Wallace Stevens poem

 

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

 

by Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)

 

 

(submitted by Prof. Robert Tarutis)

 

 

 

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadows of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

 

Rain in Summer

How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain! 
How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout! 
Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain! 
The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His& nbsp;fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 
From the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean. 
In the country, on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain
How welcome is the rain! 
In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand;
Lifting the  yoke encumbered head,
With their dilated nostrils spread,
They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapors that arise
From the well-watered and smoking soil.
For this rest in the furrow after toil
Their large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man's spoken word. 
Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees,
The farmer sees
His pastures, and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain . 
These, and far more than these,
The Poet sees!
He can behold
Aquarius old
Walking the fenceless fields of air;
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled
Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain. 
He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,--
Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water-drops
Down to the graves of the dead,
Down through chasms and gulfs profound,
To the dreary fountain-head
Of lakes and rivers under ground;
And  ;sees them, when the rain is done,
On the bridge of colors seven
Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun. 
Thus the Seer,
With vision clear,
Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange,
Mysterious change
From birth to death, from death to birth,
From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;
Till glimpses more sublime
Of things, unseen before,
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning forevermore
In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 

Written by: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Submitted by: Jennifer Stevens

 

---

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Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkles legs of stone

Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

---

1818, by Percy Shelley

Submitted by Joshua Supernor

HOPE

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I 've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

 

 

Emily Dickinson                                           

One Morning

One Morning

Looking for distinctive stones, I found the dead otter
rotting by the tideline, and carried all day the scent of this savage
valediction. That headlong high sound the oystercatcher makes
came echoing through the rocky cove
where a cormorant was feeding and submarining in the bay
and a heron rose off a boulder where he'd been invisible,
drifted a little, stood again -- a hieroglyph
or just longevity reflecting on itself
between the sky clouding over and the lightly ruffled water.

This was the morning after your dream of dying, of being held
and told it didn’t matter. A butterfly went jinking over
the wave-silky stones, and where I turned
to go up the road again, a couple in a blue camper sat
smoking their cigarettes over their breakfast coffee (blue
scent of smoke, the thick dark smell of fresh coffee)
and talking in quiet voices, first one then the other answering,
their radio telling the daily news behind them. It was warm.
All seemed at peace. I could feel the sun coming off the water.

by Eamon Grennan

A Poem by Gary R. Hess

The author has requested that we include a link back to the point of publication. To see the following poem at the author's own web site, along with more of his work, click here.

Strong and sober times of old
Walking, creeping towards inner time
Small cravings across the land
Wondering, thinking till time has come
Feelings amongst those of old
Haunted now and structured future
Scent of ranched tyranny
Fill the air
Touch of gold left behind
Growing pains and slender bliss
Crying lower beneath the skin
Tears pouring, listening to all was done
Nothing comes or goes
Nothing seems to change
All is still the same
Luxuriant days of hope
Obsessed nights of lustful energy
Virgin minds sown together
Exasperated Humanity

The author's web site is http://www.poemofquotes.com

submitted by Michael Gens

The Big Baboon

Big Baboon, The

The Big Baboon is found upon The plains of Cariboo: He goes about with nothing on (A shocking thing to do). But if he dressed up respectably And let his whiskers grow, How like this Big Baboon would be To Mister So-and-so! Hilaire Belloc Clayton Lutton

The Elephant

Elephant, The

When people call this beast to mind, They marvel more and more At such a little tail behind, So large a trunk before. Hilaire Belloc

Clayton Lutton

Li Bai

Facing my wine, I did not see the dusk,
Falling blossoms have filled the folds of my clothes.
Drunk, I rise and approach the moon in the stream,
Birds are far off, people too are few.

-Li Bai

submitted by Brandon Chao

Wisdom from Zora Neale Hurston

I cannot imagine being around anyone who does not delight in my presence. Submitted by Diane Harper

PHENOMENENAL WOMAN BY MAYA ANGELOU

PHENOMENAL WOMAN by MAYA ANGELOU

 

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips,

the stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

 

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth.

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

 

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can't see.

I say,

It's in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman.

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

 

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It's in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

The palm of my hand,

The ned of my care,

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

 

Submitted by Diane Harper

"He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" by W. B. Yeats

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

by W. B. Yeats

submitted by Chris Kaine

 

The Round

By Stanley Kunitz

 

Light splashed this morning
on the shell-pink anemones
swaying on their tall stems;
down blue-spiked veronica
light flowed in rivulets
over the humps of the honeybees;
this morning I saw light kiss
the silk of the roses
in their second flowering,
my late bloomers,
flushed with their brandy.
A curious gladness shook me.

So I have shut the doors of my house,
so I have trudged downstairs to my cell,
so I am sitting in semi-dark
hunched over my desk
with nothing for a view
to tempt me
but a bloated compost heap,
steamy old stinkpile,
under my window;
and I pick my notebook up
and I start to read aloud
the still-wet words I scribbled
on the blotted page:
“Light splashed…”

I can scarcely wait for tomorrow
when a new life begins for me,
as it does each day,
as it does each day.

The World is too Much with Us

The World is too Much with Us

The world is too much with us: late and soon,
Getting and spending , we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, , a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn,--
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wre`athed horn.




