Ephemeris / Babette Deutsch

Ephemeris

Above the river in a summer swoon
Hangs the still air, and in the warm embrace
Of afternoon
We too lie dumbly, full of soft delight.
The grass is sweet to smell:
We suck the white
Fresh ends of it, and the green pleasant place
Where we are lapped seems with that faint taste sweeter
Than any poppied isle in remote seas
To some divinely drowsy lotus-eater.

Long, long
We lie, and have no care for any human thing,
Save for the snatch of song
Where, bathing gaily, tawny-bodied boys
Upfling
The water round them; or from a child at play
Floats the shrill ripple of laughter far away.
And then sharp stillness, pointed by the stir
Of little winds among the boughs, wherethru
The deep sky shines impenetrably blue.

Wrapped in that golden haze we weave at will
The scents and airs of summer's subtle loom;
Regretting but the moments as they pass,
The perished bloom
Of the wan day, that like the wind is gone;
And in the growing hush we watch her die;
And watch, beneath the same impersonal sky
The wimpled river flowing greyly on.

~~
Babette Deutsch (1895-1982)
from Banners, 1919

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

Babette Deutsch biography

Late August / William Stanley Braithwaite

Late August

Change of heart in the dreams I bear —
      Green leaf turns to brown;
The second half of the month is here,
      The days are closing down.

Love so swift to up and follow
      The season's fugitive,
If thou must, make rapture hollow,
      But leave me dreams to live.

Change of heart! O season's end!
      Time and tide and sorrow!
I care not what the Fates may send,
      Here's to ye, goodmorrow!

~~
William Stanley Braithwaite (1878-1962)
from The House of Falling Leaves, with other poems, 1908

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

William Stanley Braithwaite biography

An August Midnight / Thomas Hardy

An August Midnight

A shaded lamp and a waving blind,
And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:
On this scene enter— winged, horned, and spined —
A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore;
While 'mid my page there idly stands
A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands...

Thus meet we five, in this still place,
At this point of time, at this point in space.
— My guests besmear my new-penned line,
Or bang at the lamp and fall supine.
"God's humblest, they!" I muse. Yet why?
They know Earth-secrets that know not I.

~~
Thomas Hardy (1840-1928), 1900
From Poems of the Past and Present, 1901

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

Thomas Hardy biography

The Sun Rising / John Donne

The Sun Rising

                Busy old fool, unruly sun,
                Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
                Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
                Late school boys and sour prentices,
        Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,
        Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

                Thy beams, so reverend and strong
                Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
                If her eyes have not blinded thine,
                Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
        Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine
        Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

                She's all states, and all princes, I;
                Nothing else is;
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
                Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
                In that the world's contracted thus.
        Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
        To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

~~
John Donne (1572-1631)
from Poems, 1633

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

John Donne biography

A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island / Frank O'Hara

A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island

The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen
to speak to personally
                                        so why
aren't you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can't hang around
here all day."
                            "Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal."

"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt" the Sun said
petulantly. "Most people are up
already waiting to see if I'm going
to put in an appearance."
                                              I tried
to apologize "I missed you yesterday."
"That's better" he said. "I didn't
know you'd come out." "You may be
wondering why I've come so close?"
"Yes" I said beginning to feel hot
wondering if maybe he wasn't burning me
anyway.
                     "Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you're okay. You may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you're different. Now, I've heard some
say you're crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you're a boring
reactionary. Not me.
                                        Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You'll
find that people always will complain
about the atmosphere, either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.
                                       If you don't appear
at all one day they think you're lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.

And don't worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you were
I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting
for you to get to work.

                                        And now that you
are making your own days, so to speak,
even if no one reads you but me
you won't be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes."
                      "Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!"

"Thanks and remember I'm watching. It's
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don't have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.
                                                          And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.
                                             Maybe we'll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep now
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell."

"Sun, don't go!" I was awake
at last. "No, go I must, they're calling
me."
           "Who are they/"
                                        Rising he said "Some
day you'll know. They're calling to you
too." Darkly he rose, and then I slept.

~~
Frank O'Hara (1926-1966)
from Paris Review, Winter 1968

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

"A True Account" of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island," read by Mark William Lindbergh

Frank O'Hara biography

August: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

August: A pastoral poem

Strews Nature her blessings around,
The labours of harvest my theme;
Autumnus redundantly crown'd,
Pours plenty's unlimited stream.
To Summer in silver attir'd
The muse bids reluctant farewell,
Her beauties so nearly expir'd,
I weep from the shade of my cell.

To Leo bright Phoebus inclin'd,
Plump Autumn is ripen'd to birth;
To splendid Aquarius consign'd,
Proceeds on her journey the earth.
Right chearful of heart the rude train
From the village of Industry pour,
Now people the gold-garnish'd plan,
In, Ceres, the midst of thy store.

From realms of retirement the hare
Quick conscious of jeopardy springs;
The patridge the voice of rough care
Avoids on vociferous wings:
Alas, hapless bird! o'er thy head
Fate hovers destruction to send;
In vain for your safety I shed
The plaints my feelings commend.

But I see o'er the widen'd champaign,
Thick sheaves of the full ripen'd corn,
High rais'd on the ponderous wain,
Move slow the tall rick to adorn.
In ridges the barley reclin'd,
Dazzles, while to the fugitive eye
Each scene kindles up to the mind
A providence rich from the sky.

