jim henson

Emily Dickinson is one of my favorite poets. I read this poem on Poets United and wanted to share.

This seems to speak of the transience of the poetic and the attempt on the part of the poet to harness that.

To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie—
True Poems flee—-

Today's poem is Poetic Recitation on the Rule of St. Benedict by Peter Menkin. It is quite short and read by the author. July 11th was the feast of St. Benedict, father of monastic Christianity.

I remember being mesmerized by this poem when I first read it on the refrigerator of a neighbor.  It is called

Children Learn What They Live

If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn.
If children live with hostility, they learn to fight.
If children live with fear, they learn to be apprehensive.
If children live with pity, they learn to feel sorry for themselves.
If children live with ridicule, they learn to feel shy.
If children live with jealousy, they learn to feel envy.
If children live with shame, they learn to feel guilty.
If children live with encouragement, they learn confidence.
If children live with tolerance, they learn patience.
If children live with praise, they learn appreciation.
If children live with acceptance, they learn to love.
If children live with approval, they learn to like themselves.
If children live with recognition, they learn it is good to have a goal.
If children live with sharing, they learn generosity.
If children live with honesty, they learn truthfulness.
If children live with fairness, they learn justice.
If children live with kindness and consideration, they learn respect.
If children live with security, they learn to have faith in themselves and in those about them.
If children live with friendliness, they learn the world is a nice place in which to live.

I am excited to share with you all the blog Monostich.  It highlights something I didn't know existed--one-line haiku!  They've got some great one-line ku over there.  Stop by, take a deep breath, and read a few.

Every once in a while, I come up with a one-line haiku and feel a bit guilty about it, but no more--I've written a monostich!

The latest one I've written that I thought lent itself to being a one-liner is this one:

I work well under the pressure of having a job. 

Nothing earth-shattering, but it seems I did stumble upon an actual poetic form!  Perfect for twittering, I think.

I wrote this poem after listening to "Summer in the City" during one of the hottest days of the year. It is called "This Time."

This summer
in this city
brings me back to troubled times
announced in hushed tones
on black
and white
tv; it formed the soundtrack of our lives.

This time it's so hot
that money melts
quicker than we can make it;
quicker than the company
can decide
to put enough aside
to throw our way
like the the biblical rich man
to the dogs.

This time, the violence is horrifically new
and yet, pit-of-the-stomach familiar.
All in HD
24 hours a day
for our eternal
entertainment.

This time, we are walled away,
each alone in our
climate-controlled cubicle
complete with computer
that goes everywhere we go
to distract us
from reality.

It is happening again,
but this time,
I don't see

a revolution.

This is a favorite poem of mine that I wanted to share. I wish I could find the version my son had on tape when he was a kid.

This week's poem is Let it Go by e. e. cummings.  Cummings was born in Massachusetts in 1894 and was a pioneer of modern poetry in his experimentation with form, punctuation, spelling and sound in poetry.   Here is his poem--Let it Go.  


let it go - the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise - let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go - the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers - you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go - the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things - let all go
dear

so comes love

A Dream Deferred


What happens to a dream deferred?


Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?


Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.


Or does it explode?

If you live long enough, you will experience a "dream deferred."  Langston Hughes was speaking of an entire people who were prevented from living the so-called American dream, but we all feel this pain sometimes in our lives.

ROSES

You love the roses - so do I. I wish
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and white
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!

To a Husband

Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River
Are your words in the dark, Beloved.

This haiku by Asei made me think of walking through a grave yard on a hot summer's day at the end of the dry season. The withered grass is beautifully juxtaposed (in my mind) with the deceased under the ground. Even their names are disappearing from the worn out grave stones.

I found it on a website of Japanese Haiku Death Poetry, written by Zen monks on the verge of death and thought it appropriate to post for the recent Memorial Day Holiday.

It reminds me of the end of American Poet Emily Dickinson's poem, I died for beauty.

and so as kinsmen met a night
and talked between the rooms
until the moss had reached our lips
and covered up
our names

For me, this also evokes images of death and the grave. Both are eerily similar in their imagery.

Not Dawdling
Not dawdling
not doubting
intrepid all the way
walk toward clarity
with sharp eye
With sharpened sword
clearcut the path
to the lucent surprise
of enlightenment
At every crossroad
be prepared to bump into wonder

I really like this poem by James Broughton from his book Little Sermons of the Big Joy. Each word tells a story. The poem, which I found on Poetry Chaikhana is concisely written with a positive message.

Russ Baleson wrote this haiku about these museum sheep from the Museum for Communications in Germany.

Having just been blessed enough to attend a poetry reading by Billy Collins, I thought I'd post his poem, The Lanyard, in honor of mothers everywhere.

The introduction is by Garrison Keillor.

On the occasion of the 50th birthday of a dear, old friend, today's Poetry Wednesday will be a reading of Shakespeare's Sonnet number 30.  Having turned 50 the day before, I understand now, much more than when I first read this sonnet in college, the feeling of  "wail(ing) my dear time's waste" and having my "losses restored" by the great gift of a friend who understands.