Pondering Poetry

Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular. - Aristotle

 

“Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through anyone that suits you.”

 – Jim Morrison

The Worldling, pining to be freed
From turmoil, who would turn or speed
The current of his fate,
Might stop before this favored scene,
At Nature's call, nor blush to lean
Upon the Wishing-gate.

- William Wadsworth

I’m often reminded of poetry when I’m in a garden-

Especially when rhyming lines are visibly engraved into

nearby stones. Since this is my blog, I’m permitting myself

the liberty of posting whatever I want- Today, it’s poetry. Tomorrow, 

who-knows-itry…

Enjoy more pictures taken at

Cheekwood, as you scroll on to expose yourself to some

of my favorite literary excerpts…Don’t like it? That’s okay

because I do, and this is my ‘Hodge-podge’ blog of miscellaneous

postings that normally have nothing to do with my previous entries. 

I’ve heard that blogs should be specifically focused on one particular topic in order to become successful- To that, I say, pish-posh…at least, for now. 

I see too many things and think too many thoughts to focus writing and posting about just one. Poetry has always been accommodating of my varied interpretations and outlooks on life- as it has always been of yours...Kinda magical, don't you think?

“If a man comes to the door of poetry untouched by the madness of the Muses, believing that technique alone will make him a good poet, he and his sane compositions never reach perfection, but are utterly eclipsed by the performances of the inspired madman.” - Socrates

I have written some poetry that I don't understand myself. – Carl Sandburg

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men :
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow ;
Society is all but rude,
To this delicious solitude.

- Andrew Marvell, The Garden

Nature by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

Like ripples on the water
My thoughts so gently cast
Soft glimpses to the future
And houses of the past…

- Liilia Morrison

O SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,-
Nature’s observatory - whence the dell,
Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
’Mongst boughs pavillion’d,

where the deer’s swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.
But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d,
Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

- John Keats

We don't read and write poetry because it's cute.  We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.  And the human race is filled with passion.  And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life.  But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.  

-Dead Poet's Society

Warm Summer Sun  

by Mark Twain

Warm summer sun,  

Shine kindly here, 

Warm southern wind,     

Blow softly here. 

Green sod above,     

Lie light, lie light. 

Good night, dear heart,     

Good night, good night.

A tree house, a free house,

A secret you and me house,
A high up in the leafy branches
Cozy as can be house

A street house, a neat house
Be sure to wipe your feet house
I not my kind of house at all-
Let's go live in a tree house.

- Shel Silverstein

For Whom The Bell Tolls

Written by: John Donne      No man is an island, Entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manner of thine own Or of thine friend's were. Each man's death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know For whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee.

For Whom The Bell Tolls

Written by: John Donne 

  

 No man is an island, Entire of itself. 

Each is a piece of the continent, 

A part of the main. 

If a clod be washed away by the sea, 

Europe is the less. 

As well as if a promontory were. 

As well as if a manner of thine own 

Or of thine friend's were. 

Each man's death diminishes me, 

For I am involved in mankind. 

Therefore, send not to know 

For whom the bell tolls, 

It tolls for thee.

The Winding Stair

My Soul. I summon to the winding ancient stair;
Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,
Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,
Upon the breathless starlit air,
'Upon the star that marks the hidden pole;
Fix every wandering thought upon
That quarter where all thought is done:
Who can distinguish darkness from the soul…
- William Butler Yeats