Digressive shall critics excuse
The bard for a moment to stray?
Shall criticks? — compos'd be my muse,
Too mean for their mark is thy lay.
'Twas now when with equipoz'd scales
Fair Libra directed the hour,
From wings of the hot sunny gales,
Sooth'd toil's long exertion of pow'r.

'Twas now when Amanda the fair,
The rose-bud of innocent truth,
Sole pride of an antiquate pair,
Who labour'd and lov'd from their youth;
To Ceres a tribute preferr'd,
Two turtles but new from their nest,
A ribbon of blue to each bird
Hung flauntingly over its breast.

From cottage that's lapp'd in the dale,
Where silence on pillow of down
Bids rustic contentment regale
In comforts unknown to a crown:
Amanda stray'd slowly along,
With bosom estrang'd from a care,
Her transport confess'd in a song,
Though simple, of elegant air.

Leander, the subtle and gay,
From revels of harvest return'd,
By chance cross'd the nymph on her way,
Her errand ingeniously learn'd.
Suffice that seductive of art,
The present to Ceres denied,
By the force of Cytherian dart,
Cupid bore to his mother with pride.

Forbid that one hint should expose,
Forbid it compassionate care;
Yet still that she rivals the rose,
My muse, 'tis not thine to declare.
Misguided Amanda, how lost!
Discretion permitted to sleep;
O'er thy summer of beauty the frost
Of contempt will voraciously creep.

Learn hence, ye soft queens of desire,
That virtue should beauty protect;
From modesty scorn to retire,
Ensuring a decent respect.
Be art with persuasion combin'd —
The whispers of prudence approve,
Lest too late, like Amanda, you find
That Autumn's the Winter of love.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, August 1774

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Perfect biography

At the Ball Game / William Carlos Williams

XXVI

The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly

by a spirit of uselessness
which delights them —

all the exciting detail
of the chase

and the escape, the error
the flash of genius —

all to no end save beauty
the eternal —

So in detail they, the crowd,
are beautiful

for this
to be warned against

saluted and defied —
It is alive, venomous

it smiles grimly
its words cut —

The flashy female with her
mother, gets it —

The Jew gets it straight — it
is deadly, terrifying —

It is the Inquisition, the
Revolution

It is beauty itself
that lives

day by day in them
idly —

This is
the power of their faces

It is summer, it is the solstice
the crowd is

cheering, the crowd is laughing
in detail

permanently, seriously
without thought

~~
William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
from Spring and All, 1923

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

William Carlos Williams biography

At Lord's / Francis Thompson

At Lord's

It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.

For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro:–
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!

It's Glo'ster coming North, the irresistible,
The Shire of the Graces, long ago!
It's Gloucestershire up North, the irresistible,
And new-risen Lancashire the foe!

A Shire so young that has scarce impressed its traces,
Ah, how shall it stand before all-resistless Graces?
O, little red rose, their bats are as maces
To beat thee down, this summer long ago!

This day of seventy-eight they are come up north against thee
This day of seventy-eight long ago!
The champion of the centuries, he cometh up against thee,
With his brethren, every one a famous foe!

The long-whiskered Doctor, that laugheth the rules to scorn,
While the bowler, pitched against him, bans the day he was born;
And G.F. with his science makes the fairest length forlorn;
They are come from the West to work thee woe!

It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.

For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro:–
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!

~~
Francis Thompson (1859-1907)
from Collected Poetry, 1913

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Francis Thompson biography

The New Cricket-Ground / Edward Cracroft Lefroy

The New Cricket-Ground

The loveliness of Earth is still unspent:
Her beauties, singly known, combined are strange:
And with what fondness she doth freshly range
Her ancient gems for man's new ravishment!
On this soft dew-fed tree-girt sward of Kent
The cricket-god to-day is first enthroned,
The dun herd banished, and its pasture owned
By white-clad players and their snowy tent.
The field I knew before, the lads I knew,
And oft elsewhere have watched their pleasant game
But now an added lustre comes to view.
Familiar features look no more the same;
The new-set picture gains another hue,
And sheds another glory on its frame.

~~

Edward Cracroft Lefroy (1855-1891)

from Echoes of Theocritus, and other sonnets, 1885

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edward Cracroft Lefroy biography

August's featured poem

The Penny Blog's featured poem for August 2021:

An August Mood, by Duncan Campbell Scott

https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2011/08/august-mood-duncan-campbell-scott.html

Penny's Top 20 / July 2021

     

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in July 2021:

  1.  God Smiles, Will Dockery

  2.  At the Gates of Dawn, George J. Dance

  3.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens

  4.  Just Think!, Robert Service

  5.  Night Movement - New York, Carl Sandburg 
  6.  Lovers' Lane, Thomas Moult
  7.  Over hill, over dale, William Shakespeare

  8.  To Canada, James Alexander Tucker
  9.  The New Colossus, Emma Lazarus
10.  July: A pastoral poem, William Perfect

11.  July Midnight, Amy Lowell
12.  July, Michael Field
13.  Ode to Sport, Pierre de Coubertin
14.  Dandelions, George Sulzbach
15.  Expecting Inspiration, George Sulzbach
16.  Sonnet 1977, Will Dockery
17.  The World's Body, AE Reiff 

18.  Green, Paul Verlaine
19.  Winter Song, Elizabeth Tollett

20. First Snow, Charles E.S. Woods

21. Solitude Surrounded, AE Reiff

Source: Blogger, "Stats"