The Fall of the Onomatopoeian Empire
The day came and went without poetry.
The pencil wrote “365 reasons to live”
on paper, but they never made it
to the computer. They weren’t uploaded
to a cloud of poems drifting by.
— Carl Sandburg
The Summer Ends
by Wendell Berry
The summer ends, and it is time
To face another way. Our theme
Reversed, we harvest the last row
To store against the cold, undo
The garden that will be undone.
We grieve under the weakened sun
To see all earth’s green fountains dried…
This site doesn’t get big numbers of visitors. I write several other blogs and one, Serendipty35 about technology and learning, regularly gets 2-4 million “hits” per month. My Weekends in Paradellesite has far less activity, but I’m happy that those longer…
The sprinkler twirls.
The summer wanes.
The pavement wears
The playground grass
Is worn to dust.
The weary swings
Creak, creak with rust.
The trees are bored
With being green.
Some people leave
The local scene
And go to seaside
And take off nearly
All their clothes.
"August" by John Updike, from A Child’s Calendar
I almost wish that we were butterflies
and liv’d but three summer days – then,
fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
Touch has a memory. A waking dream?
I want a brighter word than bright.
There is nothing stable in the world.
[a found poem consisting of quotes from the poems of John Keats, Bright Star: Love Letters and Poems of John Keats to Fanny Brawne and John Keats: A New Life]
In the summer of 1818, poet John Keats went on a six-week walking tour through northern England, Scotland, and Ireland. Keats and his friend Charles Brown set off in June and walked 600 miles before sailing back to London.
Keats was not an outdoorsman and had spent his life in London never having been out of southern England. He was 22 and had never…
Murasaki writing at her desk at inspired by the Moon
Reading Lady Murasaki Shikibu’s The Tale of Genji -
1000 years old with its 400 tanka.
Like the western sonnet, the tanka turns,
from the pivotal image to personal response.
The past floats up to the present.
— X.J. Kennedy
— William Carlos Williams
Poetry repairs. Lines cracked with the strain
of too much meaning, brittle with age.
New words, brightly-colored ideas, cutting away decay,
fresh-cut stanzas smelling of the pine air
over my head. A sky full of stars.
I can stare at waves for a long time without being bored.
Surfers study waves – not like scientists – but they study them for sure. I don’t study them. I let them hypnotize me. Or maybe it’s a form of meditation.
Years ago, when I went for a weekend sesshinat a Zen monastery, my wife asked what it was that I was supposed to learn…
you thought that the I was me,
that you was you, we was us,
then was now, the home was ours.
If you assume that the poem’s future
is our present, there is no future.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too."
The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems
Today is the birthday of this Chilean poet, born July 12, 1904 as Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. He chose his pen name after the Czech poet Jan Neruda. In 1971, Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature.