Poetry

A Poem & A Picture (Your Birdhouse)

/ Janna Hill / Leave a comment

And we’re off…

Did you hear the gun? It is officially National Poetry Month.

This pretty ditty is by a woman known only as Ariella, I suppose. No last name or links were provided. 😦

Enjoy your weekend off and keep the suggestions coming.

 

Sparrows Invade (1024x641)

I Used to Be Your Birdhouse

Poem by Ariella

I  used to be your birdhouse.
I could coax you out from your seat in the treetops
from behind the camouflaging greens
and watch you edge out shyly with the wind ruffling your blush feathers.
You’d cling to me when the spring showers started falling
and I could keep you safe and dry, I could always do that.
I’d be there to hear your youthful songs, and I’d whisper back in a language just we knew
and then I’d hug you goodbye and watch you step precariously from my perch,
flapping in the wind, unsure, unaccustomed.
and  I’d be there for you the next day and the next
because I thought you’d still need me.
I never thought I’d see you, the point of a flying V
soaring with your head held high,
not even glancing down at
my tired wooden walls
and faded empty perch.

Spirits of the Dead

/ Janna Hill / 2 Comments

Spirits of the Dead (aka Visits of the Dead)
Edgar Allan Poe, 1809 – 1849

EAPThy soul shall find itself alone
‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness — for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

EAP in chainsThe night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

The Thinker, Buddy & The Gossiping Reeboks.

/ Janna Hill / 1 Comment

Why I chose The Thinker for the final post of National Poetry Month.

A few months ago we acquired Buddy from a lovely family after our Blue Heeler was killed. His prior family said they couldn’t keep him (for a number of reasons), said they hadn’t even named him but I suspect they were fibbing; a little white lie to ease our grief.

Right away our family asked what we were going to name this little fellow. Without thinking (in my typical weird, off the cuff manner) I blurted out, “He told me his name is Patrick, but that we could call him Buddy.” The grand-kids believed me, excited that I could communicate with dogs. The children mumbled something about having me committed. I just smiled and thought, at least I don’t talk to shoes.

Weather casts a green hue (1280x1229)

The Thinker

by William Carlos Williams

My wife’s new pink slippers
have gay pom-poms.
There is not a spot or a stain
on their satin toes or their sides.
All night they lie together
under her bed’s edge.
Shivering I catch sight of them
and smile, in the morning.
Later I watch them
descending the stair,
hurrying through the doors
and round the table,
moving stiffly
with a shake of their gay pom-poms!
And I talk to them
in my secret mind
out of pure happiness.

We later found out that Buddy’s name was ‘Gus’. My husband couldn’t wait to share that bit of information.  I said something like, “Aww, I knew they sacrificed their sweet puppy out of pure kindness.” He of course really wanted to make the point that the dog had NOT told me his name was Patrick.  At that point I had to be honest…

“Hmm… Well, he didn’t really say his name was Patrick.” I admitted.

“I KNEW IT!” Husband gloated.

“What he actually said was that he was born Patrick Gustav, but he prefers to be called Buddy.”

The husband politely conceded and took Buddy out to find a new stick.

I was relieved that the issue had been settled once and for all until Buddy ran back in to tell me something; a disturbing bit of gossip actually. He said after the lights are out and the house is quiet that my Reeboks snicker and mock me, they laugh at the way I run!

The shoes, of course have the right to their opinion and I (of course) have the right to stomp around in altered footwear.

I find they fit much better minus the tongue. 😉

“The Thinker” was published in Williams’s book, Sour Grapes: a book of poems (The Four Seas Company, 1921).

Don’t let poetry die from neglect or sit gathering dust until next April.

May I suggest a nice anthology by HWA,

HWA Poetry Showcase Volume I

AND I Have 25 free promo codes from Audible for Pose Prose & Poems narrated by Linda Roper if anyone is interested.

A Poem & A Picture (Or Three)

/ Janna Hill / 2 Comments

Leaves Compared with Flowers

by Robert Frost

A tree’s leaves may be ever so good,
So may its bar, so may its wood;
But unless you put the right thing to its root
It never will show much flower or fruit.

