Sunday, March 31, 2024

i thank You God for most this amazing /
E.E. Cummings


i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings;and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

~~
E.E. Cummings (1894-1962)
from XAIPE: Seventy-one poems, 1950

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

E.E. Cummings biography

"i thank You God for most this amazing" read by Echoes of the Vacillating Heart.

Saturday, March 30, 2024

Easter / Joyce Kilmer


Easter

The air is like a butterfly
        With frail blue wings.
The happy earth looks at the sky
        And sings.

~~
Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)
from Trees, and other poems, 1914

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Joyce Kilmer biography

Public domain, courtesy Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday, March 24, 2024

March / Patrick Kavanagh


March

There's a wind blowing
Cold through the corridors,
A ghost-wind,
The flapping of defeated wings,
A hell-fantasy
From meadows damned
To eternal April

And listening, listening
To the wind
I hear
The throat-rattle of dying men,
From whose ears oozes
Foamy blood,
Throttled in a brothel.

I see brightly
In the wind vacancies
Saint Thomas Aquinas
And
Poetry blossoms
Excitingly
As the first flower of truth.

~~
Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967)
from Ploughman, and other poems, 1936

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Patrick Kavanagh biography

Peieris, photo of Kavanagh monument, Dublin, 2012. CC BY-SA 3.0, Wikimedia Commons.

Saturday, March 23, 2024

The Spring of the Year / Allan Cunningham


The Spring of the Year

Gone were but the winter cold,
    And gone were but the snow,
I could sleep in the wild woods
    Where primroses blow.

Cold's the snow at my head,
    And cold at my feet;
And the finger of death's at my e'en,
    Closing them to sleep.

Let none tell my father
    Or my mother so dear,–
I'll meet them both in heaven
    At the spring of the year.

~~
Allan Cunningham (1784-1842)
from
The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250–1900, 1919 

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]


Gordon Griffiths, Spring Snow, 2013. CC BY-SA 2.0, Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday, March 17, 2024

St. Patrick's Day / Jean Blewett


St. Patrick's Day

There’s an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea,
    Here’s to the Saint that blessed it!
And here’s to the billows wild and free
    That for centuries have caressed it!

Here’s to the day when the men that roam
    Send longing eyes o’er the water!
Here’s to the land that still spells home
    To each loyal son and daughter!

Here’s to old Ireland — fair, I ween,
    With the blue skies stretched above her!
Here’s to her shamrock warm and green,
    And here’s to the hearts that love her!

~~
Jean Blewett (1872-1954)
from The Cornflower, and other poems, 1906

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

Jean Blewett biography

"St. Patrick's Day in the Morning" greeting card, 1906. Public domain, Wikimedia Commons.

Saturday, March 16, 2024

March / Edwin Arnold


from The Twelve Months

March

Welcome, North-wind! from the Norland;
Strike upon our foremost foreland,
Sweep away across the moorland,
        Do thy lusty kind!
Thou and we were born together
In the black Norwegian weather;
Birds we be of one brave feather,
        Welcome, bully wind!

Buss us! set our girls' cheeks glowing;
Southern blood asks sun for flowing,
North blood warms when winds are blowing,
        Most of all winds, thou;
There's a sea-smack in thy kisses
Better than all breezy blisses,
So we know, our kinsman this is:
        Buss us! cheek and brow.

Rollick out thy wild sea-catches,
Roar thy stormy mad sea-snatches,
What bare masts and battened hatches
        Thou hast left behind;
Ring it, till our ears shall ring, too,
How thou mad'st the Frenchman bring-to:
That's the music Northmen sing to,
        Burly brother wind!

Go! with train of spray and sea-bird,
Fling the milky waves to leeward,
Drive the ragged rain-clouds seaward,
        Chase the scudding ships;
To the South-wind take our greeting,
Bid him bring the Spring — his Sweeting —
Say what glad hearts wait her meeting,
        What bright eyes and lips.

