mystic poetry | Clattery MacHinery on Poetry

May 19, 2007

The Official Top 20 Countdown of the All Time Greatest Love Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar

Filed under: 19th century poetry, 19th century poets, 20th century poetry, 20th century poets, Africa American poets, Alice Moore, Alice Moore Dunbar, Alice Moore Dunbar Nelson, American poets, anti-slavery poetry, black poets, dead poets, death poetry, dialect, dialect poetry, domestic violence, humanism, language, language poetry, love, love poetry, lyric poetry, mystic poetry, mystics, narrative poetry, Paul Laurence Dunbar, poems, poetry, poets, prayer poetry, sea poetry, slavery poetry, song, song-poems, sonnets, top 20, vernacular — Clattery MacHinery @ 5:14 am

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Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) with a friend

I have been reading all the poems I can find by Paul Laurence Dunbar, in order to create another top 30 countdown. Yesterday, when I got down from the hundreds to 55 poems in order, I knew I did not want to lose any more of his love poems. So I take a break from that top 30, to bring you the very enjoyable top 20 love poems written by Dunbar. He only lived to be 33, so when he writes of how an old man may feel about love as well as he does a young couple, as if he carried all of this within him, some full and long happy love life, we can recognize a gift. But, just as tuberculosis beat him physically to a young death, it seems at least alcohol kept him from being the great lover to his bride, then Alice Moore (pictured below, not above).

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#20

from

1899

Then and Now

Then

He loved her, and through many years,
Had paid his fair devoted court,
Until she wearied, and with sneers
Turned all his ardent love to sport.

That night within his chamber lone,
He long sat writing by his bed
A note in which his heart made moan
For love; the morning found him dead.

Now

Like him, a man of later day
Was jilted by the maid he sought,
And from her presence turned away,
Consumed by burning, bitter thought.

He sought his room to write–a curse
Like him before and die, I ween.
Ah no, he put his woes in verse,
And sold them to a magazine.

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#19

from

1901

Anchored

If thro’ the sea of night which here surrounds me,
I could swim out beyond the farthest star,
Break every barrier of circumstance that bounds me,
And greet the Sun of sweeter life afar,

Tho’ near you there is passion, grief, and sorrow,
And out there rest and joy and peace and all,
I should renounce that beckoning for to-morrow,
I could not choose to go beyond your call.

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#18

from

1901

Suppose

If ’twere fair to suppose
That your heart were not taken,
That the dew from the rose
Petals still were not shaken,
I should pluck you,
Howe’er you should thorn me and scorn me,
And wear you for life as the green of the bower.

If ’twere fair to suppose
That that road was for vagrants,
That the wind and the rose,
Counted all in their fragrance;
Oh, my dear one,
By love, I should take you and make you,
The green of my life from the scintillant hour.

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#17

from

1899

Love

A life was mine full of the close concern
Of many-voiced affairs. The world sped fast;
Behind me, ever rolled a pregnant past.
A present came equipped with lore to learn.
Art, science, letters, in their turn,
Each one allured me with its treasures vast;
And I staked all for wisdom, till at last
Thou cam’st and taught my soul anew to yearn.
I had not dreamed that I could turn away
From all that men with brush and pen had wrought;
But ever since that memorable day
When to my heart the truth of love was brought,
I have been wholly yielded to its sway,
And had no room for any other thought.

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#16

from

1895

The Corn-Stalk Fiddle

When the corn ‘s all cut and the bright stalks shine
Like the burnished spears of a field of gold;
When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine,
And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold;
Then it’s heigho! fellows and hi-diddle-diddle,
For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle.

And you take a stalk that is straight and long,
With an expert eye to its worthy points,
And you think of the bubbling strains of song
That are bound between its pithy joints–
Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle,
With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle.

Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow
O’er the yielding strings with a practised hand!
And the music’s flow never loud but low
Is the concert note of a fairy band.
Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle
To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk fiddle.

When the eve comes on, and our work is done,
And the sun drops down with a tender glance,
With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun,
Come the neighbor girls for the evening’s dance,
And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle–
More time than tune–from the corn-stalk fiddle.

Then brother Jabez takes the bow,
While Ned stands off with Susan Bland,
Then Henry stops by Milly Snow,
And John takes Nellie Jones’s hand,
While I pair off with Mandy Biddle,
And scrape, scrape, scrape goes the corn-stalk fiddle.

“Salute your partners,” comes the call,
“All join hands and circle round,”
“Grand train back,” and “Balance all,”
Footsteps lightly spurn the ground.
“Take your lady and balance down the middle”
To the merry strains of the corn-stalk fiddle.

So the night goes on and the dance is o’er,
And the merry girls are homeward gone,
But I see it all in my sleep once more,
And I dream till the very break of dawn
Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle
To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle.

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#15

from

1895

After the Quarrel

So we, who ‘ve supped the self-same cup,
To-night must lay our friendship by;
Your wrath has burned your judgment up,
Hot breath has blown the ashes high.
You say that you are wronged–ah, well,
I count that friendship poor, at best
A bauble, a mere bagatelle,
That cannot stand so slight a test.

I fain would still have been your friend,
And talked and laughed and loved with you;
But since it must, why, let it end;
The false but dies, ‘t is not the true.
So we are favored, you and I,
Who only want the living truth.
It was not good to nurse the lie;
‘T is well it died in harmless youth.

I go from you to-night to sleep.
Why, what’s the odds? why should I grieve?
I have no fund of tears to weep
For happenings that undeceive.
The days shall come, the days shall go
Just as they came and went before.
The sun shall shine, the streams shall flow
Though you and I are friends no more.

And in the volume of my years,
Where all my thoughts and acts shall be,
The page whereon your name appears
Shall be forever sealed to me.
Not that I hate you over-much,
‘T is less of hate than love defied;
Howe’er, our hands no more shall touch,
We ‘ll go our ways, the world is wide.

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#14

from

1901

Diplomacy

Tell your love where the roses blow,
And the hearts of the lilies quiver,
Not in the city’s gleam and glow,
But down by a half-sunned river.
Not in the crowded ball-room’s glare,
That would be fatal, Marie, Marie,
How can she answer you then and there?
So come then and stroll with me, my dear,
Down where the birds call, Marie, Marie.

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#13

from

1899

Dream Song II

Pray, what can dreams avail
To make love or to mar?
The child within the cradle rail
Lies dreaming of the star.
But is the star by this beguiled
To leave its place and seek the child?

The poor plucked rose within its glass
Still dreameth of the bee;
But, tho’ the lagging moments pass,
Her Love she may not see.
If dream of child and flower fail,
Why should a maiden’s dreams prevail?

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#12

from

1893

The Old Apple-Tree

There’s a memory keeps a-runnin’
Through my weary head to-night,
An’ I see a picture dancin’
In the fire-flames’ ruddy light;
‘Tis the picture of an orchard
Wrapped in autumn’s purple haze,
With the tender light about it
That I loved in other days.
An’ a-standin’ in a corner
Once again I seem to see
The verdant leaves an’ branches
Of an old apple-tree.

You perhaps would call it ugly,
An’ I don’t know but it’s so,
When you look the tree all over
Unadorned by memory’s glow;
For its boughs are gnarled an’ crooked,
An’ its leaves are gettin’ thin,
An’ the apples of its bearin’
Would n’t fill so large a bin
As they used to. But I tell you,
When it comes to pleasin’ me,
It’s the dearest in the orchard,–
Is that old apple-tree.

I would hide within its shelter,
Settlin’ in some cosy nook,
Where no calls nor threats could stir me
From the pages o’ my book.
Oh, that quiet, sweet seclusion
In its fulness passeth words!
It was deeper than the deepest
That my sanctum now affords.
Why, the jaybirds an’ the robins,
They was hand in glove with me,
As they winked at me an’ warbled
In that old apple-tree.

It was on its sturdy branches
That in summers long ago
I would tie my swing an’ dangle
In contentment to an’ fro,
Idly dreamin’ childish fancies,
Buildin’ castles in the air,
Makin’ o’ myself a hero
Of romances rich an’ rare.
I kin shet my eyes an’ see it
Jest as plain as plain kin be,
That same old swing a-danglin’
To the old apple-tree.

There’s a rustic seat beneath it
That I never kin forget.
It’s the place where me an’ Hallie–
Little sweetheart–used to set,
When we ‘d wander to the orchard
So ‘s no listenin’ ones could hear
As I whispered sugared nonsense
Into her little willin’ ear.
Now my gray old wife is Hallie,
An’ I ‘m grayer still than she,
But I ‘ll not forget our courtin’
‘Neath the old apple-tree.