But I may be one who does not care
Ever to have tree bloom or bear.
Leaves for smooth and bark for rough,
Leaves and bark may be tree enough.

Some giant trees have bloom so small
They might as well have none at all.
Late in life I have come on fern.
Now lichens are due to have their turn.

I bade men tell me which in brief,
Which is fairer, flower or leaf.
They did not have the wit to say,
Leaves by night and flowers by day.

Leaves and bar, leaves and bark,
To lean against and hear in the dark.
Petals I may have once pursued.
Leaves are all my darker mood.

April is National Poetry Month

The Unicorn Poem by Shel Silverstein

/ Janna Hill / 6 Comments

The Unicorn Poem by Shel Silverstein

A long time ago, when the earth was green
and there was more kinds of animals than you’ve ever seen,
and they run around free while the world was bein’ born,
and the lovliest of all was the Unicorn.

Water color by Tex Henson.

Water color by Tex Henson.

There was green alligators and long-neck geese.
There was humpy bumpy camels and chimpanzees.
There was catsandratsandelephants, but sure as you’re born the lovliest of all was the Unicorn

But the Lord seen some sinnin’, and it caused him pain.
He says, ‘Stand back, I’m gonna make it rain.’
He says, ‘Hey Brother Noah, I’ll tell ya whatcha do.
Go and build me a floatin’ zoo.

And you take two alligators and a couple of geese,
two humpy bumpy camels and two chimpanzees.
Take two catsandratsandelephants, but sure as you’re born,
Noah, don’t you forget my Unicorn.’

Now Noah was there, he answered the callin’
and he finished up the ark just as the rain was fallin’.
He marched in the animals two by two,
and he called out as they went through,

‘Hey Lord, I got your two alligators and your couple of geese,
your humpy bumpy camels and your chimpanzees.
Got your catsandratsandelephants – but Lord, I’m so forlorn
’cause I just don’t see no Unicorn.’

Ol’ Noah looked out through the drivin’ rain
but the Unicorns were hidin’, playin’ silly games.
They were kickin’ and splashin’ in the misty morn,
oh them silly Unicorn.

The the goat started goatin’, and the snake started snakin’,
the elephant started elephantin’, and the boat started shaking’.
The mouse started squeakin’, and the lion started roarin’,
and everyone’s abourd but the Unicorn.

I mean the green alligators and the long-neck geese,
the humpy bumpy camels and the chimpanzees.
Noah cried, ‘Close the door ’cause the rain is pourin’ –
and we just can’t wait for them Unicorn.’

Then the ark started movin’, and it drifted with the tide,
and the Unicorns looked up from the rock and cried.
And the water come up and sort of floated them away –
that’s why you’ve never seen a Unicorn to this day.

You’ll see a lot of alligators and a whole mess of geese.
You’ll see humpy bumpy camels and lots of chimpanzees.
You’ll see catsandratsandelephants, but sure as you’re born
you’re never gonna see no Unicorn

**April is National Poetry Month

The Voices of Our Future

/ Janna Hill / 1 Comment

Inside the Inaugural Teen Poetry Awards

This was the first Teen Poetry Contest hosted by Forney Arts Council.  I attended the awards held at Crumbzz European Bistro and I must say it was fabulous darling. So was the crumb cake.

The judges (those present) chatted and then each had a turn at the mic. I read The Essence of a Poet – or at least I think I did. Alan Birkelbach (2005 Texas Poet Laureate) read a random piece from his satchel and Neil Melillo (English Literature AP) gave a light speech to comfort/encourage the contestants.

The awards were presented by Tiffany Wyndham (Event Planner and Emcee extraordinaire) prior to the readings.

Alan Birkelbach
Alan Birkelbach

I listened as each budding poet recited their lines of thought and somewhere between the cracks and bravado it occurred to me once more, these are the voices of our future.

A Greek-less Tragedy (Ted Hughes)

/ Janna Hill / 4 Comments

We did it! We celebrated nearly every day in April with a poem. Let’s reach around and give ourselves a nice pat on the back.