~~
Edwin Arnold (1832-1904)
from Poems: National and non-oriental, 1906

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]


Robert Henri (1865-1929), The March Wind, ~1902. Public domain, Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday, March 10, 2024

March: An ode / A.C. Swinburne


March: An Ode

    I


Ere frost-flower and snow-blossom faded and fell, and the splendour of 
    winter had passed out of sight,
The ways of the woodlands were fairer and stranger than dreams that 
    fulfil us in sleep with delight;
The breath of the mouths of the winds had hardened on tree-tops and 
    branches that glittered and swayed
Such wonders and glories of blossomlike snow or of frost that outlightens 
    all flowers till it fade
That the sea was not lovelier than here was the land, nor the night than 
    the day, nor the day than the night,
Nor the winter sublimer with storm than the spring: such mirth had the 
    madness and might in thee made,
March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that 
    enkindle the season they smite.

    II

And now that the rage of thy rapture is satiate with revel and ravin and 
    spoil of the snow,
And the branches it brightened are broken, and shattered the tree-tops 
    that only thy wrath could lay low,
How should not thy lovers rejoice in thee, leader and lord of the year that 
    exults to be born
So strong in thy strength and so glad of thy gladness whose laughter puts 
    winter and sorrow to scorn?
Thou hast shaken the snows from thy wings, and the frost on thy forehead 
    is molten: thy lips are aglow
As a lover's that kindle with kissing, and earth, with her raiment and 
    tresses yet wasted and torn,
Takes breath as she smiles in the grasp of thy passion to feel through her 
    spirit the sense of thee flow.

    III

Fain, fain would we see but again for an hour what the wind and the sun 
    have dispelled and consumed,
Those full deep swan-soft feathers of snow with whose luminous burden 
    the branches implumed
Hung heavily, curved as a half-bent bow, and fledged not as birds are, but 
    petalled as flowers,
Each tree-top and branchlet a pinnacle jewelled and carved, or a fountain 
    that shines as it showers,
But fixed as a fountain is fixed not, and wrought not to last till by time or 
    by tempest entombed,
As a pinnacle carven and gilded of men: for the date of its doom is no 
    more than an hour's,
One hour of the sun's when the warm wind wakes him to wither the snow-
    flowers that froze as they bloomed.

    IV

As the sunshine quenches the snowshine; as April subdues thee, and 
    yields up his kingdom to May;
So time overcomes the regret that is born of delight as it passes in passion 
    away,
And leaves but a dream for desire to rejoice in or mourn for with tears or 
    thanksgivings; but thou,
Bright god that art gone from us, maddest and gladdest of months, to 
    what goal hast thou gone from us now?
For somewhere surely the storm of thy laughter that lightens, the beat of 
    thy wings that play,
Must flame as a fire through the world, and the heavens that we know not 
    rejoice in thee: surely thy brow
Hath lost not its radiance of empire, thy spirit the joy that impelled it on 
    quest as for prey.

    V

Are thy feet on the ways of the limitless waters, thy wings on the winds of 
    the waste north sea?
Are the fires of the false north dawn over heavens where summer is 
    stormful and strong like thee
Now bright in the sight of thine eyes? are the bastions of icebergs assailed 
    by the blast of thy breath?
Is it March with the wild north world when April is waning? the word that 
    the changed year saith,
Is it echoed to northward with rapture of passion reiterate from spirits 
    triumphant as we
Whose hearts were uplift at the blast of thy clarions as men's rearisen 
    from a sleep that was death
And kindled to life that was one with the world's and with thine? hast thou 
    set not the whole world free?

    VI

For the breath of thy lips is freedom, and freedom's the sense of thy spirit, 
    the sound of thy song,
Glad god of the north-east wind, whose heart is as high as the hands of thy 
    kingdom are strong,
Thy kingdom whose empire is terror and joy, twin-featured and fruitful of 
    births divine,
Days lit with the flame of the lamps of the flowers, and nights that are 
    drunken with dew for wine,
And sleep not for joy of the stars that deepen and quicken, a denser and 
    fierier throng,
And the world that thy breath bade whiten and tremble rejoices at heart as 
    they strengthen and shine,
And earth gives thanks for the glory bequeathed her, and knows of thy 
    reign that it wrought not wrong.

