Monthly Archives: November 2015

The Shadow People, Francis Ledwidge

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Laughing faces in the wild… Some of the images are so lovely.

The Shadow People

[…]

Old lame Bridget says to me,
“It is just your fancy, child.”
She cannot believe I see
Laughing faces in the wild,
Hands that twinkle in the sedge
Bowing at the water’s edge
Where the finny minnows quiver,
Shaping on a blue wave’s ledge
Bubble foam to sail the river.
And the sunny hands to me
Beckon ever, beckon ever.
Oh! I would be wild and free,
And with the shadow people be.

Francis Ledwidge

Oh, better than the minting
. Of a gold-crowned king
Is the safe-kept memory
. Of a lovely thing.

Blanche Jennings Thompson

 
Some One

Some one came knocking
. At my wee, small door;
Someone came knocking;
. I’m sure-sure-sure;
I listened, I opened,
. I looked to left and right,
But nought there was a stirring
. In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
. Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
. The screech-owl’s call,
Only the cricket whistling
. While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
. At all, at all, at all.

Walter de la Mare

Night Dancers

Their quick feet pattered on the grass
As light as dewdrops fall.
I saw their shadows on the glass
And heard their voices call.

But when I went out hurrying
To join them, they were gone.
I only found a little ring
Of footprints on the lawn.

Thomas Kennedy

Abebooks.com: All The Silver Pennies…buy it from an Indie store!!!

The Find…Francis Ledwidge

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From Blanche Jennings Thompson’s comments: “It was a little Irish boy who made a flute for himself out of a reed and played a fairy tune. What do you think he found in the fairy ring?”

This poem takes me immediately to the quiet and the hill…

The Find

I took a reed and blew a tune,
And sweet it was and very clear
To be about a little thing
That only few hold dear.

Three times the cuckoo named himself,
But nothing heard him on the hill,
Where I was piping like an elf
The air was very still.

‘Twas all about a little thing
I made a mystery of sound,
I found it in a fairy ring
Upon a fairy mound.
Francis Ledwidge

Buy All The Silver Pennies from an Indie bookstore 🙂 here 

 

All the silver pennies #children #poetry #iNeedFeminismBecause

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A book full of verse for children, youth and readers 🙂 It’s interesting if you change up the gender of the poetry or don’t write down a name at all, the poems seem to have different meanings and different inherent “worth”. That’s internalized prioritization of white male poets, sadly enough. But fucking around with genders this way is fun too- because of the changes in your own mind.

There is a star that runs very fast,
That goes pulling the moon
Through the tops of the poplars.
It is all in silver,
The tall star:
The moon rolls goldenly along
Out of breath.
Mr. Moon, does he make you hurry?

Hilda Conklin

All the Silver Pennies: Combining Silver Pennies and More Silver Pennies
Collection of poetry for children. Reissue in one volume of silver pennies (1925) and more silver pennies (1938).
Originally published: 1967 Editors: Blanche Jennings Thompson

The moon? It is a griffin’s egg,
Hatching to-morrow night.
And how the little boys will watch
With shouting and delight
To see him break the shell and stretch
And creep across the sky.
…
Yet gentle will the griffin be,
Most decorous and fat,
And walk up to the milky way
And lap it like a cat.

Nicholas Vachel Lindsay

“Nicholas(1879 – 1931) was born in Springfield, Illinois to a close and devoutly religious family. His family hoped Vachel would become a doctor like his father, but he was drawn to art and poetry from an early age. Though he began self-publishing many years earlier, distributing his work for free and reading it wherever he could find an audience, his first poem wasn’t “officially” published until he was 34.

Vachel literally walked across the country for years, exchanging poems for food and lodging.

His readings were bold, dramatic presentations, his poems typically focused on social issues, and the public loved him.

Never very healthy, Vachel slowly succumbed to a manic-depressive disorder aggravated by debt and declining creativity; he killed himself by drinking cleaning solvent at the age of 52, leaving behind his wife and two young children. Learn more about him at http://www.vachellindsayhome.org.”

 

Abebooks.com: All The Silver Pennies…buy it from an Indie store!!!

Brenda Hillman #iNeedFeminismBecause Claudia Rankine

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on the back and forth blanket
from the fathers’ cars—
they lay down with you, and when
did you start missing them.

As Sacramento missed its yellow dust 1852.
When did you start missing those
who invented your body with their sparks—

(LS, 4) Brenda Hillman

all love is representative
of the beginning of time. When you are loved
the darkness carries you.
When you are loved, you are golden—

(LS, 5-6)

—Then the owl came back the druid the helper
and you asked,
Where is she who we love. Who-who,
it said, who-who, matching sets
for you and her—

you who had thought distinction
in the pronouns
found they were all the same—

(DT, 9)

American Women Poets in the 21st Century, Claudia Rankine ed.

It hurts everywhere

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By Emily Dickinson

I wonder if They bore it long – 
Or did it just begin –
I could not tell the Date of Mine –
It feels so old a pain – 

I wonder if it hurts to live –
And if They have to try –
And whether – could They choose between –
It would not be – to die –

I note that Some – gone patient long –
At length, renew their smile –
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil –

I wonder if when Years have piled –
Some Thousands – on the Harm –
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any Balm –

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve –
Enlightened to a larger Pain –
In Contrast with the Love –

The Grieved – are many – I am told –
There is the various Cause –
Death – is but one – and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –

There’s Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –
A sort they call “Despair” –
There’s Banishment from native Eyes –
In sight of Native Air –

Akua Lezli Hope RESIGNATION Rattle.com

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#iNeedFeminismBecause we need to rethink some of the systems in place for educating children. Too many schools are like this: chaos, stress, not understanding, falling behind, falling behind, falling behind, shame and instead we need to create a drive in kids to search for as many possible arguments, answers, questions, as their little heart and body can take -and for them to have joy doing this.

Akua Lezli Hope

RESIGNATION

I cannot justify making students cry,
the disorder is in the system.
Too small to span the keyboard, hands shake trying
behaviors far beyond them in the curriculum.
The disorder is in the system.
They cry with frustration. They must attempt
behaviors far beyond them in the curriculum,
scored on wildly inappropriate assessments.
They cry with frustration. They must attempt
poorly written tests. Their shoulders slump. Some misbehave.
Scored on wildly inappropriate assessments,
teachers are regimented, punished if they deviate.
Children hunt for letters they must attempt
but cannot read. Disorder is in the system.

“How the River” by Julia Runcie

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Beautiful view of city and backlands. I like the poem better starting in the middle. The whole poem is at the bottom.

Julia Runcie

HOW THE RIVER

…
I know the city is not less simply
because I want less of it.
But how different it is, now,
to wade across the tumbled creek
when once I crossed
the out-flung arms of bridges
and was speechless at their beauty
and never for a moment thought
of how the river lay
beneath the bridge.

.

.

http://www.rattle.com/poetry/how-the-river-by-julia-runcie/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+rattle%2FCNOS+%28Rattle%3A+Poetry+for+the+21st+Century%29

The whole poem:

Julia Runcie

HOW THE RIVER

Strange that for so many years
I walked among the peopled buildings
and did not think of mountains.
I took my comfort
in the streetlight
and the stoplight.
I lay not wakeful
for the owl’s low hooting in the canyon.
I know the city is not less simply
because I want less of it.
But how different it is, now,
to wade across the tumbled creek
when once I crossed
the out-flung arms of bridges
and was speechless at their beauty
and never for a moment thought
of how the river lay
beneath the bridge.