The celebration for me wouldn’t be complete without inviting the husband to participate. Of course I wanted to pick up where we left off last year in the aftermath of Plath. We discussed Plath and the children but we never talked about the husband and father, Ted Hughes.

Before discussing the man’s poetry we had to discuss the man. teddy

In a Nutshell

Edward James Hughes was born August 17, 1930 and was affectionately referred to as Ted. He served in the Royal Air Force for two years as a ground wireless mechanic. He attended Pembroke College on an academic scholarship and studied Anthropology, Archaeology, Mythology and published a few poems while he was at it.
After graduating from Cambridge he co-founded a literary magazine. It was at the magazine’s launch party that he met Sylvia Plath. A few short months later they were married.

The couple returned to England in 1959 and their first child Freida was born the following year. Nicholas was born two years later in 1962.

In 1962 Hughes left Plath for a woman named Assia Gutmann Wevill. In 1963 (less than a year later) Plath committed suicide.assia and shura

In March 1965 Assia gave birth to a daughter nicknamed Shura.

She reportedly aborted her first pregnancy by Hughes after the death of Sylvia Plath.

In March 1969 Assia Wevill gassed herself but [unlike Plath] she took the child with her.

In 1970 Hughes married Carol Orchard whom he remained with until his death in 1998.

He was appointed Poet Laureate of England in 1984 and held the post until he passed away on October 28, 1998 in Devonshire, England, from cancer.

Let’s Discuss…

“So what do you think about that?” I asked and waited with anticipation. I don’t know what I was expecting as I watched him tip his head with one eyebrow cocked but his response caught me off guard.

“All I can say is poor bastard.”

“We partially agree but why on earth would you pity him?” I sincerely tried not to show my annoyance but after 30 years of marriage that is pretty much impossible.

“Who do you want me to feel sorry for?” he laughed, “You expected me to feel sorry for the women didn’t you?”

“We don’t have to feel sorry for any of them.” I’m sure I was blushing as it occurred to me he knew what I was thinking before I did.

“So he was with the last wife for nearly thirty years – was she a poet?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well there you go. That’s probably why they were able to stay married. That or he kept her away from gas stoves.”

“Is that all you have to offer on the life of Ted Hughes?”

“At least he wasn’t around to know his son hanged himself. Other than that, yep, that’s all I’ve got. Let me get a beer and we’ll discuss his poem.”

Full Moon and Little Frieda

By Ted Hughes

A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket –
And you listening.
A spider’s web, tense for the dew’s touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming – mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.

Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath –
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
‘Moon!’ you cry suddenly, ‘Moon! Moon!’

The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.

Let’s Discuss More…

“Well…?”

“According to the title I assume that was for his daughter.”

“I think that is safe to assume. So what is your interpretation of the poem?”

“Skunks, dogs, spiders and cows… it sounds like the man had been outside a time or two.”

“I’m sure at least twice.”

“But what is this thing with him and Plath about blood or bleeding and milk and moons?”

“They’re natural themes I suppose with blood and milk being the basic sustenance of life. What’s your take on it?”

“My take is basically I need another beer.”

“Okay. Give me a closing thought and I’ll leave you alone until next April.”

“Hmmm.” He thought for a moment, “It’s just another Greek-less tragedy.”

_   _   _

I suppose I will have to wait until next year to ask him the heck that means.

Books by me, myself & I

 

 

Little Man

/ Janna Hill / 11 Comments

Taps is played on the bugle in the winter snow at Arlington National Cemetery

It’s time to go to bed little man
Cover up your head little man
I’ll see you when the sun breaks in the morn

Say your prayers and close your eyes
I’ve locked the monsters all outside
She’d sang those words to him since he was born

He grew to be a brave young lad
And followed after his ole dad
Beneath a flag of pride his oath was sworn

They brought him home in silk lined wood
And all around him soldiers stood
While Butterfield’s Lullaby played on the horn

It’s time to go ahead little man
I know that you weren’t scared little man
My heart breaks I can’t see you and I mourn

I’ve said my prayers for your closed eyes
I’ve tucked my feelings deep inside
She sang into a folded flag of thorns

From Janna Hill’s “Interior Verse”