national poetry month

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

/ Janna Hill / 1 Comment

 

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

/ Janna Hill / Leave a comment

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

/ Janna Hill / 4 Comments

DSC_0045 (1024x620)
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 2)

/ Janna Hill / 2 Comments

 

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.

________________________________________________________________________________

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.

M-O-O-N (That Spells Dun)

/ Janna Hill / 7 Comments

Well this wraps up my week of future poets.

Yep, M-O-O-N that spells dun.

I’ve probably read close to 100 poems trying to find just the right one to end my Not Yet Notorious week of poetry.

I wanted something (I liked) to reflect the unsung working class by a humble individual who wasn’t tooting their own horn.

Don’t get me wrong, we must all toot every now and again. Oops, I just did. Excuse me.

I crammed in so many units and stanzas it all started running together like Scary Movie 3 so I took a break and looked at photographs like the one that I stole you see here.

Sue's Swans

Sue’s Swans

In case you didn’t know photography is a hobby that helps me to ‘not think’. There are a lot of attention-seeking characters living in my head. No, really! Sometimes I show them a pretty picture so they’ll shut up.

Photography is my yang to the yin of self-help.

So… I was scrolling along and low and behold it was one of those I never knew that or maybe I did and just forgot moments. That happens. Anyway there it was. Monday Morning Hike right there under my nose.
Did you know the anatomical position of the eyes prevents us from being able to see those things that are right under our nose? That’s my excuse. That’s also why I try to inform every self-confident male that he has a partially dried glob of mucus dangling from his moustache. I can’t believe they fall for it – even the clean shaven ones.

Alas to conclude (dear lord let me shut up) I’d like to share this poem by a fellow blogger and photo hobbyist. It has nothing to do with toots, noses or boogers so clear your mind.
Take a deep breath. Hummmmm….

Monday Morning Hike

by Sued51

When I park my car
the music stops.
I shuffle to the front door
of my brick purgatory
a little late,
head down,
watching my feet
go through the motions.
At the front steps
a pack is
put on my back–
every soldier’s companion;
gravity pulls
my shoulders earthward;
a groan slips out
as I yank open
cumbrous glass doors.
With every step
down the stale hall,
my pack gets heavier.
I imagine the silent
figures I pass
loading me up
behind my back,
as I struggle along,
bound for my trench.
By the time I reach
that terminus
my canteen is empty;
any weekend peace
it held drained away.
Another deadend
week has begun.

 

Lucky Me

/ Janna Hill / Leave a comment

laundry
dishes
mail on the table
things piling up

leaks
leaning toilet
dad by nine
things falling down

mom on her i-phone, i-pad,  i – i – i
I make dinner for myselfDSC_0015 (1280x1125)
empty fridge, fruits and vegetables are for farm heroes.
save candy crush for dessert.

trip over musty towels, bang my head on rusty washer.
still no clean clothes in the dryer.
saving pets is more humane. baseball practice tomorrow.
a fruit cup with a bowl of lucky charms.

Lucky me.

Future Poets

/ Janna Hill / 2 Comments

Adding to our poets of the future, laureates in waiting, aka not yet notorious composers today I present to you Typhanie Tijerina- Hill. No we are not related as far as I know but if she were to win a Pulitzer or become a future Poet Laureate that might change.

UT_Tyler_bell_tower.jpg
Typhanie is currently a student at the University of Texas at Tyler studying Chinese, Literature and History.

Prior to UT she attended Trinity Valley Community College where she studied theater, literature and history.
Typhanie is also a wife and a mother. Anyone who has juggled such roles knows the hardships and the rewards. It takes an iron will and an artist’s heart and that is a kick- *ss combination.
I chose A Willow Among the Maple because (for me) it reflects humility and strength… Coming to terms with who we are and accepting our limitations without conceding defeat.

A Willow Among the Maple

By Typhanie Tijerina-Hill

I am a willow among the Maple
I weep while they pour out syrup so sweet
I am droopy and they are strong
I fight for survival while they grow with ease
My roots are planted deep
But are small compared to their large core
They hover over me mocking my fragile limbs
I know I will never be as big as the maple
But I don’t have to be

***
I really, really liked this poem because it left me nodding my head and thinking…

Sometimes it’s like reaching for the stars on a cloudy night. But if we keep reaching, groping into the unseen – maybe one night the clouds will pass and maybe, just maybe we will find a star in our hand. Perhaps not the biggest or the brightest star – but it will be the best star because this one will have our name on it.

 Yes, I wax poetic on occasion.