Life for us ain’t all been summer,
But I guess we ‘we had our share
Of its flittin’ joys an’ pleasures,
An’ a sprinklin’ of its care.
Oft the skies have smiled upon us;
Then again we ‘ve seen ’em frown,
Though our load was ne’er so heavy
That we longed to lay it down.
But when death does come a-callin’,
This my last request shall be,–
That they ‘ll bury me an’ Hallie
‘Neath the old apple tree.

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#11

from

1896

A Florida Night

Win’ a-blowin’ gentle so de san’ lay low,
San’ a little heavy f’om de rain,
All de pa’ms a-wavin’ an’ a-weavin’ slow,
Sighin’ lak a sinnah-soul in pain.
Alligator grinnin’ by de ol’ lagoon,
Mockin’-bird a-singin’ to be big full moon.
‘Skeeter go a-skimmin’ to his fightin’ chune
(Lizy Ann’s a-waitin’ in de lane!).

Moccasin a-sleepin’ in de cyprus swamp;
Need n’t wake de gent’man, not fu’ me.
Mule, you need n’t wake him w’en you switch an’ stomp,
Fightin’ off a ‘skeeter er a flea.
Florida is lovely, she’s de fines’ lan’
Evah seed de sunlight f’om de Mastah’s han’,
‘Ceptin’ fu’ de varmints an’ huh fleas an’ san’
An’ de nights w’en Lizy Ann ain’ free.

Moon ‘s a-kinder shaddered on de melon patch;
No one ain’t a-watchin’ ez I go.
Climbin’ of de fence so ‘s not to click de latch
Meks my gittin’ in a little slow.
Watermelon smilin’ as it say, “I’ s free;”
Alligator boomin’, but I let him be,
Florida, oh, Florida ‘s de lan’ fu’ me–
(Lizy Ann a-singin’ sweet an’ low).

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#10

from

1896, this cover 1905

“Howdy, Honey, Howdy!”

Do’ a-stan’in’ on a jar, fiah a-shinin’ thoo,
Ol’ folks drowsin’ ‘roun’ de place, wide awake is Lou,
W’en I tap, she answeh, an’ I see huh ‘mence to grin,
“Howdy, honey, howdy, won’t you step right in?”

Den I step erpon de log layin’ at de do’,
Bless de Lawd, huh mammy an’ huh pap’s done ‘menced to sno’,
Now’s de time, ef evah, ef I’s gwine to try an’ win,
“Howdy, honey, howdy, won’t you step right in?”

No use playin’ on de aidge, trimblin’ on de brink,
Wen a body love a gal, tell huh whut he t’ink;
W’en huh hea’t is open fu’ de love you gwine to gin,
Pull yo’se’f togethah, suh, an’ step right in.

Sweetes’ imbitation dat a body evah hyeahed,
Sweetah den de music of a lovesick mockin’-bird,
Comin’ f’om de gal you loves bettah den yo’ kin,
“Howdy, honey, howdy, won’t you step right in?”

At de gate o’ heaven w’en de storm o’ life is pas’,
‘Spec’ I ‘ll be a-stan’in’, ‘twell de Mastah say at las’,
“Hyeah he stan’ all weary, but he winned his fight wid sin.
Howdy, honey, howdy, won’t you step right in?”

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from

1899

A Letter

Dear Miss Lucy: I been t’inkin’ dat I ‘d write you long fo’ dis,
But dis writin’ ‘s mighty tejous, an’ you know jes’ how it is.
But I ‘s got a little lesure, so I teks my pen in han’
Fu’ to let you know my feelin’s since I retched dis furrin’ lan’.
I ‘s right well, I ‘s glad to tell you (dough dis climate ain’t to blame),
An’ I hopes w’en dese lines reach you, dat dey ‘ll fin’ yo’ se’f de same.
Cose I ‘se feelin kin’ o’ homesick–dat ‘s ez nachul ez kin be,
Wen a feller ‘s mo’n th’ee thousand miles across dat awful sea.
(Don’t you let nobidy fool you ’bout de ocean bein’ gran’;
If you want to see de billers, you jes’ view dem f’om de lan’.)
‘Bout de people? We been t’inkin’ dat all white folks was alak;
But dese Englishmen is diffunt, an’ dey ‘s curus fu’ a fac’.
Fust, dey’s heavier an’ redder in dey make-up an’ dey looks,
An’ dey don’t put salt nor pepper in a blessed t’ing dey cooks!
Wen dey gin you good ol’ tu’nips, ca’ots, pa’snips, beets, an’ sich,
Ef dey ain’t some one to tell you, you cain’t ‘stinguish which is which.
Wen I t’ought I ‘s eatin’ chicken–you may b’lieve dis hyeah ‘s a lie–
But de waiter beat me down dat I was eatin’ rabbit pie.
An’ dey ‘d t’ink dat you was crazy–jes’ a reg’lar ravin’ loon,
Ef you ‘d speak erbout a ‘possum or a piece o’ good ol’ coon.
O, hit’s mighty nice, dis trav’lin’, an’ I ‘s kin’ o’ glad I come.
But, I reckon, now I ‘s willin’ fu’ to tek my way back home.
I done see de Crystal Palace, an’ I ‘s hyeahd dey string-band play,
But I has n’t seen no banjos layin’ nowhahs roun’ dis way.
Jes’ gin ol’ Jim Bowles a banjo, an’ he ‘d not go very fu’,
‘Fo’ he ‘d outplayed all dese fiddlers, wif dey flourish and dey stir.
Evahbiddy dat I ‘s met wif has been monst’ous kin an’ good;
But I t’ink I ‘d lak it better to be down in Jones’s wood,
Where we ust to have sich frolics, Lucy, you an’ me an’ Nelse,
Dough my appetite ‘ud call me, ef dey was n’t nuffin else.
I ‘d jes’ lak to have some sweet-pertaters roasted in de skin;
I ‘s a-longin’ fu’ my chittlin’s an’ my mustard greens ergin;
I ‘s a-wishin’ fu’ some buttermilk, an’ co’n braid, good an’ brown,
An’ a drap o’ good ol’ bourbon fu’ to wash my feelin’s down!
An’ I ‘s comin’ back to see you jes’ as ehly as I kin,
So you better not go spa’kin’ wif dat wuffless scoun’el Quin!
Well, I reckon, I mus’ close now; write ez soon’s dis reaches you;
Gi’ my love to Sister Mandy an’ to Uncle Isham, too.
Tell de folks I sen’ ’em howdy; gin a kiss to pap an’ mam;
Closin’ I is, deah Miss Lucy, Still Yo’ Own True-Lovin’ Sam.

P. S. Ef you cain’t mek out dis letter, lay it by erpon de she’f,
An’ when I git home, I ‘ll read it, darlin’, to you my own se’f.

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from

1901

The Old Front Gate

W’en daih ‘s chillun in de house,
Dey keep on a-gittin’ tall;
But de folks don’ seem to see
Dat dey ‘s growin’ up at all,
‘Twell dey fin’ out some fine day
Dat de gals has ‘menced to grow,
Wen dey notice as dey pass
Dat de front gate ‘s saggin’ low.

Wen de hinges creak an’ cry,
An’ de bahs go slantin’ down,
You kin reckon dat hit’s time
Fu’ to cas’ yo’ eye erroun’,
‘Cause daih ain’t no ‘sputin’ dis,
Hit’s de trues’ sign to show
Dat daih ‘s cou’tin’ goin’ on
Wen de ol’ front gate sags low.

Oh, you grumble an’ complain,
An’ you prop dat gate up right;
But you notice right nex’ day
Dat hit’s in de same ol’ plight.
So you fin’ dat hit’s a rule,
An’ daih ain’ no use to blow,
W’en de gals is growin’ up,
Dat de front gate will sag low.

Den you t’ink o’ yo’ young days,
W’en you cou’ted Sally Jane,
An’ you so’t o’ feel ashamed
Fu’ to grumble an’ complain,
‘Cause yo’ ricerlection says,
An’ you know hits wo’ds is so,
Dat huh pappy had a time
Wid his front gate saggin’ low.

So you jes’ looks on an’ smiles
At ’em leanin’ on de gate,
Tryin’ to t’ink whut he kin say
Fu’ to keep him daih so late,
But you lets dat gate erlone,
Fu’ yo’ ‘sperunce goes to show,
‘Twell de gals is ma’ied off,
It gwine keep on saggin’ low.