    VII

Thy spirit is quenched not, albeit we behold not thy face in the crown of 
    the steep sky's arch,
And the bold first buds of the whin wax golden, and witness arise of the 
    thorn and the larch:
Wild April, enkindled to laughter and storm by the kiss of the wildest of 
    winds that blow,
Calls loud on his brother for witness; his hands that were laden with 
    blossom are sprinkled with snow,
And his lips breathe winter, and laugh, and relent; and the live woods feel 
    not the frost's flame parch;
For the flame of the spring that consumes not but quickens is felt at the 
    heart of the forest aglow,
And the sparks that enkindled and fed it were strewn from the hands of 
    the gods of the winds of March.

~~
A.C. Swinburne (1837-1909)
from Poems and Ballads, Third series, 1889

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

A.C. Swinburne biography

"March: An Ode" read by Richard Mitchley. Courtesy The Orchard Enterprises.

Saturday, March 9, 2024

March Sunset / Hilda Conkling


March Sunset

Pines cut dark on a bronze sky . . .
A juniper tree laughing to the harp of the wind . . .
Last year's oak leaves rustling . . .
And oh, the sky like a heart of fire
Burned down to those coals that have the color of fruit . . .
Cherries . . . light red grapes . . .

~~
Hilda Conkling (1910-1986)
from
 Shoes of the Wind1922

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

Hilda Conkling biography

Ardfern, Sunset over Trafford, UK, March 2020. CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday, March 3, 2024

Woods in Winter / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


from Earlier Poems

Woods in Winter

When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.

~~
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
from Voices of the Night, 1839

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow biography

"Woods in Winter" read by Ghizela Rowe.

Saturday, March 2, 2024

Winter Streams / Bliss Carman


Winter Streams

Now the little rivers go
Muffled safely under snow,

And the winding meadow streams
Murmur in their wintry dreams,

While a tinkling music wells
Faintly from there icy bells,

Telling how their hearts are bold
Though the very sun be cold.

Ah, but wait until the rain
Comes a-sighing once again,

Sweeping softly from the Sound
Over ridge and meadow ground!

Then the little streams will hear
April calling far and near,—

Slip their snowy bands and run
Sparkling in the welcome sun.

~~
Bliss Carman (1861-1929)
from Later Poems, 1926

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

Bliss Carman biography

Apollyon, Winter Stream in Marjaniemi, Helsinki, Finland, 2006. Wikimedia Commons.

See also: "Summer Streams" by Bliss Carman

Friday, March 1, 2024

March's featured poem

  

The Penny Blog's featured poem for March 2024:


I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
[...]

(music by Brian Dunning and Jeff Johnson) 


Penny's Top 20 / February 2024

                                 

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in February 2024:


  1.  In February, John Addington Symonds
  2.  February, George J. Dance
  3.  My soul is an enchanted boat, Percy Bysshe Shelley
  4.  For My Darling, Archibald Lampman
  5.  love is more thicker than forget, E.E. Cummings
  6.  Winter Song, Elizabeth Tollett
  7.  February the First on the Prairies, Wilson MacDonald
  8.  Skating, William Wordsworth
  9.  The Manor Farm, Edward Thomas
10.  Late February, William Morris

11.  Winter Ghost, Will Dockery
12.  Winter Love, George J. Dance
13.  Ode to Sport, Pierre de Coubertin
14.  August, Edmund Spenser
15.  Card Game, Frank Prewitt
16.  There Blooms No Bud in May, Walter de la Mare
17.  A Meadow in Spring, Tom Bishop
18.  Saint Augustine Blues #6, Will Dockery
19.  February, Edwin Arnold
20.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens

Source: Blogger, "Stats"