Although William Wordsworth wrote this poem in 1807,
warning his countrymen that they had lost sight of
what was important, it sounds very contemporary.

Louise Silva
Disabilities Services
Rm 216C

A Young Woman, A Tree

Passing that fiery tree—if only she could
      Be making love,
      Be making poetry,      
      Be exploding, be speeding through the universe
      Like a photon, like a shower
      Of yellow blazes— 
  She believes if she could only overtake
      The riding rhythm of things,
      Of her own electrons,
      Then she would be at rest
      If she could forget school,
      Climb the tree,
      Be the tree,
      Burn like that.
She doesn’t know yet, how could she
      That this same need
      Is going to erupt every September
      And that in 40 years the idea will strike her
      From no apparent source,
      In a Laundromat
      Between a washer and a dryer,
      Like one of those electric light bulbs
      Lighting up near a character’s head in a comic strip—
      There in that naked and soiled place
      With its detergent machines,
      Its speckled fluorescent lights,
      Its lint piles broomed into corners as she fumbles for quarters
      And dimes, she will start to chuckle and double over
      Into the plastic baskets’
      Mountain of wet      
      Bedsheets and bulky overalls—
      Old lady! She’ll grin,
      beguiled at herself,

      Old lady! The desire to burn is already a burning! How about that!

The Lake

Mihai Eminescu The Lake Water lilies load all over The blue lake amid the woods, That imparts, while in white circles Startling, to a boat its moods. And along the strands I'm passing Listening, waiting, in unrest, That she from the reeds may issue And fall, gently, on my breast; That we may jump in the little Boat, while water's voices whelm All our feelings; that enchanted I may drop my oars and helm; That all charmed we may be floating While moon's kindly light surrounds Us, winds cause the reeds to rustle And the waving water sounds. But she does not come; abandoned, Vainly I endure and sigh Lonely, as the water lilies On the blue lake ever lie. (1876, Translated by Dimitrie Cuclin)

 

Submitted By: Sandra Faur

    This is my favorite Romanian author this poem is translated therefore it does not capture the original essence of Eminescu but he is still brilliant in my oppinion.

The Objection To Being Stepped On

My Most Favorite Frost Poem. As Boys, my Brothers & me Found This Poem to be the Most Hillarious of Robert Frost's!!!

Submitted by Jims Hanlon

---

The Objection To Being Stepped On
by Robert Frost - 1962

At the end of the row
I stepped on the toe
Of an unemployed hoe.
It rose in offense
And struck me a blow
In the seat of my sense.
It wasn't to blame
But I called it a name.
And I must say it dealt
Me a blow that I felt
Like a malice prepense.
You may call me a fool,
But was there a rule
The weapon should be
Turned into a tool?
And what do we see?
The first tool I step on
Turned into a weapon.

Things I Put Away

Things I Put Away

 

I am not sure when it happened

Or if my decision was a conscious one

But at some point I put them away

It was and is a big part of me

My child within

 

Who is not afraid to ask

Who is not afraid to need

Who is not afraid to be wrong

Who is not afraid to love

 

I censor now

I am afraid now

I worry now

Colors do not bring about

Quizzical wonder and amazement

Discovery and re-discovery

Lost along with the need to investigate and explore

Caution and danger replace adventure and freedom

 

I do not cry anymore

I do not marvel anymore

I do not dream anymore

I do not forgive anymore

 

I measure and time and watch and hide and cling…

To the enormous adult wall I built for myself

Anxious, mumbling, angry, fearful…God

I think its time to look for

The things I put away

                                 

BR

 

 

Bill Raynor

Director of Athletics, Recreation and Wellness

MassBay CC

50 Oakland Street

Wellesley Hills, Ma. 02481

(p) 781-239-2665

(c) 781-239-2669

braynor@massbay.edu

www.massbay.edu

 

Promise

Promise -- By Francesa Lia Block

 

Summer - breathe your warmth into the cold whiteness
of my soul and skin
make me brown, nourish me, promise me...

There will be windows of light in our eyes
and laughter.

If only I could promise...

There will be thirsty, shimmering noons
with hot sand cascading between bare toes.
There will be evening
with the memory of sunshine on our burnished skins
There will be the song of the sea.

If only...

Summer - I am a child of rain-light.
I am a prisoner of noon corridors -
marking away time on the renaissance of so many moons,
watching time pass
vanishing like sand between bare toes.

Promise me...

I am growing up but let me be young
with light in my eyes
and sun on my skin.

--Submitted by Cristina Bastianelli

Francesa Lia Block is one of my favorite novelists. I wasn't aware that she wrote poetry untill we were asked to submit a poe m we enjoyed for poetry month and I began to search around.  I like how Blocke associates living with summer, as if every other season is just passing time until the sun returns.

unknown title

As I've traveled through life

I've come to realize

That most lessons just can't be taught.

You'll turn your ear

say "Yes, I understand"

But most answers will have to be sought

And along the way

When things seem worse

Like you physically can't go on

You'll feel like you lost

A piece of your soul

And there's no other way to get along.

But deep down inside

There's a place in your heart

Where you know

Your emotions can hide

And there in your heart

You'll find peace of mind

And learn to get up and go on.

 

Tina Louise Cuddi