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from

1899

Communion

In the silence of my heart,
I will spend an hour with thee,
When my love shall rend apart
All the veil of mystery:

All that dim and misty veil
That shut in between our souls
When Death cried, “Ho, maiden, hail!”
And your barque sped on the shoals.

On the shoals? Nay, wrongly said.
On the breeze of Death that sweeps
Far from life, thy soul has sped
Out into unsounded deeps.

I shall take an hour and come
Sailing, darling, to thy side.
Wind nor sea may keep me from
Soft communings with my bride.

I shall rest my head on thee
As I did long days of yore,
When a calm, untroubled sea
Rocked thy vessel at the shore.

I shall take thy hand in mine,
And live o’er the olden days
When thy smile to me was wine,–
Golden wine thy word of praise,

For the carols I had wrought
In my soul’s simplicity;
For the petty beads of thought
Which thine eyes alone could see.

Ah, those eyes, love-blind, but keen
For my welfare and my weal!
Tho’ the grave-door shut between,
Still their love-lights o’er me steal.

I can see thee thro’ my tears,
As thro’ rain we see the sun.
What tho’ cold and cooling years
Shall their bitter courses run,–

I shall see thee still and be
Thy true lover evermore,
And thy face shall be to me
Dear and helpful as before.

Death may vaunt and Death may boast,
But we laugh his pow’r to scorn;
He is but a slave at most,–
Night that heralds coming morn.

I shall spend an hour with thee
Day by day, my little bride.
True love laughs at mystery,
Crying, “Doors of Death, fly wide.”

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from

1899

When the Old Man Smokes

In the forenoon’s restful quiet,
When the boys are off at school,
When the window lights are shaded
And the chimney-corner cool,
Then the old man seeks his armchair,
Lights his pipe and settles back;
Falls a-dreaming as he draws it
Till the smoke-wreaths gather black.

And the tear-drops come a-trickling
Down his cheeks, a silver flow–
Smoke or memories you wonder,
But you never ask him,–no;
For there ‘s something almost sacred
To the other family folks
In those moods of silent dreaming
When the old man smokes.

Ah, perhaps he sits there dreaming
Of the love of other days
And of how he used to lead her
Through the merry dance’s maze;
How he called her “little princess,”
And, to please her, used to twine
Tender wreaths to crown her tresses,
From the “matrimony vine.”

Then before his mental vision
Comes, perhaps, a sadder day,
When they left his little princess
Sleeping with her fellow clay.
How his young heart throbbed, and pained him!
Why, the memory of it chokes!
Is it of these things he ‘s thinking
When the old man smokes?

But some brighter thoughts possess him,
For the tears are dried the while.
And the old, worn face is wrinkled
In a reminiscent smile,
From the middle of the forehead
To the feebly trembling lip,
At some ancient prank remembered
Or some long unheard-of quip.

Then the lips relax their tension
And the pipe begins to slide,
Till in little clouds of ashes,
It falls softly at his side;
And his head bends low and lower
Till his chin lies on his breast,
And he sits in peaceful slumber
Like a little child at rest.

Dear old man, there ‘s something sad’ning,
In these dreamy moods of yours,
Since the present proves so fleeting,
All the past for you endures.
Weeping at forgotten sorrows,
Smiling at forgotten jokes;
Life epitomized in minutes,
When the old man smokes.

_____

from

1906

The Voice of the Banjo

In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic’s way,
Sat an old man, bent and feeble, dusk of face, and hair of gray,
And beside him on the table, battered, old, and worn as he,
Lay a banjo, droning forth this reminiscent melody:

“Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don’t be sad;
Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had.
Let us keep a merry visage, and be happy till the last,
Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past.

“For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand,
When the Southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land;
And if love tales were not sacred, there’s a tale that I could tell
Of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely belle.

“And I speak to you of care-free songs when labour’s hour was o’er,
And a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door,
And of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap,
While you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, ‘Pap, pap.’

“I could tell you of a ‘possum hunt across the wooded grounds,
I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds,
You could lift me up and smelling of the timber that ‘s in me,
Build again a whole green forest with the mem’ry of a tree.

“So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind,
What care I for trembling fingers,–what care you that you are blind?
Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend;
But they ‘ll only find us mellower, won’t they, comrade?–in the end.”

_____

from

1921

Weltschmertz

You ask why I am sad to-day,
I have no cares, no griefs, you say?
Ah, yes, ‘t is true, I have no grief–
But–is there not the falling leaf?

The bare tree there is mourning left
With all of autumn’s gray bereft;
It is not what has happened me,
Think of the bare, dismantled tree.

The birds go South along the sky,
I hear their lingering, long good-bye.
Who goes reluctant from my breast?
And yet–the lone and wind-swept nest.

The mourning, pale-flowered hearse goes by,
Why does a tear come to my eye?
Is it the March rain blowing wild?
I have no dead, I know no child.

I am no widow by the bier
Of him I held supremely dear.
I have not seen the choicest one
Sink down as sinks the westering sun.

Faith unto faith have I beheld,
For me, few solemn notes have swelled;
Love bekoned me out to the dawn,
And happily I followed on.

And yet my heart goes out to them
Whose sorrow is their diadem;
The falling leaf, the crying bird,
The voice to be, all lost, unheard–

Not mine, not mine, and yet too much
The thrilling power of human touch,
While all the world looks on and scorns
I wear another’s crown of thorns.

Count me a priest who understands
The glorious pain of nail-pierced hands;
Count me a comrade of the thief
Hot driven into late belief.

Oh, mother’s tear, oh, father’s sigh,
Oh, mourning sweetheart’s last good-bye,
I yet have known no mourning save
Beside some brother’s brother’s grave.

_____

from

1899

She Told Her Beads

She told her beads with down-cast eyes,
Within the ancient chapel dim;
And ever as her fingers slim
Slipt o’er th’ insensate ivories,
My rapt soul followed, spaniel-wise.
Ah, many were the beads she wore;
But as she told them o’er and o’er,
They did not number all my sighs.
My heart was filled with unvoiced cries
And prayers and pleadings unexpressed;
But while I burned with Love’s unrest,
She told her beads with down-cast eyes.

_____

from

1901

A Spring Wooing

Come on walkin’ wid me, Lucy; ‘t ain’t no time to mope erroun’
Wen de sunshine ‘s shoutin’ glory in de sky,
An’ de little Johnny-Jump-Ups ‘s jes’ a-springin’ f’om de groun’,
Den a-lookin’ roun’ to ax each othah w’y.
Don’ you hyeah dem cows a-mooin’? Dat ‘s dey howdy to de spring;
Ain’ dey lookin’ most oncommon satisfied?
Hit ‘s enough to mek a body want to spread dey mouf an’ sing
Jes’ to see de critters all so spa’klin’-eyed.

W’y dat squir’l dat jes’ run past us, ef I did n’ know his tricks,
I could swaih he ‘d got ‘uligion jes’ to-day;
An’ dem liza’ds slippin’ back an’ fofe ermong de stones an’ sticks
Is a-wigglin’ ’cause dey feel so awful gay.
Oh, I see yo’ eyes a-shinin’ dough you try to mek me b’lieve
Dat you ain’ so monst’ous happy ’cause you come;
But I tell you dis hyeah weathah meks it moughty ha’d to ‘ceive
Ef a body’s soul ain’ blin’ an’ deef an’ dumb.

Robin whistlin’ ovah yandah ez he buil’ his little nes’;
Whut you reckon dat he sayin’ to his mate?
He’s a-sayin’ dat he love huh in de wo’ds she know de bes’,
An’ she lookin’ moughty pleased at whut he state.
Now, Miss Lucy, dat ah robin sholy got his sheer o’ sense,
An’ de hen-bird got huh mothah-wit fu’ true;
So I t’ink ef you ‘ll ixcuse me, fu’ I do’ mean no erfence,
Dey ‘s a lesson in dem birds fu’ me an’ you.

I ‘s a-buil’in’ o’ my cabin, an’ I ‘s vines erbove de do’
Fu’ to kin’ o’ gin it sheltah f’om de sun;
Gwine to have a little kitchen wid a reg’lar wooden flo’,
An’ dey ‘ll be a back verandy w’en hit ‘s done.
I ‘s a-waitin’ fu’ you, Lucy, tek de ‘zample o’ de birds,
Dat ‘s a-lovin’ an’ a-matin’ evahwhaih.
I cain’ tell you dat I loves you in de robin’s music wo’ds,
But my cabin ‘s talkin’ fu’ me ovah thaih!

