Penny's Top 100 of 2011

The 100 most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog during 2011:

  1. Penny (or Penny's Hat), George J. Dance
  2. Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens
  3. Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction, Wallace Stevens
  4. Lorelei's Song / Das Loreleylied, Heinrich Heine
  5. Last Week in October, Thomas Hardy

  6. Ganesha Girl on Rankin, Will Dockery
  7. Mars & Avril, George J. Dance
  8. Romance Novel / Roman, Arthur Rimbaud
  9. Lucky Penny, George J. Dance
10. The Man with the Blue Guitar, Wallace Stevens

11. Daily News, George J. Dance
12. Red Lipped Stranger, Will Dockery
13. Large Red Man Reading, Wallace Stevens
14. Songs, Demonspawn
15. Winter Love, George J. Dance

16. Chun Wang / Spring Scene, Tu Fu
17. A Sonnet of the Moon, Charles Best
18. Landscape in 2 Colours, Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau
19. Autumn Music, George J. Dance
20. Men Made Out of Words, Wallace Stevens

21. Vowels / Voyelles, Arthur Rimbaud
22. Angel's Song
23. Portrait, Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau
24. November, F.W. Harvey
25. September Night, George J. Dance

26. Velvet Shoes, Elinor Wylie
27. Bird Cage / Cage d'oiseau, Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau
28. The Playing / Le jeu, Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau
29. Sonnet. The Token, John Donne
30. A Villlanelle is Difficult to Write

31. A Light exists in Spring, Emily Dickinson
32. Accompaniment / Accompagnement, Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau
33. In the Bleak Mid-winter, Christina Rossetti
34. Petit the Poet, Edgar Lee Masters
35. A Scroll, George J. Dance

36. Improvisations on the Flute, Marjorie Pickthall
37. Chaos in Motion and Not in Motion, Wallace Stevens
38. March, George J. Dance
39. The Huron Carol, trans. J. Edgar Middleton
40. Elixir (Dance Mix), Crystal Matteau & George J. Dance

41. For the Fallen, Laurence Binyon
42. Impression: Le Reveillon, Oscar Wilde
43. Mannequin in a Mirror, Matt E. and George J. Dance
44. Not Ideas About the Thing but the Thing Itself, Wallace Stevens
45. August Night, Sara Teasdale

46. New England Boy's Song About Thanksgiving Day, Lydia Maria Child
47. Wheat Field Concerts
48. Icicle Drops, Arthur Lockhart
49. The Children, Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau
50. June, George J. Dance

51. Song (Man's a poor deluded bubble),  Robert Dodsley
52. Winter Uplands, Archibald Lampman
53. Once, Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau
54. how far away it was, ray heinrich
55. The Sky is low, Emily Dickinson

56. On the Grasshopper and Cricket, John Keats
57. Wind and Silver, Amy Lowell
58. Stonewalled Meteor, Rusty Taylor
59. Heat in the City, Archibald Lampman
60. The Bridge at Flatline

61. Winter Nightfall, Robert Bridges
62. Stony Lake, Katherine Hale
63. Departure, Edna St. Vincent Millay
64. Orbits
65. Minor Apocalypse, Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau

66. There is a Garden in Her Face, Thomas Campion
67. She Walks in Beauty, Lord Byron
68. The Starlit Night, Gerard Manley Hopkins
69. Oxford Cheese Ode, James McIntyre
70. When You Are Old, W.B. Yeats

71. To My Mother, Thomas Moore
72. Solitude Surrounded, AE Reiff
73. When Yon Full Moon, W.H. Davies
74. Among the Rocks, Robert Browning
75. The Blue Heron, Theodore Goodridge Roberts

76. The Modern Politician, Archibald Lampman
77. The Old Year, John Clare
78. The March of the Dead, Robert W. Service
79. The Garden, Sara Teasdale
80. Christmas Sonnet, E.A. Woodward

81. Winter Field, A.E. Coppard
82. The Dove of New Snow, Vachel Lindsay
83. I Am Not Yours, Sara Teasdale
84. Remembering Ishtar (1929), Ivan McNeil
85. Let No Charitable Hope, Elinor Wylie

86. Christmas Carol, Sara Teasdale
87. A Fading of the Sun, Wallace Stevens
88. The stars are glittering in the frosty sky, Charles Heavysege
89. A Madrigal, Jane Elizabeth MacDonald
90. To Daffodils, Robert Herrick

91. Snow on the East Wind, Edward Plunkett
92. Beautiful Old Age, D.H. Lawrence
93. How He Died, Ernest Howard Crosby
94. A January Morning, Archibald Lampman
95. The Dark Hills, Edward Arlington Robinson

96. The Great Matter, Obsidian Eagle
97. The Skaters, John Gould Fletcher
98. Penny's OS, George Dance
99. Moonlight and Common Day, Louise Morey Bowen
100. A Moth Danced

May Evening in Central Park / Amy Lowell

May Evening in Central Park

Lines of lamp-light
Splinter the black water,
And all through
The dim park
Are lamps      
Hanging among the trees.
But they are only like fire-flies
Pricking the darkness,
And I lean my body against it
And spread out my fingers    
To let it drift through them.
I am a swimmer
In the damp night,
Or a bird
Floating over the sucking grasses.    
I am a lover
Tracking the silver foot-prints
Of the moon.
I am a young man,
In Central Park,    
With Spring
Bursting over me.

