeare every wrote.  (In my opinion.  Shakespeare has a little something for everyone.)  If you've tried to read Shakespeare in the past and struggled with the language, I suggest you give the Sonnets a try.  And, if you're ready to get really wild and crazy, read them aloud.  It makes the reading a little more personal.

So, with no further ado, Monday's poem on Tuesday.

Sonnet 29

William Shakespeare

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
   I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,
   And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
   Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
   With what I most enjoy contented least:
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
   Haply I think on thee,--and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
   From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
   That then I scorn to change my state with kings'.

An old favorite.

When You Are Old

by William

Butler

Yeats.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

I have loved this poem since the very first time I heard it read at a poetry reading when I was in high school.  "But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you..." , so beautiful and evocotive. I have a big weakness for the Irish romantics, but Yeats is my favorite.

*Listening to:  "After all These Years"  Anne Cochran - Visions of Love - Jim Brickman.  You can listen to sound bite here and read the lyrics here.  Always makes me think of Amazing Husband.  (xoxo sweetie)

Better late than....

Here it is 5:15 pm on Monday and I am just now getting around to posting the Monday poem.  I have spent a good amount of the day sitting in a waiting room while my mother had an echo and a nuclear stress test.  A great deal of hurry up and wait, but the room was nice and filled with interesting people.  This aging thing is tough in SO many ways and has made me spend a lot of time thinking of what my life will be like when I am older.  Must we follow the biologically set path or do we create our own?  I'm thinking it is a mixture of both.  I'm hoping it is a lot of the later.

So, because today I am short on time and low on energy I have taken down from the book shelf one of my favorite poetry books, "Good Poems for Hard Times", selected by Garrison Keillor (whom I completely adore) and opened it to a random page.  Every poem in the book is wonderful, but I got extra lucky with this one.

The Rules of Evidence

By Lee Robinson

What you want to say most

is inadmissible.

Say it anyway.

Say it again.

What they tell you is irrelevant

can’t be denied and will

eventually be heard.

Every question

is a leading question.

Ask it anyway, then expect

what you won’t get.

There is no such thing

as the original

so you’ll have to make do

with a reasonable facsimile.

The history of the world

is hearsay.  Hear it.

The whole truth

is unspeakable

and nothing but the truth

is a lie.

I swear this.

My oath is a kiss.

I swear

by everything

incredible.

Poetry Monday

The Red Wheelbarrow

William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

 

If you enjoy poetry I highly recommend a little book entitled, Love That Dog.  I can't tell you how much I love this book.  An award winning book, written for children by a wonderful author, it opens the world of poetry in way I have never experienced before.  It takes poetry down to it's most basic level and illuminates it in a way that will touch your heart.  It's a half hour read at most....what have you got to lose? 

*Top image by Ann Altman.