_____

from

1895

A Negro Love Song

Seen my lady home las’ night,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hel’ huh han’ an’ sque’z it tight,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh,
Seen a light gleam f’om huh eye,
An’ a smile go flittin’ by–
Jump back, honey, jump back.

Hyeahd de win’ blow thoo de pine,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Mockin’-bird was singin’ fine,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
An’ my hea’t was beatin’ so,
When I reached my lady’s do’,
Dat I could n’t ba’ to go–
Jump back, honey, jump back.

Put my ahm aroun’ huh wais’,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Raised huh lips an’ took a tase,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Love me, honey, love me true?
Love me well ez I love you?
An’ she answe’d, “‘Cose I do”–
Jump back, honey, jump back.

_____

Alice Moore Dunbar, Mrs. Paul L. Dunbar

_____

Comments (9)

March 15, 2007

The Ella Wheeler Wilcox Top 30 Countdown

Filed under: 19th century poetry, 19th century poets, American poets, Countdown, dead poets, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, love, love poetry, lyric poetry, mystic poetry, mystics, occasional poetry, poems, poetry, poetry for children, poets, political poetry, prayer poetry, religion, rhymes, sonnets — Clattery MacHinery @ 3:03 am

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 1850-1919, was an American poet and mystic, one of the two poets I can find who was labelled as Poet Laureate of Humanity, the other being Rumi. As Rumi is today, she was known to be the most read poet in America in her time. There is much to find about her life and writings at Ella Wheeler Wilcox Society, where poems, photos, biographies and such have been brought together for perusal. Reading through her thousands of poems and revisions there, I have selected the top 30 Ella Wheeler Wilcox poems, and count them down for you below.

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#30

The Ship and the Boat

In the great ship Life we speed along,
With sails and pennons spread.
And tethered, beside the great ship, glide
The mystic boats for the dead.

Over the deck of the ship of Life
Our loved and lost we lower.
And calm and steady, his small boat ready,
Death silently sits at the oar.

He rows our dead away from our sight–
Away from our hearing or ken.
We call and cry for a last good-bye,
But they never come back again.

The ship of Life bounds on and on;
The river of Time runs fast;
And yet more swift our dear dead drift
For ever back into the Past.

We do not forget those loved and lost,
But they fade away like a dream:
As we hurry along on the current strong
Of Time’s great turbulent stream.

On and on, and ever away,
Our sails are filled by the wind;
We see new places, we meet new faces,
And the dead are far behind.

Their boats have drifted into the sea
That laves God’s holy feet.
But the river’s course, too, seeks that source,
So the ship and the boat shall meet.

_____

#29

Bleak Weather

Dear Love, where the red lilies blossomed and grew
The white snows are falling;
And all through the woods where I wandered with you
The loud winds are calling;
And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune,
‘Neath the oak you remember,
O’er hilltop and forest has followed the June
And left us December.
He has left like a friend who is true in the sun
And false in the shadows;
He has found new delights in the land where he’s gone,
Greener woodlands and meadows.
Let him go! what care we? let the snow shroud the lea,
Let it drift on the heather;
We can sing through it all; I have you, you have me,
And we’ll laugh at the weather.

The old year may die and a new year be born
That is bleaker and colder:
It cannot dismay us: we dare it, we scorn,
For our love makes us bolder.
Ah, Robin! sing loud on your far distant lea,
You friend in fair weather!
But here is a song sung that’s fuller of glee
By two warm hearts together.

_____

#28

Old and New

Long have the poets vaunted, in their lays,
Old times, old loves, old friendship, and old wine.
Why should the old monopolise all praise?
Then let the new claim mine.

Give me strong new friends, when the old prove weak,
Or fail me in my darkest hour of need;
Why perish with the ship that springs a leak,
Or lean upon a reed?

Give me new love, warm, palpitating, sweet,
When all the grace and beauty leaves the old;
When like a rose it withers at my feet,
Or like a hearth grows cold.

Give me new times, bright with a prosperous cheer,
In place of old, tear-blotted, burdened days;
I hold a sunlit present far more dear,
And worthy of my praise.

When the old creeds are threadbare, and worn through,
And all too narrow for the broadening soul,
Give me the fine, firm texture of the new,
Fair, beautiful and whole.

_____

#27

Worldly Wisdom

If it were in my dead Past’s power
To let my Present bask
In some lost pleasure for an hour,
This is the boon I’d ask:

Re-pedestal from out the dust
Where long ago ’twas hurled,
My beautiful incautious trust
In this unworthy world.

The symbol of my own soul’s truth–
I saw it go with tears–
The sweet unwisdom of my youth–
That vanished with the years.

Since knowledge brings us only grief,
I would return again
To happy ignorance and belief
In motives and in men.

For worldly wisdom learned in pain
Is in itself a cross,
Significant mayhap of gain,
Yet sign of saddest loss.

_____

#26

Sunset

I saw the day lean o’er the world’s sharp edge
And peer into night’s chasm dark and damp.
High in his hand he held a blazing lamp,
Then dropped it and plunged headlong down the ledge.

With lurid splendor that swift paled to gray,
I saw the dim skies suddenly flush bright.
‘Twas but the expiring glory of the light
Flung from the hand of the adventurous day.

_____

#25

Winter Rain

Falling upon the frozen world last night
I heard the slow beat of the winter rain–
Poor foolish drops, down-dripping all in vain;
The ice-bound Earth but mocked their puny might;
Far better had the fixedness of white
And uncomplaining snows–which make no sign,
But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine–
Concealed its sorrow from all human sight.
Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years,
I learned the uselessness of uttered woe.
Though sinewy Fate deals her most skilful blow,
I do not waste the gall now of my tears,
But feed my pride upon its bitter, while
I look straight in the world’s bold eyes, and smile.

_____

#24

A Revery in the Station-House

Last night I walked along the city street
And smiled at men; they saw the ancient sin
In my young eyes, and one said, “Come with me.”
I went with him, believing my poor purse
Would fatten with his gold. He brought me here
And turned the key upon me. In an hour,
I shall be called before the judge and fined,
Because I have solicited. How strange
And inexplicable a thing is law–
How curious its whys, and why-nots! I
Was young and innocent of evil thought
A few brief years ago. My brother’s friend,
A social favorite to whom all doors
Were open (and a church communicant),
Sought me, soliciting my faith and trust,
And brushed the dew of virtue from my lips;
Then left me to my solitary thoughts.
Death and misfortune entered on the scene;
I was thrown out to battle with the world,
And hide the anguish of a maid deflowered.

I left my first employer,–left because
He, too, solicited those favors that
No contract mentions, but which seem to be
Expected duties by unwritten law
In many business-houses. Soon I learned
That virtue is, indeed, its own reward.
And often finds no other. My poor wage
For honest labor and a decent life
Scarce kept me fed and sheltered. Everywhere
In office, boarding-house, and in church aisles
I met the eyes of men soliciting.
They supplemented pleading looks by words,
And laughed at all my scruples. Finally,
The one compelling lover had his way,
And when he wearied of me I began
The dreary treadmill of the city streets,
Soliciting whoever crossed my path
To take my favors and to give me gold.

Somehow, I cannot seem to understand
Why there is law to punish me for that,
And none to punish any of the men
Who have pursued me with soliciting
Right from the threshold of my childhood’s home
To this grim station-house.
My case is called?
Well, lead the way, and I will follow you.

_____

#23

A Morning Prayer

Let me to-day do something that shall take
A little sadness from the world’s vast store,
And may I be so favored as to make
Of joy’s too scanty sum a little more.

Let me not hurt, by any selfish deed
Or thoughtless word, the heart of foe or friend,
Nor would I pass, unseeing, worthy need,
Or sin by silence when I should defend.

However meager be my worldly wealth,
Let me give something that shall aid my kind,
A word of courage or a thought of health,
Dropped as I pass for troubled hearts to find.

Let me to-night look back across the span
‘Twixt dawn and dark, and to my conscience say
Because of some good act to beast or man
“The world is better that I lived to-day.”

_____

#22

Disarmament

We have outgrown the helmet and cuirass,
The spear, the arrow, and the javelin.
These crude inventions of a cruder age,
When men killed men to show their love of God,
And he who slaughtered most was greatest king.
We have outgrown the need of war!
Should men
Unite in this one thought, all war would end.