The trees push out their young leaves,
Although this is not the country;
And I whisper beautiful, hot words,    
Although I am alone,
And a few more steps
Will bring me
The glare and suffocation
Of bright streets.      

~~
Amy Lowell (1874-1925)
from Poetry, September 1915

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

Amy Lowell biography

Edward Hopper (1882-1967), Shakespeare at Dusk, 1935. Public domain.

May / John Clare

May

Come, Queen of Months! in company
With all thy merry minstrelsy:—
The restless cuckoo, absent long,
And twittering swallows’ chimney-song;
With hedge-row crickets’ notes, that run
From every bank that fronts the sun;
And swarthy bees, about the grass,
That stop with every bloom they pass,
And every minute, every hour,
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower;                
And Toil, and Childhood’s humming joys!
For there is music in the noise
When village children, wild for sport,
In school-time’s leisure, ever short,
Alternate catch the bounding ball;
Or run along the church-yard wall,
Capp’d with rude figured slabs, whose claims
In time’s bad memory have no names;
Or race around the nooky church;
Or raise loud echoes in the porch;                    
Throw pebbles o’er the weather-cock,
Viewing with jealous eyes the clock;
Or leap o’er grave-stones’ leaning heights,
Uncheck’d by melancholy sights,
Though green grass swells in many a heap
Where kin, and friends, and parents sleep.
They think not, in their jovial cry,
The time will come, when they shall lie
As lowly and as still as they;
While other boys above them play,                      
Heedless, as they are now, to know
The unconscious dust that lies below.

   The driving boy, beside his team,
Of May-month’s beauty now will dream,
And cock his hat, and turn his eye
On flower, and tree, and deepening sky;
And oft burst loud in fits of song,
And whistle as he reels along;
Cracking his whip in starts of joy —
A happy, dirty, driving boy.                          
The youth, who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village-school,
Where, as a mark to guide him right,
The church spire’s all the way in sight,
With cheerings from his parents given,
Beneath the joyous smiles of Heaven
Saunters, with many an idle stand,
With satchel swinging in his hand,
And gazes, as he passes by,
On every thing that meets his eye.                    
Young lambs seem tempting him to play,
Dancing and bleating in his way;
With trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him, and lose their fears;
He smiles upon their sunny faces,
And fain would join their happy races.
The birds, that sing on bush and tree,
Seem chirping for his company;—
And all — in fancy’s idle whim —
Seem keeping holiday, but him.                        
He lolls upon each resting stile,
To see the fields so sweetly smile —
To see the wheat grow green and long;
And lists the weeder’s toiling song,
Or short note of the changing thrush
Above him in the white-thorn bush,
That o’er the leaning stile bends low
Its blooming mockery of snow.

   Each hedge is cover’d thick with green;
And where the hedger late hath been,                  
Young tender shoots begin to grow
From out the mossy stumps below.
But woodmen still on Spring intrude,
And thin the shadow’s solitude;
With sharpen’d axes felling down
The oak-trees budding into brown,
Which, as they crash upon the ground,
A crowd of labourers gather round.
These, mixing ’mong the shadows dark,
Rip off the crackling, staining bark;                  
Depriving yearly, when they come,
The green woodpecker of his home,
Who early in the Spring began,
Far from the sight of troubling man,
To bore his round holes in each tree
In fancy’s sweet security;
Now, startled by the woodman’s noise,
He wakes from all his dreary joys.
The blue-bells too, that thickly bloom
Where man was never known to come;                    
And stooping lilies of the valley,
That love with shades and dews to dally,
And bending droop on slender threads,
With broad hood-leaves above their heads,
Like white-robed maids, in summer hours,
Beneath umbrellas shunning showers;—
These, from the bark-men’s crushing treads,
Oft perish in their blooming beds.
Stripp’d of its boughs and bark, in white
The trunk shines in the mellow light                  
Beneath the green surviving trees,
That wave above it in the breeze,
And, waking whispers, slowly bend,
As if they mourn’d their fallen friend.

