September / Lucy Maud Montgomery

September

Lo! a ripe sheaf of many golden days
Gleaned by the year in autumn’s harvest ways,
With here and there, blood-tinted as an ember,
Some crimson poppy of a late delight
Atoning in its splendor for the flight
Of summer blooms and joys ­–
This is September.

~~
Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874-1942)
from The Watchman, and other poems, 1916

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

Lucy Maud Montgomery biography

On an Apple-Ripe September Morning / Patrick Kavanagh

On an Apple-Ripe September Morning

On an apple-ripe September morning
Through the mist-chill fields I went
With a pitch-fork on my shoulder
Less for use than for devilment.

The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,
In cassidy’s haggard last night,
And we owed them a day at the threshing
Since last year. O it was delight

To be paying bills of laughter
And chaffy gossip in kind
With work thrown in to ballast
The fantasy-soaring mind.

As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered
As I looked into the drain
If ever a summer morning should find me
Shovelling up eels again.

And I thought of the wasps’ nest in the bank
And how I got chased one day
Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,
How I covered my face with hay.

The wet leaves of the cocksfoot
Polished my boots as I
Went round by the glistening bog-holes
Lost in unthinking joy.

I’ll be carrying bags to-day, I mused
The best job at the mill
with plenty of time to talk of our loves
As we wait for the bags to fill.

Maybe Mary might call round . . .
And then I came to the haggard gate
And I knew as I entered that I had come
Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.

~~
Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967)
from Tarry Flynn, 1948

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Patrick Kavanagh biography

"On an Apple-Ripe September Morning" read by Kevin Kennedy.

Composed upon Westminster Bridge / William Wordsworth

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

Earth has not any thing to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

~~
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
from Poems in Two Volumes, 1807

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Wordsworth biography

"Composed upon Westminster Bridge" read by Sir Jonathan Pryce. Courtesy Zsuzsanna Uhlik.

Penny's Top 20 / August 2019

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

  1.  7/16/69, George J. Dance
  2.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens

  3.  Break Break Break, Alfred Tennyson

  4.  Beach Song, Pearl Andelson Sherry
  5.  "I Thought of You" / On the Dunes, Sara Teasdale
  6.  By the Sea, Christina Rossetti
  7.  The Bright Extensive Will, AE Reiff
  8.  The Wind Sleepers, H.D.
  9.  By the Sea, Emily Dickinson
10.  August, Lizette Woodworth Reese

11.  On the Road to the Sea, Charlotte Mew
12.  August, Dorothy Parker
13.  Angel Standing in the Sun, AE Reiff
14.  Chaos in Motion and Not in Motion, Wallace Stevens
15.  News. AE Reiff
16.  The Reader, Wallace Stevens
17.  The Dwarf, Wallace Stevens
18.  I love to see the summer beaming forth, John Clare
19.  Vowels, Arthur Rimbaud
20.  The Intruder, Grace Stone Coates

Source: Blogger, "Stats"

August / Lizette Woodworth Reese

August

No wind, no bird. The river flames like brass.
On either side, smitten as with a spell
Of silence, brood the fields. In the deep grass,
Edging the dusty roads, lie as they fell
Handfuls of shriveled leaves from tree and bush.
But ’long the orchard fence and at the gate,
Thrusting their saffron torches through the hush,
Wild lilies blaze, and bees hum soon and late.
Rust-colored the tall straggling briar, not one
Rose left. The spider sets its loom up there
Close to the roots, and spins out in the sun
A silken web from twig to twig. The air
Is full of hot rank scents. Upon the hill
Drifts the noon’s single cloud, white, glaring, still.

~~
Lizette Woodworth Reese (1856-1935)
from A Handful of Lavender, 1891

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

Lizette Woordworth Reese biography

"August" read by Hans Ostrom.

On the Road to the Sea / Charlotte Mew

On the Road to the Sea

We passed each other, turned and stopped for half an hour, then went our way,
     I who make other women smile did not make you –
But no man can move mountains in a day.
     So this hard thing is yet to do.

But first I want your life:– before I die I want to see
     The world that lies behind the strangeness of your eyes,
There is nothing gay or green there for my gathering, it may be,
          Yet on brown fields there lies
A haunting purple bloom: is there not something in grey skies
               And in grey sea?
          I want what world there is behind your eyes,
          I want your life and you will not give it me.

     Now, if I look, I see you walking down the years,
     Young, and through August fields – a face, a thought, a swinging dream perched on a stile;–
     I would have liked (so vile we are!) to have taught you tears
                But most to have made you smile.

     To-day is not enough or yesterday: God sees it all –
Your length on sunny lawns, the wakeful rainy nights;– tell me; –  (how vain to ask), but it is not a question – just a call;–
Show me then, only your notched inches climbing up the garden wall,
               I like you best when you are small.

          Is this a stupid thing to say
          Not having spent with you one day?
     No matter; I shall never touch your hair
     Or hear the little tick behind your breast,
          Still it is there,   
          And as a flying bird
     Brushes the branches where it may not rest
          I have brushed your hand and heard
     The child in you: I like that best.

So small, so dark, so sweet; and were you also then too grave and wise?
     Always I think. Then put your far off little hand in mine;–  Oh! let it rest;
I will not stare into the early world beyond the opening eyes,
     Or vex or scare what I love best.
          But I want your life before mine bleeds away –
               Here – not in heavenly hereafters – soon,–
               I want your smile this very afternoon,
          (The last of all my vices, pleasant people used to say,
               I wanted and I sometimes got – the Moon!)

               You know, at dusk, the last bird's cry,
          And round the house the flap of the bat's low flight,
               Trees that go black against the sky
          And then – how soon the night!

     No shadow of you on any bright road again,
And at the darkening end of this – what voice? whose kiss? As if you'd say!
It is not I who have walked with you, it will not be I who take away
     Peace, peace, my little handful of the gleaner's grain
     From your reaped fields at the shut of day.

               Peace! Would you not rather die
          Reeling, – with all the cannons at your ear?
                So, at least, would I,
          And I may not be here
          To-night, to-morrow morning or next year.
          Still I will let you keep your life a little while.
                    See dear?
               I have made you smile.

~~
Charlotte Mew (1869-1928)
from The Farmer's Bride, 1921

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

Charlotte Mew biography

I started Early / Emily Dickinson

[656]

I started Early – Took my Dog –
And visited the Sea –
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me –

And Frigates – in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands –
Presuming Me to be a Mouse –
Aground – upon the Sands –

But no Man moved Me – till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe –
And past my Apron – and my Belt
And past my Bodice – too –

And made as He would eat me up –
As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion's Sleeve –
And then – I started – too –

And He – He followed – close behind –
I felt His Silver Heel
Opon my Ancle – Then My Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl –

Until We met the Solid Town –
No One He seemed to know –
And bowing – with a Mighty look –
At me – The Sea withdrew –

~~

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Emily Dickinson biography

"I started Early" read by Blair Brown; animation by Maureen Selwood.

Courtesy PoetryEverywherePTV.