One of my plans for this year is to read more poetry, as poetry is something nice to read which can also be enjoyed in small doses. And there is loads published online. So I figured I might as well post a few as I find them, to share the fun

Robert Frost (1874–1963)

Perhaps the most popular and beloved of 20th-century American poets, Frost wrote of the character, people, and landscape of New England. In 1912 he went to England, where he received his first acclaim as a poet. After the publication of A Boy’s Will (1913) and North of Boston (1914), he returned to the United States, settling on a farm near Franconia, N.H.

An Old Man’s Winter Night


ALL out of doors looked darkly in at him
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.      
What kept him from remembering what it was
That brought him to that creaking room was age.
He stood with barrels round him—at a loss.
And having scared the cellar under him
In clomping there, he scared it once again      
In clomping off;—and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like beating on a box.
A light he was to no one but himself      
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light, and then not even that.
He consigned to the moon, such as she was,
So late-arising, to the broken moon
As better than the sun in any case      
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep;
And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.      
One aged man—one man—can’t fill a house,
A farm, a countryside, or if he can,
It’s thus he does it of a winter night.

read more @ http://www.bartleby.com/people/Frost-Ro.html

One of my plans for this year is to read more poetry, as poetry is something nice to read which can also be enjoyed in small doses. And there is loads published online. So I figured I might as well post a few as I find them, to share the fun

Anyway the poem for this week is Solitaire, by Rhett Iseman Trull

I found this one on the site http://www.storysouth.com which, I was brought to via the Endicott journal team. As I have said before I often find good stuff thanks to Endicott! I have donated a little something to the site (it is always a good idea to donate a little something to sites you enjoy frequently, since it helps keep them alive. too many good sites have disappeared without a trace. The same goes for musicians who give their music away, or freeware authors too!)

Anyway, I had never heard of Rhett Iseman Trull, and most likely neither have the 4 readers of this blog….  “Rhett Iseman Trull received her B.A. in English from Duke University and her M.F.A. in poetry from UNCG. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, including The Greensboro Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, Poet Lore and Prairie Schooner. She has taught poetry classes at UNCG and in many high school and ESL classes throughout the triad. She lives in Greensboro, where she works at Acme Comics and edits the poetry journal, Cave Wall (http://www.cavewallpress.com).”

Solitaire  by Rhett Iseman Trull

He has learned to love the loneliness of night,

The possible hauntings, faraway sirens, the silver
Of the sky. He used to follow all the advice: hot baths, warm milk,

Soft jazz, no caffeine. He tried sleeping with socks and without,
In silk or cotton sheets. He even took pills, which made him feel
Upon waking, as if he’d slept through a play’s second act.

...

read more at http://www.storysouth.com/poetry/2007/09/three_poems_3.html 

The illustration is insomnia by fourcrows, see http://fourcrows.wordpress.com/2007/04/ for a larger size and fourcrows’ blog

Of course these are all (c) their authors and/or the place where they were published, and I am not sure whether can post the poem or part of it without breaching it. Posting an extract feels kind of like amputating the poem…  but hopefully it gives a teaser.

One of my plans for this year is to read more poetry, as poetry is something nice to read which can also be enjoyed in small doses. And there is loads published online. So I figured I might as well post a few as I find them, to share the fun

Lara Gose lives in Bloomington, Indiana, with her fiancé, author Ed Gentry. A stint in graduate school, pursuing a doctoral degree in comparative literature, encouraged her to use her knowledge of literature, culture, and literary theory to develop her own creative writing. She writes short fiction, usually in the sci-fi, fantasy, or mystery genres, and when writing poetry she enjoys playing with forms like the pantoum, terzanelle, or sestina.

Visiting Grandma Lara Gose

Her hair is air-spun candy, white;
Cat’s-eye glasses curl across her wrinkled face.
Her bent body bends over a flowered puzzle;
Nervous, crooked fingers try this piece here,
But it doesn’t fit, so they try again somewhere else.
She says, “No, I guess it don’t quite go there.

“It looks like it just might go, but it don’t fit there.
See, there’s those little specks of white.
I reckon I’ll just have to try it some place else.”
I wonder if a raisin has more wrinkles than Grandma’s face.
“You pull up a chair, help me. Sit right here.
Let’s sit and talk, fix this thing up purty, this puzzle.”

...

read the full poem: http://www.strongverse.org/poems/gose_lara.html

Lara’s Blog http://lifl.blogspot.com/

I had never heard of her but her poetry is full of a sense of wonder, curiosity, and often a touch of the mythical - I think.

Here’s a bit of “why we tell stories”

Because we used to have leaves
and on damp days
our muscles feel a tug,
painful now, from when roots
pulled us into the ground

and because our children believe
they can fly, an instinct retained
from when the bones in our arms
were shaped like zithers and broke
neatly under their feathers

and because before we had lungs
we knew how far it was to the bottom
as we floated open-eyed
like painted scarves through the scenery
of dreams, and because we awakened

and learned to speak

see the full poem at http://plagiarist.com/poetry/3140/

She’s now on my list of books to snatch, i have to read more

Some links
short bio http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/85
interview after she got the pulitzer http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/entertainment/april97/mueller_4-14.html

Today I chose a poem by Terry Windling, The Night Journey

I’m too lazy to triple check my facts tonight, so here it is from personal memory.
Now Terry Windling is an artist of multiple talents. First she writes, and she wrote one of my favorite books, The Wood Wife. She also writes poetry (obviously!), short stories and non fiction in blogs and magazines, drawing on her extensive knowledge of myth, folk lore and all related arts. She is also a visual artist. Then she is an editor of many successful anthologies, and last - but not least, to me, since this one influences me every week , via the Endicott studio, magazine and blog she also constantly finds delightful art around myth and folk lore, and writes fascinating reflections around all mythical topics. I have mentioned Endicott more than once on this blog so I will not bore my few readers away by going on.

This poem is very much a bit of an enumeration poem, but very musical and evocative… makes it hard to pick an bit out of… besides the page states not to reproduce it without permission in any form. So just go there, I’m too chicken to ask for permission to reproduce an excerpt. But I have had the poem bookmarked a while and it makes me want to go in a forest take pictures, or even draw…

The Night Journey

http://www.endicott-studio.com/cofhs/cofinvoc.html