Author: Janna Hill

It’s Okay to Die Poor (But Who the Heck Was Milton?)

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Don’t you just love an ancient oracle with history and mystery served up in rhyming little stanzas?

Say, “Yes Janna. Indeed I do love such wonderful things.”

Thank you. Now say “Yay NPM!!” and let’s get started.

The following is an excerpt from William Blake’s epic poem titled Milton. I like Blake for several reasons. The main two being that he was a nonconformist and that he believed poetry could be understood by common people.

Allow me to share his sentiment right quick.

Listen up folks!

Poetry can be understood [and enjoyed] by common people!!!

Those are also [probably] the main two reasons he died poor. But you know what? It’s okay to die poor; I’m sure I will. After all a casket can only hold so much. Me and ole Billy can agree on that but who the heck was Milton?

 Martindale Lake District Cumbria England Free Images

Jerusalem

by William Blake

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Now off to find out more about this John Milton character…

 

One Is Never Enough

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I was recently introduced to this lovely poem written by “the people’s poet” with a question attached, “If you could ask Robert Service one question what would it be?”

Fisherfolk

By Robert William Service (January 16, 1874 – September 11, 1958)

 

I like to look at fishermen
And often times I wish
One would be lucky now and then
And catch a little fish.
I watch them statuesquely stand,
And at the water look;
But if they pull their float to land
It’s just to bait a hook.

I ponder the psychology
That roots them in their place;
And wonder at the calm I see
In ever angler’s face.
There is such patience in their eyes,
Beside the river’s brink;
And waiting for a bite or rise
I do not think they think.

Or else they are just gentle men,
Who love–they know not why,
Greeen grace of trees or water when
It wimples to the sky . . .
Sweet simple souls! As vain I watch
My heart to you is kind:
Most precious prize of all you catch,
–Just Peace of Mind.

 

 

My answer, “Is greeen really spelled with three e’s?”  (Apparently yes. You can see for yourself here, here and here.) And then I would insist he tell me about his most inspiring travels. One question is never enough.

 

An Affair of the Heart

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This photo is fresh from the holiday so how about a Rudyard to go with it?

I realize we have already looked at Kipling but I sort of have a crush on him right now. It’s just a spring fling sort of thing that [I hope] will soon pass.

Surely when April is gone I’ll forget him. Until then I only need to remind myself that I am married and he is dead. This will have to be an affair of the heart. I just hope he understands.

Sooo. Back to NPM.
You don’t have to be a dog lover to appreciate this but if you are a dog lover… well just read the darn poem.

 

 

The Power of the Dog

by Rudyard Kipling

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie–
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find–it’s your own affair–
But … you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!).
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone–wherever it goes–for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long–
So why in–Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

 

 

A Poem & A Picture (Day 5)

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Woot- woot. We made it !!
In honor of this accomplishment all attendees will receive a freeze-dried ham. Moi.

 

This House

This house creaks, it rattles and squeaks
It rumbles and grumbles and sometimes it shrieks
But through it all it never speaks
… Or maybe we’re just not listening

There’s blood on the walls, tears in the halls
Bruises on carpet from too many falls
You cannot see it with naked eyeballs
… Or maybe we’re just not looking

 

Janna Hill Pose Prose & Poems(My Thoughts Exactly) 1998

 

 

 

A Poem & A Picture (Day 4)

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I happened up on this gem at TLS. If you have a moment to read their gentle dissection you’ll be glad you did. You’ll also be glad I spared you the [colorful] picture that inspired Once Upon A Dead Gull. 😉

The Seagull

By Stanley Moss

When I was a child, before I knew the word
for a snowstorm, before I remember
a tree or a field,
I saw an endless grey slate afternoon coming,
I knew a bird singing in the sun
was the same as a dog barking in the dark.
A pigeon in a blizzard fluttered
against a kitchen window,
– my first clear memory of terror,
I kept secret, my intimations
I kept secret.
This winter I hung a grey and white stuffed
felt seagull from the cord of my window shade,
a reminder of good times by the sea,
of Chekhov and impossible love.
I took comfort from the gull, the graceful shape
sometimes lifted a wing in the drafty room.
Once when I looked at the gull I saw
through the window a living seagull glide
toward me then disappear, – what a rush of life!
I remember its hereness,
while inside the room
the senseless symbol
little more than a bedroom slipper
dangled on a string.
Beyond argument, my oldest emotion
hangs like a gull in the distant sky.
Eyes behind bars of mud and salt
see some dark thing below,
– my roof under the sea.
Only the sky is taken for granted.