   Each morning, now, the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat,
And ruin, in the sunny hours,
Full many a wild weed with its flowers;—
Corn-poppies, that in crimson dwell,
Call’d “Head-aches,” from their sickly smell;        
And charlocks, yellow as the sun,
That o’er the May-fields quickly run;
And “Iron-weed,” content to share
The meanest spot that Spring can spare —
E’en roads, where danger hourly comes,
Are not without its purple blooms,
Whose leaves, with threat’ning thistles round
Thick set, that have no strength to wound,
Shrink into childhood’s eager hold
Like hair; and, with its eye of gold                  
And scarlet-starry points of flowers,
Pimpernel, dreading nights and showers,
Oft call’d “the Shepherd’s Weather-glass,”
That sleeps till suns have dried the grass,
Then wakes, and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds with threatening shadows come —
Then close it shuts to sleep again:
Which weeders see, and talk of rain;
And boys, that mark them shut so soon,
Call “John that goes to bed at noon:”                  
And fumitory too — a name
That Superstition holds to fame —
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropp’d by maids in weeding hours,
To boil in water, milk, and whey,
For washes on a holiday,
To make their beauty fair and sleek,
And scare the tan from Summer’s cheek;
And simple small “Forget-me-not,”
Eyed with a pin’s-head yellow spot                    
I’ the middle of its tender blue,
That gains from poets notice due:—
These flowers, that toil by crowds destroys,
Robbing them of their lowly joys,
Had met the May with hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet;
And oft the dame will feel inclined,
As Childhood’s memory comes to mind,
To turn her hook away, and spare
The blooms it loved to gather there!                  
— Now young girls whisper things of love,
And from the old dames’ hearing move;
Oft making “love-knots” in the shade,
Of blue-green oat or wheaten blade;
Or, trying simple charms and spells
Which rural Superstition tells,
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knotweed’s button heads,
And put the husk, with many a smile,
In their white bosoms for a while,—
Then, if they guess aright the swain
Their loves’ sweet fancies try to gain,
’Tis said, that ere it lies an hour,
’Twill blossom with a second flower,
And from their bosom’s handkerchief
Bloom as it ne’er had lost a leaf.
—But signs appear that token wet,
While they are ’neath the bushes met;
The girls are glad with hopes of play,
And harp upon the holiday:—            
A high blue bird is seen to swim
Along the wheat, when skies grow dim
With clouds; slow as the gales of Spring
In motion, with dark-shadow’d wing
Beneath the coming storm he sails:
And lonely chirp the wheat-hid quails,
That come to live with Spring again,
But leave when Summer browns the grain;
They start the young girl’s joys afloat,
With “wet my foot” — their yearly note:—              
So fancy doth the sound explain,
And oft it proves a sign of rain!

   The thresher, dull as winter days,
And lost to all that Spring displays,
Still ’mid his barn-dust forced to stand,
Swings round his flail with weary hand;
While o’er his head shades thickly creep,
That hide the blinking owl asleep,
And bats, in cobweb-corners bred,
Sharing till night their murky bed.                    
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Through ev’ry crevice of the door:
This makes his barn, where shadows dwell,
As irksome as a prisoner’s cell;
And, whilst he seeks his daily meal,
As school-boys from their task will steal,
So will he stand with fond delay
To see the daisy in his way,
Or wild weeds flowering on the wall;—
For these to memory still recall                      
The joys, the sports that come with Spring,—
The twirling top, the marble ring,
The jingling halfpence hustled up
At pitch and toss, the eager stoop
To pick up heads, the smuggled plays
’Neath hovels upon sabbath-days,—
The sitting down, when school was o’er,
Upon the threshold of the door,
Picking from mallows, sport to please,
Each crumpled seed he call’d a cheese,                
And hunting from the stack-yard sod
The stinking henbane’s belted pod,
By youth’s warm fancies sweetly led
To christen them his loaves of bread.
He sees, while rocking down the street
With weary hands and crimpling feet,
Young children at the self-same games,
And hears the self-same boyish names
Still floating on each happy tongue:
Touch’d with the simple scene so strong,              
Tears almost start, and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone by;
Thus, in sweet Nature’s holiday,
His heart is sad while all is gay.

   How lovely now are lanes and balks,
For lovers in their Sunday-walks!
The daisy and the butter-cup —
For which the laughing children stoop
A hundred times throughout the day,
In their rude romping Summer play —                    
So thickly now the pasture crowd,
As if the drops of April showers
Had woo’d the sun, and changed to flowers.
The brook resumes her Summer dresses,
Purling ’neath grass and water-cresses,
And mint and flagleaf, swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye;
The Summer tracks about its brink
Are fresh again where cattle drink;                    
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again;
While all that lives enjoys the birth
Of frolic Summer’s laughing mirth.