Disarm the world; and let all Nations meet
Like Men, not monsters, when disputes arise.
When crossed opinions tangle into snarls,
Let Courts untie them, and not armies cut.
When State discussions breed dissentions, let
Union and Arbitration supersede
The hell-created implements of War.
Disarm the world! and bid destructive thought
Slip like a serpent from the mortal mind
Down through the marshes of oblivion. Soon
A race of gods shall rise! Disarm! Disarm!

_____

#21

Moon and Sea

You are the moon, dear love, and I the sea:
The tide of hope swells high within my breast,
And hides the rough dark rockes of life’s unrest
When your fond eyes smile near in perigee.
But when that loving face is turned from me,
Low falls the tide, and the grim rocks appear,
And earth’s dim coast-line seems a thing to fear.
You are the moon, dear one, and I the sea.

_____

#20

Old Rhythm and Rhyme

They tell me new methods now govern the Muses,
The modes of expression have changed with the times;
That low is the rank of the poet who uses
The old-fashioned verse with intentional rhymes.
And quite out of date, too, is rhythmical metre;
The critics declare it an insult to art.
But oh! the sweet swing of it, oh! the clear ring of it,
Oh! the great pulse of it, right from the heart,
Art or no art.

I sat by the side of that old poet, Ocean,
And counted the billows that broke on the rocks;
The tide lilted in with a rhythmical motion;
The sea-gulls dipped downward in time-keeping flocks.

I watched while a giant wave gathered its forces,
And then on the gray granite precipice burst;
And I knew as I counted, while other waves mounted,
I knew the tenth billow would rhyme with the first.

Below in the village a church bell was chiming,
And back in the woodland a little bird sang;
And, doubt it who will, yet those two sounds were rhyming,
As out o’er the hill-tops they echoed and rang.
The Wind and the Trees fell to talking together;
And nothing they said was didactic or terse;
But everything spoken was told in unbroken
And a beautiful rhyming and rhythmical verse.

So rhythm I hail it, though critics assail it,
And hold melting rhymes as an insult to art,
For oh! the sweet swing of it, oh! the dear ring of it,
Oh! the strong pulse of it, right from the heart,
Art or no art.

_____

#19

Understanding

The snowdrops and the crocuses
Bloomed in the olden way:
The stately tulips followed on–
The pansies had their day;
The roses came–and yet the year
Brought neither June nor May.
And now the tiger lilies lift
Their freckled faces high;
And now the sun is blazing down
From out a cloudless sky–
And yet it is not Summertime,
Though Summer days drag by,

His dog looks up the lonely lane–
He knows the reason why.

_____

#18

To Another Woman’s Baby

I list your prattle, baby boy,
And hear your pattering feet
With feelings more of pain than joy
And thoughts of bitter-sweet.

While touching your soft hands in play
Such passionate longings rise
For my wee boy who strayed away
So soon to Paradise.

You win me with your infant art;
But when our play is o’er,
The empty cradle in my heart
Seems lonelier than before.

Sweet baby boy you do not guess
How oft mine eyes are dim,
Or that my lingering caress
Is sometimes meant for him.

_____

#17

March

Like some reformer, who with mien austere,
Neglected dress and loud insistent tones,
More rasping than the wrongs which she bemoans,
Walks through the land and wearies all who hear,
While yet we know the need of such reform;
So comes unlovely March, with wind and storm,
To break the spell of winter, and set free
The poisoned brooks and crocus beds oppressed.
Severe of face, gaunt-armed, and wildly dressed,
She is not fair nor beautiful to see.
But merry April and sweet smiling May
Come not till March has first prepared the way.

_____

#16

I Like Cigars

Beneath the stars,
Upon the waters blue.
To laugh and float
While rocks the boat
Upon the waves,–Don’t you?

To rest the oar
And float to shore,–
While soft the moonbeams shine,–
To laugh and joke,
And idly smoke;
I think is quite divine.

_____

#15

The Mill

Something there is in the mill whistle blowing
Sets my blood flowing–
Stirs me with life.
Gives me the feeling of being a part of it,
Hand of it, heart of it,
Ready to plunge in the thick of the strife
As a strong swimmer goes when the seas are rife.

Many have said there was pain in the call of it;
I get the thrall of it;
Nerved and made strong,
My hand reaches out for the work that is waiting it;
Loving, not hating it;
Loving the noise, and the rush, and the throng,
Loving the days as they hurry along.

Over the moil and the murk and the grime in it,
Something sublime in it,
Calls to my soul.
Some things that speak of the ceaseless endeavor
For aye and forever,
Moving the Universe on to its goal,
And each of us parcel and part of the whole.

Oh, there is sorrow, injustice and wrong in it;
But there’s a song in it.
All day I hear
Over the din and the discord, the thrill of it,
That’s the brave mill of it,
Doing its work without worry or fear
And breathing its message of strength in my ear.

Happy, I sing to it;
Smiling, I bring to it,
Patience and love, for the tasks that lie near.

_____

#14

Last Love

The first flower of the spring is not so fair
Or bright, as one the ripe midsummer brings.
The first faint note the forest warbler sings
Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare
As when, full master of his art, the air
Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings
Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings.
The artist’s earliest effort wrought with care,
The bard’s first ballad, written in his tears,
Set by his later toil seems poor and tame.
And into nothing dwindles at the test.
So with the passions of maturer years
Let those who will demand the first fond flame,
Give me the heart’s last love, for that is best.

_____

#13

The Doomed City’s Prayer

I heard a low sound, like a troubled soul praying:
And the winds of the winter night brought it to me.
‘Twas the doomed city’s voice: “Oh, kind snow,” it was saying,
“Come, cover my ruins, so ghastly to see.
I am robbed of my beauty, and shorn of my glory;
And the strength that I boasted–where is it to-day?
I am down in the dust; and my pitiful story
Make tearless eyes weep and unpious lips pray.

“I–I, who have reveled in pomp and in power,
Am down on my knees, with my face in the dust;
But yesterday queen, with a queen’s royal dower,
To-day I am glad of a crumb or a crust.
But yesterday reigning, a grand, mighty city,
The pride of the Nation, the queen of the West;
To-day I am gazed at, an object of pity,
A charity child, asking alms, at the best.

“My strength, and my pride, and my glory departed,
My fair features scorched by the fire fiends breath,
Is it strange that I’m soul-sick and sorrowful hearted?
Is it strange that my thoughts run on ruin and death?
Oh, white, fleecy clouds that are drooping above me,
Hark, hark to my pleadings, and answer my sighs,
And let down the beautiful snow, if you love me,
To cover my wounds from all pitying eyes.

“I am hurled from my throne, but not hurled down forever,
I shall rise from the dust, I shall live down my woes–
But my heart lies to-day, like a dumb, frozen river;
When to thaw out and flow again, God only knows.
Oh, sprites of the air! I beseech you to weave me
A mantle of white snow, and beautiful rime
To cover my unsightly ruins; then leave me
In the hands of the healer of all wounds–‘Old Time.'”

_____

#12

Hung

Nine o’clock, and the sun shines as yellow and warm
As though ’twere a fete day. I wish it would storm:
Wish the thunder would crash,
And the red lightning flash,
And lap the black clouds, with its serpentine tongue.
The day is too calm for a man to be hung.
Hung! Ugh, what a word!
The most heartless and horrible ear ever heard.

He has murdered, and plundered, and robbed, so “they say”;
Been the scourge of the country for many a day.
He was lawless and wild;
Man, woman or child
Met no mercy, no pity, if found in his path;
He was worse than a beast of the woods, in his wrath.
And yet–to be hung,
Oh, my God! to be swung
By the neck to and fro for the rabble to see–
The thought sickens me.

Thirty minutes past nine. How the time hurries by,
But the half hour remains–at ten he will die.
Die? No! He’ll be killed!
For God never willed
Men should die in this way.
“Vengeance is mine,” He saith. “I will repay.”
Yet what could be done
With this wild, lawless one!
No prison could hold him, and so–he must swing.
It’s a horrible thing!

Outcast, desperado, fiend, knave; all of these
And more. But call him whatever you please,
I cannot forget
He’s a mortal man yet:
That he once was a babe and was hushed into rest,
And fondled and pressed to a woman’s warm breast.
Was sung to, and rocked,
And when he first walked
With his weak little feet, he was petted and told
He was “mamma’s own pet, worth his whole weight in gold.”
And this is the end
Of a God-given life. Just think of it, friend!

