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Thursday, October 31, 2019

All Hallows Night / Lizette Woodworth Reese


All Hallows Night

Two things I did on Hallows Night:—
Made my house April-clear;
Left open wide my door
To the ghosts of the year.

Then one came in. Across the room
It stood up long and fair —
The ghost that was myself —
And gave me stare for stare.

~~
Lizette Woodworth Reese (1856-1935)
from Selected Poems, 1926

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the European Union]

Lizette Woordworth Reese biography

Sunday, October 27, 2019

Hallowe'en / Coningsby Dawson


Hallowe'en

Hark to the patter of the rain,
Voices of dead things come again:
Feet that rustle the lush wet grass,
Lips that mutter, "Alas! Alas!"
And shadows that grope o'er my window-pane.

Poor outcast souls, you saw my light
And thought that I, on such a night,
Would pity take and bid you in
To warm your hands, so palely thin,
Before my fire which blazeth bright.

You come from hells of ice-cold clay
So pent that, striving every way.
You may not stir the coffin-lid;
And well you know that, if you did.
Darkness would come and not the day.

Darkness! With you 'tis ever dark;
No joy of skyward-mounting lark
Or blue of swallow on the wing
Can penetrate and comfort bring
You, where you lie all cramp'd and stark.

Deep sunk beneath the secret mould,
You hear the worm his length unfold
And slime across your frail roof-plank,
And tap, and vanish, like the rank
Foul memory of a sin untold.

And this your penance in the tomb:
To weave upon the mind's swift loom
White robes, to garb remorsefully
A Better Life — which may not be
Or, when it comes, may seal your doom.

Thus, side by side, through all the year,
Yet just apart, you wake and hear,
As men on land the ocean's strum,
Your Dead World's hushed delirium
Which, sounding distant, yet is near.

So near that, could he lean aside,
The bridegroom well might touch his bride
And reach her flesh, which once was fair,
And, slow across the pale lips where
He kissed her, feel his fingers glide.

So distant, that he can but weep
Whene'er she moans his name in sleep:
A cold-grown star, with light all spent,
She gropes the abyssmal firmament.
He hears her surging in the Deep.

Ever throughout the year 'tis thus
Till drones the dream-toned Angelus
Of Hallowe'en; then, underground,
Unto dead ears its voice doth sound
Like Christ's voice, crying, "Lazarus."

Palsied with haste the dead men rise
Groaning, because their unused eyes
Can scarce endure Earth's blackest night;
It wounds them as 'twere furious light
And stars were flame-clouds in the skies.

What tenderness and sad amaze
Must grieve lost spirits when they gaze
Beneath a withered moon, and view
The ancient happiness they knew —
The live, sweet world and all its ways!

Ho, Deadmen! for a night you're free
Till Dawn leads back Captivity,
To make your respite seem more dear
Mutter throughout your joy this fear:

"Who knows, within the coming year,
That God, our gaoler, may not die;
Then, who'd remember where we lie?
Who then will come to set us free?
Through all the ages this may be
Our final night of liberty."

Aye, hoard your moments miserly.

*   *   *

And yet . . . and yet, it is His rain
That drives against my window-pane.
Oh, surely all Earth's dead have rest
And stretch at peace in God's own breast,
And never can retum again!

And yet . . .

~~
Coningsby Dawson (1883-1959)
from A Vision of Florence, and other poems, 1916

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Coningsby Dawson biography

Saturday, October 26, 2019

Demons / George J. Dance


Demons

We'd dress as ghosts or devils once a year
to run and yell like vandals home-to-home,
high on the sugar we’d take by threats of harm
we'd chant at every door – but there was no fear,
for we played out roles from long-forgotten darks
when noxious, flesh-bound demons stalked, who'd kill
or maim at whim – those who’d evade their rule
confined like sheep, asleep behind bars and locks.

My children's children dress and do the like,
but chaperoned (kids don't go out alone)
and only in the twilight; when it's night,
parent and child are locked within the home
because "It's just not safe these days" – a fact
so calmly noted: Demon-time is back.

~~
George J. Dance, 2009

[All rights reserved - used with permission

Demons and The End of Time in The Horrorzine.

Sunday, October 20, 2019

To the October Wind / Ethelwyn Wetherald


To the October Wind

Old playmate, showering the way
   With thick leaf storms in red and gold,
I’m only six years old to-day,
   You’ve made me feel but six years old.
In yellow gown and scarlet hood
   I whirled, a leaf among the rest,
Or lay within the thinning wood,
   And played that you were Red-of-breast.

Old comrade, lift me up again;
   Your arms are strong, your feet are swift,
And bear me lightly down the lane
   Through all the leaves that drift and drift,
And out into the twilight wood,
   And lay me softly down to rest,
And cover me just as you would
   If you were really Red-of-breast.