~~

John Clare (1793-1864)
from The Shepherd's Calendar, 1827

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[June]

John Clare biography

How true love is likened to summer / Thomas Malory

How true love is likened to summer

And thus it passed on from Candlemass until after Easter, that the month of May was come, when every lusty heart beginneth to blossom, and to bring forth fruit; for like as herbs and trees bring forth fruit and flourish in May, in like wise every lusty heart that is in any manner a lover, springeth and flourisheth in lusty deeds. For it giveth unto all lovers courage, that lusty month of May, in something to constrain him to some manner of thing more in that month than in any other month, for divers causes. For then all herbs and trees renew a man and woman, and likewise lovers call again to their mind old gentleness and old service, and many kind deeds that were forgotten by negligence. For like as winter rasure doth alway erase and deface green summer, so fareth it by unstable love in man and woman. For in many persons there is no stability; for we may see all day, for a little blast of winter’s rasure, anon we shall deface and lay apart true love for little or nought, that cost much thing; this is no wisdom nor stability, but it is feebleness of nature and great disworship, whosomever useth this. Therefore, like as May month flowereth and flourisheth in many gardens, so in like wise let every man of worship flourish his heart in this world, first unto God, and next unto the joy of them that he promised his faith unto; for there was never worshipful man or worshipful woman, but they loved one better than another; and worship in arms may never be foiled, but first reserve the honour to God, and secondly the quarrel must come of thy lady: and such love I call virtuous love.

~~
Thomas Malory (?1405-1471)
from Le Morte d'Arthur (edited by Edward Strachey), 1897

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Thomas Malory biography

Barbara Allen's Cruelty

Barbara Allen's Cruelty

In Scarlet town where I was born,
   There was a fair maid dwellin’,
Made every youth cry, "Well-away!"
   Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merry month of May,
   When green buds they were swellin’,
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,
   For love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his man unto her then,
   To the town where she was dwellin’;
"O haste and come to my master dear,
   If your name be Barbara Allen.

"For death is printed in his face,
   And o'er his heart is stealin';
Then haste away to comfort him,
   O lovely Barbara Allen."

"Though death be printed on his face,
   And o'er his heart is stealin',
Yet little better shall he be
   For bonny Barbara Allen."

So slowly, slowly she came up,
   And slowly she came nigh him,
And all she said, when there she came,
   "Young man, I think you’re dying."

He turned his face unto her straight,
   With deadly sorrow sighing:
"O lovely maid, come pity me,
   I'm on my death-bed lying."

"If on your death-bed you do lie,
   What needs the tale you are tellin'?
I cannot keep you from your death;
   Farewell," said Barbara Allen.

He turned his face unto the wall,
   As deadly pangs he fell in:
"Adieu, adieu, adieu to you all,
   Adieu to Barbara Allen!"

As she was walking o’er the fields,
   She heard the bell a-knellin’;
And every stroke did seem to say,
   "Unworthy Barbara Allen!"

She turned her body round about,
   And spied the corpse a-comin':
"Lay down, lay down the corpse," she said,
   "That I may look upon him."

With scornful eye she looked down,
   Her cheeks with laughter swellin',
Whilst all her friends cried out amain,
   "Unworthy Barbara Allen!"

When he was dead, and laid in grave,
   Her heart was struck with sorrow;
"O mother, mother, make my bed,
   For I shall die tomorrow.

"Hard-hearted creature him to slight,
   Who loved me so dearly:
O that I had been more kind to him,
   When he was alive and near me!"

She, on her death-bed as she lay,
   Begged to be buried by him,
And sore repented of the day,
   That she did ere deny him.

"Farewell," she said, "ye virgins all,
   And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
   Of cruel Barbara Allen."

~~
Anonymous, 17th. century
From Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, 1765

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Reliques of Ancient English Poetry

"Barbara Allen's Cruelty" sung by Michael & Amy Schwamm.

Courtesy The Basement Music Project.

May Wind / Sara Teasdale

May Wind

    I said, "I have shut my heart
As one shuts an open door,
That Love may starve within
And trouble me no more."

    But over the roofs there came
The wet new wind of May,
And a tune blew up from the curb
Where the street-pianos play.

    My room was white with the sun
And Love cried out in me,
"I am strong, I will break your heart
Unless you set me free."

~~
Sara Teasdale (1889-1933)
from Love Songs, 1917

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

Sara Teasdale biography

"May Wind" courtesy Aimee Reads Poetry.

Mother / Lola Ridge

Mother

Your love was like moonlight
turning harsh things to beauty,
so that little wry souls
reflecting each other obliquely
as in cracked mirrors . . .
beheld in your luminous spirit
their own reflection,
transfigured as in a shining stream,
and loved you for what they are not.

You are less an image in my mind
than a luster
I see you in gleams
pale as star-light on a gray wall . . .
evanescent as the reflection of a white swan
shimmering in broken water.

~~
Lola Ridge
from Sun-Up and other poems, 1920

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

"Mother" read by CynthMD. Courtesy Cure Quotes with CynthMD.

Lola Ridge biography
Mother on The Penny Blog.