— Wallace Stevens
— Wallace Stevens
Irish poet and Nobel Prize-winner Seamus Heaney (born April 13, 1939) enjoys both critical acclaim and widespread popularity. By 2008, two-thirds of poetry books sold in the UK were by Heaney.
It was on this day in 1802 that William Wordsworth and his sister, Dorothy, happened upon a profusion of daffodils along the banks of the nine-mile-long Ullswater Lake.
Dorothy wrote down a detailed description of the daffodils that helped inspire Wordsworth to write the famous poem “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” five years later.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze….
photo on Flickr., Hyde Park landscape
100 poems to start this year’s practice.
Work every day, wrote Hemingway, No matter
what has happened the day or night
before. Writing the day, I awaken early,
get up and bite on the nail.
— Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
“Fra Lippo Lippi”
Past being an April fool today while
writing another poem, counting the seven words
to make a line and breaking thoughts
into five even pieces like the bar
of chocolate that is my end reward.
All a poet can do is warn,
wrote Wilfred Owen, soldier poet of WWI.
The horrors of trenches and gas warfare.
Now history. Old poems, largely forgotten.
Each new dusk, the drawing-down of blinds.
This poem uses part of a line from “Anthem for Doomed Youth” by Wilfred Owen
I’m reading some spring poems, old and new, to get my head more into the new season.
One of those is E.E. Cummings’
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
when the world is puddle-wonderful
Another poem is Billy Collins’ poem of a spring day…
— Billy Collins
Thinking some poems will come from dreams, the journal is always beside the pillow, but what comes are words: fingers groping,
Nothing Is the Force That Renovates the World
Reading Emily’s gorgeous nothings, poems on envelopes,
fabric scraps that “In this short life