~~
Ethelwyn Wetherald (1857-1940)
from The House of the Trees, and other poems, 1895

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Ethelwyn Wetherald biography

Saturday, October 19, 2019

October / Paul Hamilton Hayne


October

The passionate Summer's dead! the sky's aglow,
     With roseate flushes of matured desire,
The winds at eve are musical and low,
     As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre,
     Far up among the pillared clouds of fire,
Whose pomp of strange procession upward rolls,
With gorgeous blazonry of pictured scrolls,
     To celebrate the summer's past renown;
     Ah, me! how regally the Heavens look down,
O'ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods,
     And harvest fields with hoarded increase brown,
And deep-toned majesty of golden floods,
     That raise their solemn dirges to the sky,
     To swell the purple pomp that floateth by.

~~
Paul Hamilton Hayne (1830-1886)
from Poems, 1855

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Paul Hamilton Hayne biography

Sunday, October 13, 2019

Poppies in October / Sylvia Plath


Poppies in October

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly –

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

Oh my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frosts, in a dawn of cornflowers.

~~
Sylvia Plath (1932-1963}, 1962
from Ariel, 1965

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]


Sylvia Plath biography

Saturday, October 12, 2019

Autumn Love / John Byrne Leicester Warren


Autumn Love

The autumn brought my love to me.
     The birds sing not in spring alone;
For fancy all the year is free
     To find a sweetness of its own:
And sallow woods and crystal morn
Were sweeter than the budded thorn.

When redwings peopled brake and down
     I kissed her mouth: in morning air
The rosy clover dried to brown
     Beneath thro' all its glowing square.
Around the bramble berries set
Their beaded globes intenser jet.

True love, I whispered, when I fold
     To mine thy little lips so sweet,
The headland trembles into gold,
     The sun goes up on firmer feet.
And drenched in glory one by one
The terrace clouds will melt and run.

Our lips are close as doves in nest;
     And life in strength flows everywhere
In larger pulses through the breast
     That breathe with thine a mutual air.
My nature almost shrinks to be
In this great moment's ecstasy.

Lo, yonder myriad-tinted wood
     With all its phases golden-brown,
Lies calm; as if it understood,
     That in the flutter of thy gown
Abides a wonder more to me
Than lustrous leagues of forest sea.

And far and deep we heard the sound
     And low of pasture-going kine.
Your trembling lips spake not: I found
     Their silence utterly divine.
Again, the fluttering accents crept
Between them, failed, then how you wept!

~~
John Byrne Leicester Warren (1835-1895)
from Studies in Verse, 1865

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

John Byrne Leicester Warren biography

Sunday, October 6, 2019

An October Nocturne / Yvor Winters


An October Nocturne

The night was faint and sheer;
Immobile, road and dune.
Then, for a moment, clear,
A plane moved past the moon.

O spirit cool and frail,
Hung in the lunar fire!
Spun wire and brittle veil!
And tremblingly slowly higher!

Pure in each proven line!
The balance and the aim,
Half empty, half divine!
I saw how true you came.

Dissevered from your cause,
Your function was your goal.
Oblivious of my laws,
You made your calm patrol.

~~
Yvor Winters (1900-1968)
from Poetry, March 1938

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Saturday, October 5, 2019

Under the harvest moon / Carl Sandburg

from Days

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.

Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

~~
Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)
from Poetry, October 1915

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Carl Sandburg biography

"Under the Harvest Moon" read by Eugene Burger. Courtesy The Artistic Nomad.

Tuesday, October 1, 2019

Penny's Top 20 / September 2019


Penny's Top 20
The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in September 2019:

  1.  The Dwarf, Wallace Stevens
  2.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens
  3.  7/16/69, George J. Dance
  4.  2 poems on summer's end, Emily Dickinson
  5.  Rich Days, W.H. Davies
  6.  Composed upon Westminster Bridge, William Wordsworth
  7.  A Song for September, Thomas William Parsons
  8.  September, Lucy Maud Montgomery
  9.  Rondel for September, Karle Wilson Baker

10.  The Day is a Poem, Robinson Jeffers

11.  September in the Laurentian Hills, William Wilfred Campbell
12.  Once Like a Light, AE Reiff
13.  On an Apple-Ripe September Morning, Patrick Kavanagh
14.  Autumn Rain, Pearl Andelson Sherry
15.  Last Week in October, Thomas Hardy
16.  The Motive for Metaphor, Wallace Stevens
17.  A Summer's Night, Paul Laurence Dunbar
18.  As imperceptibly as Grief, Emily Dickinson
19.  The Poplars, Bernard Freeman Trotter
20.  Autumn, T.E. Hulme


Source: Blogger, "Stats"