Hark! hear you that chime? ‘Tis the clock striking ten.
The dread weight falls down, with a sound like “Amen.”
Does murder pay murder? Do two wrongs make a right?
Oh, that horrible sight!
I am shut in my room and have covered my face,
But the dread scene has followed me into this place.
I see that strange thing,
Like a clock pendulum, swing
To and fro, in the air, back and forth, to and fro.
One moment ago
‘Twas a man in God’s image. Now hide it, kind grave.
Oh, God what an end to the life that you gave!

_____

#11

Relics

This is her crochet-work, just as she left it,
The spool, with the needle caught into its side,
And the edging wound up in a neat little bundle;
She had been knitting, the day that she died.

This is her dress, hanging here in the closet,
The last one she hung here; ’twill never be moved;
She wore it the morn of the day that she sickened,
And it constantly speaks of the maiden we loved.

This is her glove, lying here on the table,
Bearing the marks of her fingers, you see;
Just as she tossed it aside, I shall leave it;
It is more than a diamond, or topaz, to me.

This is the last book her eye ever glanced in,
The blue ribbon mark shows how far she had read.
That morn, she was better, she said, and was reading
Aloud; and at a dusk, the same day, she was dead.

This is a letter: begun, but not finished;
Her head ached, she said, and she laid it aside.
And these little relics, so sacredly guarded,
Are all that are left of the dear girl that died.

_____

#10

The Edict of the Sex

Two thousand years had passed since Christ was born,
When suddenly there rose a mighty host
Of women, sweeping to a central goal
As many rivers sweep on to the sea.
They came from mountains, valleys, and from coasts
And from all lands, all nations, and all ranks,
Speaking all languages, but thinking one.
And that one language–Peace.

“Listen,” they said,
And straightway was there silence on the earth,
For men were dumb with wonder and surprise.
“Listen, O mighty masters of the world,
And hear the edict of all womankind;
Since Christ His new commandment gave to men
‘Love one another,’ full two thousand years
Have passed away, yet earth is red with blood.
The strong male rulers of the world proclaim
Their weakness, when we ask that war shall cease.

Now will the poor weak women of the world
Proclaim their strength, and say that war shall end.
Hear, then, our edict: Never from this day
Will any woman on the crust of earth
Mother a warrior. We have sworn the oath
And will go barren to the waiting tomb
Rather than breed strong sons at war’s behest,
Or bring fair daughters into life, to bear
The pains of travail, for no end but war.
Ay! let the race die out for lack of babes:
Better a dying race than endless wars!
Better a silent world than noise of guns
And clash of armies.

“Long we asked for peace,
And oft you promised–but to fight again.
At last you told us, war must ever be
While men existed, laughing at our plea
For the disarmament of all mankind.
Then in our hearts flamed such a mad desire
For peace on earth, as lights the world at times
With some great conflagration; and it spread
From distant land to land, from sea to sea,
Until all women thought as with one mind
And spoke as with one voice; and now behold!
The great Crusading Syndicate of Peace,
Filling all space with one supreme resolve.
Give us, O men, your word that war shall end:
Disarm the world, and we will give you sons–
Sons to construct, and daughters to adorn
A beautiful new earth, where there shall be
Fewer and finer people, opulence
And opportunity and peace for all.
Until you promise peace no shrill birth-cry
Shall sound again upon the ageing earth.
We wait your answer.”
And the world was still
While men considered.

_____

The Old Wooden Cradle

Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle
The rude hand of Progress has thrust it aside.
No more to its motion o’er sleep’s fairy ocean,
Our play-weary wayfarers peacefully glide.

No more by the rhythm of slow-moving rocker,
Their sweet dreamy fancies are fostered and fed;
No more to low singing the cradle goes swinging–
The child of this era is put into bed.

Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle,
It lent to the twilight a strange, subtle charm;
When bees left the clover, when play-time was over,
How safe seemed this shelter from danger or harm.

How soft seemed the pillow, how distant the ceiling,
How weird were the voices that whispered around,
What dreams would come flocking, as rocking and rocking,
We floated away into slumber profound.

Good-bye to the cradle, the old wooden cradle,
The babe of to-day does not know it by sight.
When day leaves the border, with system and order,
The child goes to bed and we put out the light.

I bow to Progression and ask no concession,
Though strewn be her pathway with wrecks of the past;
So off with old lumber, that sweet ark of slumber,
The old wooden cradle, is ruthlessly cast.

_____

Breaking the Day in Two

When from dawn till noon seems one long day,
And from noon till night another,
Oh, then should a little boy come from play,
And creep into the arms of his mother.
Snugly creep and fall asleep,
O come, my baby, do;
Creep into my lap, and with a nap,
We’ll break the day in two.

When the shadows slant for afternoon,
When the midday meal is over;
When the winds have sung themselves into a swoon,
And the bees drone in the clover.
Then hie to me, hie, for a lullaby–
Come, my baby, do;
Creep into my lap, and with a nap
We’ll break the day in two.

We’ll break it in two with a crooning song,
With a soft and soothing number;
For the day has no right to be so long
And keep my baby from slumber.
Then rock-a-by, rock, may white dreams flock
Like angels over you;
Baby’s gone, and the deed is done
We’ve broken the day in two.

_____

Buried To-Day

Cold is the wind, that blows up from the river.
Cold is the blast that sweeps over the plain.
In the bleak breath of the morning I shiver–
Shiver and weep, in my desolate pain.
She was so fair–like the beautiful lily–
Fair, oh too fair to be hidden away.
And the grave is so dark, and so damp, and so chilly,
And she–oh my love!–will be buried to-day.

White is the snow that is heaped on the meadow,
Whiter the face, in this desolate room.
Low in the valley lurk darkness and shadow–
Low lies my heart, in its sorrow and gloom.
How the spades scrape, on the sods they are breaking,
Breaking, and cutting the snowdrifts away.
How the men bend to the grave they are making,
Where she–oh my love!–will be buried to-day.

Thick are the walls! but the bleak wind will enter,
And chill her through all her long slumber, I know.
Rich are her robes! but the merciless Winter
Will beat on her breast, with its tempests of snow.
Oh she was guarded, and shielded from sorrow–
Kept from the shadows, and darkness, alway.
But she will lie, as the beggar to-morrow–
My love–oh my love!–that is buried to-day.

_____

A Mirage

It was the crowded hour of the great city,
And through its long streets rushed
Trams, motor trucks, and automobiles,
And there was honk of horn, and clang of bell.
Then suddenly the din seemed hushed.
The people paused a moment in their hurry.
A curious spell
Fell over that loud scene, as down the street
A pair of pretty ponies drew a surrey;
And in it sat a lady with a bonnet–
A quaint affair with just one posy on it,
And narrow strings tied underneath her chin.
The man who drove the ponies seemed to be
A picture from old Godey’s Magazine,
Materialised. The city’s din
Died down, and voices of a village choir
Trailed on the air! A pastoral scene
With glimpses in the distance of the sea
Replaced tall city structures. Life was quiet,
And there was time for reverie and song.
The surrey passed from sight. A trolley gong
Clanged all the street again to noise and riot.
Tall city structures seemed to loom still higher
And shut the sunlight out. Intolerant,
Unbeautiful and loud-voiced vehicles
Proceeded on their way to rave and rant.
There was no peace in all the city’s mart
Save but for him who found it in his heart.

_____

Divorced

Thinking of one thing all day long, at night
I fall asleep, brain weary and heart sore;
But only for a little while. At three,
Sometimes at two o’clock, I wake and lie,
Staring out into darkness; while my thoughts
Begin the weary tread-mill toil again,
From that white marriage morning of our youth
Down to this dreadful hour.

I see your face
Lit with the lovelight of the honeymoon;
I hear your voice, that lingered on my name
As if it loved each letter; and I feel
The clinging of your arms about my form,
Your kisses on my cheek–and long to break
The anguish of such memories with tears,
But cannot weep; the fountain has run dry.
We were so young, so happy, and so full
Of keen, sweet joy of life. I had no wish
Outside your pleasure; and you loved me so
That when I sometimes felt a woman’s need
For more serene expression of man’s love
(The need to rest in calm affection’s bay
And not sail ever on the stormy main),
Yet would I rouse myself to your desire;
Meet ardent kisses with kisses just as warm;
So nothing I could give should be denied.

And then our children came. Deep in my soul,
From the first hour of conscious motherhood,
I knew I should conserve myself for this
Most holy office; knew God meant it so.
Yet even then, I held your wishes first;
And by my double duties lost the bloom
And freshness of my beauty; and beheld
A look of disapproval in your eyes.
But with the coming of our precious child,
The lover’s smile, tinged with the father’s pride,
Returned again; and helped to make me strong;
And life was very sweet for both of us.

