He wants you to pause and think about it.
He wants you to pause and think about it.
Today is the birthday of poet William Butler Yeats. He was born June 13, 1865, in Sandymount, Republic of Ireland, he died January 28, 1939 in Menton, France.
A poem of his that I have always liked and that may be apprpriate now that he gone but still remembered…
When You are Old
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things: to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
— Mary Oliver, from “In Blackwater Woods”
Telling a friend about an ironic incident,
he comments “There’s a poem in that.”
People tell poets that. It’s not true.
Every beginning has an end. Every end
has a beginning. No poem in that.
by Edith Wharton
"Some Days" a poem by Billy Collins animated and read by the poet
William Stafford said, “The hotter the coffee
the more important it is to extend
the handle of the mug” in offering
poem or lesson to a thirsty reader.
This poem is hot. Take this handle.
I read this poem by Jane Kenyon yesterday and this morning I thought “She has written one of my daily poems for me. No need to write it again.” It reminds me of my early morning walk today by a local pond.
I’ll have to find another moment from today to preserve here.
Walking Alone in Late Winter
How long the winter has lasted—like a Mahler
symphony, or an hour in the dentist’s chair.
In the fields…
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again…
Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that’s late,
it is my song that’s flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it’s done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am
"Touch Me" by Stanley Kunitz.
A love poem written by a old Stanley about a love of many years that I find very hopeful.
Spring layers grow fast and are lighter.
Slower summer growth is denser and darker.
Count the rings and know the age.
Shape and patterns show weather and damage.
All rings show when cut after life.
I go to the mountain side
of the house to cut saplings,
and clear a view to snow
on the mountain. But when I look up,
saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in
the uppermost branches.
I don’t cut that one.
I don’t cut the others either.
Suddenly, in every tree,
an unseen nest
where a mountain
by Tess Gallagher from Dear Ghosts
from “Weather” by George Bilgere
read the rest of the poem at http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org
George Bilgere has published six collections of poetry, most recently Imperial .
George’s poems are featured on Garrison Keillor’s “The Writer’s Almanac” and Ted Kooser’s newspaper project “American Life in Poetry.” He has also been a guest on Keillor’s “A Prairie Home Companion” live radio variety show.
George hosts a weekly radio show, WORDPLAY, an offbeat mix of poetry, comedy, and an ongoing exploration of the possibilities of the spoken word.
His website is http://www.georgebilgere.com/