A Poem & A Picture (Day 3)

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Caterpillars

By Brod Bagert

They came like dewdrops overnight
Eating every plant in sight,
Those nasty worms with legs that crawl
So creepy up the garden wall,
Green prickly fuzz to hurt and sting
Each unsuspecting living thing.
How I hate them! Oh, you know
I’d love to squish them with my toe.
But then I see past their disguise,
Someday they’ll all be butterflies.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Okay I know this caterpillar will turn into a  moth. A Polyphemus moth to be exact but shhh she thinks she’s a butterfly.

A Poem & A Picture (Day 2)

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Black Balloon

Baby’s black balloon makes her fly
I almost fell into that hole in your life
And you’re not thinking about tomorrow
’cause you were the same as me
But on your knees

A thousand other boys could never reach you
How could I have been the one
I saw the world spin beneath you
And scatter like ice from the spoon
That was your womb

Comin’ down the world turned over
And angels fall without you there
And I go on as you get colder
Or are you someone’s prayer

You know the lies they always told you
And the love you never knew
What’s the things they never showed you
That swallowed the light from the sun
Inside your room

Comin’ down the world turned over
And angels fall without you there
And I go on as you get colder
Or are you someone’s prayer

And there’s no time left for losin’
When you stand they fall

Comin’ down the world turned over
And angels fall without you there
And I go on as you get colder

All because I’m
Comin’ down the years turn over
And angels fall without you there
And I’ll go and lead you home and
All because I’m
All because I’m
And I’ll become
What you became to me.

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How many of you knew those were actually the lyrics to Black Balloon by the Goo Goo Dolls? I found it on poemhunter but you can Goo Goo Google it if you want. 😉

Why did I choose ‘lyrics’ for National Poetry Month (other than they coincide with my random photo collection)? Because I believe “a lyric that can stand alone is poetry.”

Watch the video on youtube.

 

A Poem & A Picture (Day 1)

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Hold your horses you little whipper-snappers. We’re not done yet.

It is still National Poetry Month and we are going to see this thing through!  I know some of you don’t really love poetry and there are others who think it’s too far over their head. That’s cool.  It may be wrong but it can still be cool. Then (you see me shaking my finger at you because you know who you are) there are a few of you who just want to play hooky and hang out in smoke filled bars until the end of April.  Well if that’s your attitude you can just order me a pomegranate martini by gosh!

This week we’re gonna mix it up a little. Not the drinks silly. For the next five days [if the good lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise] I’m going to pick a photo I’ve taken and find a poem to go with it. Oh this is going to be sooo fun!

 

I wonder if words can breathe life into a photograph? If so does it make the picture worth more than a thousand words? Let’s see.

Iris

by David St. John
There is a train inside this iris:
You think I’m crazy, & like to say boyish
& outrageous things. No, there is
A train inside this iris.
It’s a child’s finger bearded in black banners.
A single window like a child’s nail,
A darkened porthole lit by the white, angular face
Of an old woman, or perhaps the boy beside her in the stuffy,
Hot compartment. Her hair is silver, & sweeps
Back off her forehead, onto her cold and bruised shoulders.
The prairies fail along Chicago. Past the five
Lakes. Into the black woods of her New York; & as I bend
Close above the iris, I see the train
Drive deep into the damp heart of its stem, & the gravel
Of the garden path
Cracks under my feet as I walk this long corridor
Of elms, arched
Like the ceiling of a French railway pier where a boy
With pale curls holding
A fresh iris is waving goodbye to a grandmother, gazing
A long time
Into the flower, as if he were looking some great

Distance, or down an empty garden path & he believes a man
Is walking toward him, working
Dull shears in one hand; & now believe me: The train
Is gone. The old woman is dead, & the boy. The iris curls,
On its stalk, in the shade
Of those elms: Where something like the icy & bitter fragrance
In the wake of a woman who’s just swept past you on her way
Home
& you remain.