Literary . Poetry
Fishmonger
On February 20, 2022 by Speranza
I have taken scales from off
The cheeks of the moon.
I have made fins from bluejays’ wings,
I have made eyes from damsons in the shadow.
I have taken flushes from the peachlips in the sun.
Poetry
Leisure
On February 4, 2022 by Speranza
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows:
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
W.H.Davies, 1911.
Getting Older . Love . Poetry
Listening to our Elders
On April 26, 2021 by Speranza
Perhaps like myself you are consumed with dread much of the time these days but just for a moment, let us not think about The Pandemic.
The General and I distracted ourselves over hot cross buns and marmalade the other day by listening to Sir Anthony Hopkins on the radio and he was full of amusing banter and stories from years ago (hanging out with Peter O’Toole and Olivier, that type of thing) but what I really appreciate, always, is when a wise, older person (or anyone, really) makes themselves completely vulnerable and sincerely speaks from the heart. (He notes how easily he cries for example and how “the past is very present” with him these days).
Rather refreshing to hear in a judging, Instagram world.
Poetry
London Snow by Robert Bridges
On February 16, 2021 by SperanzaWhen men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marvelled—marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.
Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder,
‘O look at the trees!’ they cried, ‘O look at the trees!’
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company long dispersed asunder:
When now already the sun, in pale display
Standing by Paul’s high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.
Poetry . Writers
The Moon, Ten Times by Pat Schneider
On January 20, 2021 by Speranza
O round, cool face of forever
float free
for me
Saucer without a teacup
without the tyranny
of tea
Owl eye without a pupil
blind
to contradiction
My white balloon
has lost its string
and me
Round, open mouth
of the goddess
of light
The night sky’s
exclamation:
Oh!
Puppeteer
of tides,
rock the shore of the world
Bright Frisbee
the dog star lost
in the night
Perfect pearl
crown of cornfields
and night watchmen’s hair
Bellybutton
of God
Permission granted to post here by: Pat Schneider, Writing Alone and with others, Oxford Univ.Press, 2003.
I have truly adored this poem since the first time I read it – the descriptions are exquisite and everything about it is full of unselfconscious whimsy and joy. I’ve been a huge fan of Pat Schneider’s work for years now and when I originally emailed her directly to ask permission to eventually put this on the blog, she was supremely gracious and we began a brief bit of back and forth correspondence which was absolutely thrilling to me.