Another, and another birth, and twice
The little white hearse paused beside our door
And took away some portion of my youth
With my sweet babies. At the first you seemed
To suffer with me, standing very near;
But when I wept too long, you turned away.
And I was hurt, not realising then
My grief was selfish. I could see the change
Which motherhood and sorrow made in me;
And when I saw the change that came to you,
Saw how your eyes looked past me when you talked,
And when I missed the love tone from your voice,
I did that foolish thing weak women do,
Complained, and cried, accused you of neglect,
And made myself obnoxious in your sight.

And often, after you had left my side,
Alone I stood before my mirror, mad
With anger at my pallid cheeks, my dull
Unlighted eyes, my shrunken mother-breasts,
And wept, and wept, and faded more and more.
How could I hope to win back wandering love,
And make new flames in dying embers leap
By such ungracious means?

And then She came,
Firm-bosomed, round of cheek, with such young eyes,
And all the ways of youth. I who had died
A thousand deaths in waiting the return
Of that old love-look to your face once more,
Died yet again and went straight into hell
When I beheld it come at her approach.

My God! My God! How have I borne it all!
Yet since she had the power to wake that look–
The power to sweep the ashes from your heart
Of burned-out love of me, and light new fires,
One thing remained for me–to let you go.
I had no wish to keep the empty frame
From which the priceless picture had been wrenched.
Nor do I blame you; it was not your fault:
You gave me all that most men can give–love
Of youth, of beauty, and of passion; and
I gave you full return; my womanhood
Matched well your manhood. Yet had you grown ill,
Or old, and unattractive from some cause
(Less close than was my service unto you),
I should have clung the tighter to you, dear;
And loved you, loved you, loved you more and more.

I grow so weary thinking of these things;
Day in, day out, and half the awful nights.

_____

But One

The year has but one June, dear friend,
The year has but one June;
And when that perfect month doth end,
The robin’s song, though loud, though long
Seems never quite in tune.

The rose, though still its blushing face
By bee and bird is seen,
May yet have lost that subtle grace–
That nameless spell the winds know well–
Which makes its gardens queen.

Life’s perfect June, love’s red, red rose,
Have burned and bloomed for me.
Though still youth’s summer sunlight glows;
Though thou art kind, dear friend, I find
I have no heart for thee.

_____

The Dream-Town Show

There is an island in Slumber Sea
Where the drollest things are done,
And we will sail there if the winds are fair
Just after the set of the sun.
‘Tis the loveliest place in the whole wide world,
Or anyway, so it seems,
And the folks there play at the end of each day
In a curious show called Dreams.

We sail right into the evening skies,
And the very first thing we know,
We are there at the port and read for sport
Where the dream folks give their show.
And what do you think they did last night
When I crossed their harbor bars?
They hoisted a plank on a great cloud bank
And teetered among the stars.

And they sat on the moon and swung their feet
Like pendulums to and fro;
Down Slumber Sea is the sail for me,
And I wish you were ready to go.
For the dream folks there on this curious isle
Begin their performance at eight.
There are no encores, and they close their doors,
On everyone who is late.

The sun is sinking behind the hills,
The seven o’clock bells chime.
I know by the chart that we ought to start
If we would be there in time.
O fair is the trip down Slumber Sea,
Set sail and away we go:
The anchor is drawn, we are off and gone
To the wonderful Dream-town show.

_____

Resigned

My babe was moaning in its sleep;
I leaned and kissed it where it lay;
My pain was such I could not weep.
Oh, would God take my child away?
He had so many ’round his throne–
If He took mine–I stood alone!

I held my child upon my knee;
It looked up with its father’s eyes,
Who, ere the infant came to me,
Had journeyed homeward to the skies.
But through those eyes, so sad and mild,
I found my husband, in my child.

It was such comfort, night and day,
To watch its slumber–feel its breath–
And slow–so slow–it pined away,
I heard not th’ approach of Death
Until he stood close at my side,
And then my soul within me died.

I clasped my babe with sudden moan,
I cried, “My sweet, thou shalt not go
To join the children ’round the Throne,
For I have need of thee below.
If God takes thee, I am bereft–
No hope or joy or comfort left.”

My babe looked pleading in my face;
It seemed my husband’s eyes instead,
And his voice sounded in the place,
“I want my child in heaven,” it said.
The infant raised its little hands,
And seemed to reach toward heavenly lands.

The tears that had refused to flow,
Came welling upward from my heart;
I sobbed, “My child, then thou may’st go,
Thy angel father bids us part.
I know in all that heavenly place
He ne’er looked on so sweet a face.

“He does not even know thy name,
And all these months, he’s longed for thee.
How could I so forget his claim–
And strive to keep thee at my knee?
Go child–my child–and give him this–
In one the wife’s and mother’s kiss.”

My baby smiled, and seeming slept.
Its hand grew cold within my own.
Not wholly sad the tears I wept,
For though I was indeed alone,
My babe I knew was safe at rest
Upon its angel father’s breast.

_____

Solitude

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone,
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But are slow to voice your care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

_____

Comments (9)

November 11, 2006

September 30, 2006: Massacre. September 29, 1960: Tenzin Gyatsu’s prayer.

Filed under: 14th Dalai Lama, 20th century poetry, 20th century poets, Buddhism, by Bud Bloom, China, compassion, Dalai Lama, exile, freedom, Himilayas, Human Rights, ideology, India, massacre, murder, mystic poetry, mystics, occasional poetry, peace, peace poetry, poems, poetry, poets, political poetry, politics, prayer poetry, religion, religious poetry, Tenzin Gyatso, Tibet, Tibetan poetry, truth — Clattery MacHinery @ 2:29 am

May I become at all times, both now and forever
A protector for those without protection
A guide for those have lost their way
A ship for those with oceans to cross
A bridge for those with rivers to cross
A sanctuary for those in danger
A lamp for those without light
A place of refuge for those who lack shelter
And a servant to all in need.

–Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama

_____

A Romanian ProTV station on a massacre of Tibetan refugees by Chinese soldiers on Nangapa pass in the Himilayas on Sept. 30, 2006. See more coverage and get involved in the struggle to free Tibet at Students for a Free Tibet and Tibet Will Be Free.

_____

from his website

a prayerby His Holiness Tenzin Gyatso The Fourteenth Dalai Lama of Tibet

Words of Truth

Honoring and Invoking the Great Compassion
of the Three Jewels; the Buddha, the Teachings,
and the Spiritual Community

O Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, and disciples
of the past, present, and future:
Having remarkable qualities
Immeasurably vast as the ocean,
Who regard all helpless sentient beings
as your only child;
Please consider the truth of my anguished pleas.

Buddha’s full teachings dispel the pain of worldly
existence and self-oriented peace;
May they flourish, spreading prosperity and happiness throughout this spacious world.
O holders of the Dharma: scholars
and realized practitioners;
May your ten fold virtuous practice prevail.

Humble sentient beings, tormented
by sufferings without cease,
Completely suppressed by seemingly endless
and terribly intense, negative deeds,
May all their fears from unbearable war, famine,
and disease be pacified,
To freely breathe an ocean of happiness and well-being.
And particularly the pious people
of the Land of Snows who, through various means,
Are mercilessly destroyed by barbaric hordes
on the side of darkness,
Kindly let the power of your compassion arise,
To quickly stem the flow of blood and tears.

Those unrelentingly cruel ones, objects of compassion,
Maddened by delusion’s evils,
wantonly destroy themselves and others;
May they achieve the eye of wisdom,
knowing what must be done and undone,
And abide in the glory of friendship and love.

May this heartfelt wish of total freedom for all Tibet,
Which has been awaited for a long time,
be spontaneously fulfilled;
Please grant soon the good fortune to enjoy
The happy celebration of spiritual with temporal rule.

O protector Chenrezig, compassionately care for
Those who have undergone myriad hardships,
Completely sacrificing their most cherished lives,
bodies, and wealth,
For the sake of the teachings, practitioners,
people, and nation.

Thus, the protector Chenrezig made vast prayers
Before the Buddhas and Bodhisativas
To fully embrace the Land of Snows;
May the good results of these prayers now quickly appear.
By the profound interdependence of emptiness
and relative forms,
Together with the force of great compassion
in the Three Jewels and their Words of Truth,
And through the power
of the infallible law of actions and their fruits,
May this truthful prayer be unhindered
and quickly fulfilled.

This prayer, Words of Truth, was composed by His Holiness Tenzin Gyatso, the Fourteenth Dalai Lama of Tibet, on 29 September 1960 at his temporary headquarters in the Swarg Ashram at Dharamsala, Kangra District, Himachal State, India. This prayer for restoring peace, the Buddhist teachings, and the culture and self-determina-tion of the Tibetan people in their homeland was written after repeated requests by Tibetan government officials along with the unanimous consensus of the monastic and lay communities.

_____

If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.

_____

November 5, 2006

I am sorry you had to leave Reine

Filed under: 21 century poetry, 21st century poets, American poets, arctic, art, art appreciation, Blue Bayou, by Bud Bloom, Dag Hol, ekphrasic poetry, ekphrasis, Linda Ronstadt, Lofoten, love poetry, lyric poetry, midnight sun, mystic poetry, Norway, Norwegian artists, Norwegian poetry, painting, poems, poetry, recluse, Reine, sea poetry, shamanic poetry — Clattery MacHinery @ 4:34 pm

in response to Linda Ronstadt singing Roy Orbison’s “Blue Bayou”

alongside a Dag Hol painting of Reine, Lofoten, when unfinished

I am sorry you had to leave Reine

You could not stay with me, a middle-aged
woman of the fjord, who from birth has never left
her hamlet, living here on a shore at the base
of this jagged new mountain, where fresh clouds are not stroked up,
but come and go, where stars, the moon, and snow counter
winter noon when the thousands, like you, have come and gone–
to a world where imaginary replicas of my psyche get studied

in cozy jet-set universities. You cannot see me now so far away
from you. And I would not enter your red-bottomed oil.
A chasm’s mantra wall of molten marble would have come
between me and my focus. Nor could seafarers coax
me into their crafts, with bottoms only the painted-on lipstick red
of waiting souls and bodies–how ships and art take on
their captains’ fantasies, cool vessels that calmly fall off the far

edge of the earth and its realities each day.
Here in the great North, the world funnels up, small enough
for any traveller’s vision to fit, and like fluid brick all fit
together. So I would not go into Reine for the proceedings
when my mother died. My red lava feet would have chilled
to pipegray. My steps would have become watery, then airy with
a summer’s skyblue, my head following ghosts through openings

in clouds. My shoes would be like yours, permanently separated
from the blood. Look at them. You cannot have your molten feet back:
how you look for the crescent moon, the way you think it chases–
then waits on–some circling midnight sun for light. I remain here
and real, not art nor a paragraph like you seem to want to be.
Ask yourself how far away must a midnight sun be to leave the crescent
on the sky. It is not on the horizon. We will never get there.

October 8, 2006

note: for “Reine” say “RAY-neh”

_____

Comments (6)

October 16, 2006

The Gifts of Donald Hall: "Retriever"

Filed under: 19th century poets, 20th century poetry, 20th century poets, 21 century poetry, 21st century poets, American poets, animal poetry, Aretha Franklin, by Bud Bloom, chant, Claire Tomalin, dead poets, death poetry, dogs, Donald Hall, Emma Hardy, English poets, Eric Clapton, Jane Kenyon, laureate, love, love poetry, lyric poetry, mystic poetry, mystics, poems, poet laureate, poetry, poetry reading, poets, reading, Retriever, song, song-poems, soul, Thomas Hardy — Clattery MacHinery @ 1:13 am

_____

by Donald Hall

Retriever

Two days after Jane died
I walked with our dog Gus
on New Canada Road
under birchy green
April shadows, talking
urgently, trying
to make him understand.
A quick mink scooted past
into fern, and Gus
disappeared in pursuit.
The damp air grew chill
as I whistled and called
until twilight. I thought
he tried to follow her
into the dark. After an hour
I gave up and walked home
to find him on the porch,
alert, pleased to see me,
curious over my absence.
But Gus hadn’t found her
deep in the woods; he hadn’t
brought her back
as a branch in his teeth.

His poem brought to you through the poet laureate’s gracious consent

_____

Donald Hall, our United States Poet Laureate, read from his book White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems 1946-2006 for an hour this afternoon at the First Congregational Church in Pelham New Hampshire. He sat at a table as he does now, and read his poems of love, death, New Hampshire, and more, without great animation in body language, but with his kind and aging New England voice. The focus in listening, then, goes onto his words, being sure to make them out, but also on his intonations.

Eric Clapton noted that when Aretha Franklin sings, never is a note simply sung and held for its time. The soul of her singing comes through in how she bends and gives character and feeling to each note, such import to each. In this sense too, Donald Hall is a soul poet. Never is a stressed syllable simply read as a stressed syllable. Each is spoken to hold the accentuated note and meaning out into the room as a gift to the listener, presented with such suspense imparting the emotion and character of his words in their contexts.

With the first poems Hall read, the chant of the song within the poem could be heard, the soul of each stressed syllable revealing the meter of his freest verse poems. It was during these first minutes that he read the poem “White Apple” which contains the line, “white apples and the taste of stone”, the title of his latest book. That line came to him years after he first had the dream of the poem, and brought the poem together and to completion. In this and other senses, he is also a mystic poet, and thus the chant of his song-poems. But then, shouldn’t a poet who writes at once in a word about love, death, and his home, be naturally rooted in the mystic?

For the next minutes, it was as if he warmed to the occasion, and he read poems to make the audience laugh and feel at home with him. His delivery became more animated in his facial expression and tone of voice. The chant receded to the yarn of conversation, and yet the soul still alive within each stressed syllable. It was during this time, that he read his poem “Mount Kearsage” that begins:

Great blue mountain! Ghost.
I look at you
from the front porch of the farmhouse
where I watched you all summer
as a boy.

and the poem “Great Day on the Cows’ House” with the first-stanza lines

Now she stretches her wrinkly neck, her turnip eye
rolls in her skull, she sucks up breath,
and stretching her long mouth mid-chew she expels:
mm-mmm-mmmmm-mmmmmmmm-ugghwanchhh.

Mid-poem there he interjected that friends tell him that last line is his best line of poetry.

The soulful singing of his poetry, the down home mysticism, the friendship with the audience well-established, all came to bear as he directed his audience’s hearts to his Jane Kenyon poems, of which “Retriever” above is one. The moments were naturally riveting, a great time in literature. Donald Hall’s Jane poems are as important to the poetry canon as Chopin’s Nocturnes are to piano music. There is a wholesome life, yet very mortal captivation to them.

After the reading, came the questions from the audience, and in response to one, he mentioned Thomas Hardy. In Claire Tomalin’s biography of Hardy, Thomas Hardy: The Time-Torn Man, to be published by Viking on October 19, she writes of his wife Emma dying:

She did not complain or ask for the doctor to be sent for, but she did ask Dolly to fetch her husband. Dolly ran down to the master in his study, where he was making an early start on his day’s work. He told her to straighten her collar–she wore a blue dress with a white collar when she was working–then he climbed the narrow stairs to his wife’s room and went up to the bed. He spoke her name: “Em, Em–don’t you know me?” But she was already unconscious, and within minutes she had stopped breathing. Emma Hardy was dead.

This is the moment when Thomas Hardy became a great poet.

And then:

Filled with sorrow and remorse for their estrangement, he had her body brought down and placed in the coffin at the foot of his bed, where it remained for three days and nights until the funeral. The gesture would have been remarkable in a lover who could not bear to be parted from the body of his mistress, but for an elderly husband who had for years been on bad terms with his wife it seems almost monstrously unconventional, until you realise that he was thinking of his situation quite differently. He had become a lover in mourning.

The parallel between Hall and Hardy is unmistakable in the great poetry that followed their wives’ deaths. Furthermore, Hall noted that he was born following the winds the same year Hardy died in January (and here I note almost nine months later on September 20, 1928). Indeed, he looked to Hardy’s Emma poems in writing his own Jane poems.

The differences are striking, however. Whereas Thomas Hardy was estranged from Emma Hardy while in the same house, Donald Hall was in a loving and close relationship with Jane Kenyon. Jane had great love poetry written about her by a soulful poet, who loved her as she lived, and gave tribute to this love after her death.

Hall’s and Kenyon’s separation was in that their offices were as far apart as they could physically be in that same house: poetic solitude, distance for the sake of the creativity they had in their separate rooms–a creativity they could then share when not writing. Hall noted that where there were two in solitude, now there is one, and that being one in solitude is the worse. He spends his days writing letters, trying to write poetry, and taking walks and naps from time to time.