for Carol

Necessary Gardens

Libraries
Are
Necessary
Gardens
Unsurpassed
At
Growing
Excitement.

from Please Bury Me In The Library by J. Patrick Lewis

autumn

tanka

autumn. a bonfire

of leaves. morning peels us toward

pomegranate festivals.

and in the evening i bring

you soup cooled by my laughter.

- Sonia Sanchez

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

my lines and life

I should add George Herbert to my collection of favorite poets.

I came across this one the other day. Don't remember when I first read it, but it's so good it can make me cry.

The Collar

I STRUCK the board, and cry’d, No more;
I will abroad.
What? shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the rode,
Loose as the winde, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me bloud, and not restore
What I have lost with cordiall fruit?
Sure there was wine,
Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the yeare onely lost to me?
Have I no bayes to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?
All wasted?
Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit, and not forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands,
Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away; take heed:
I will abroad.
Call in thy deaths head there: tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need,
Deserves his load.
But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wilde,
At every word,
Methought I heard one calling, Childe:
And I reply’d, My Lord.

donne

I was thinking of this poem earlier.
It's a favorite.
I think this is the first poem that I ever really liked, making me decide that I liked poetry.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to another due,
Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

John Donne

Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun

Give me the splendid silent sun with all its beams full-dazzling,
Give me the juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard,
Give me a field where the unmowed grass grows,
Give me an arbor, give me the trellised grape,
Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching content.
Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I am looking up at the stars,
Give me odorous at sunset a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.

Walt Whitman

h.f.

I TOOK THE PIECES YOU
THREW AWAY AND PUT THEM
TOGATHER BY NIGHT AND DAY
WASHED BY RAIN, DRIED BY SUN
A MILLION PIECES ALL IN ONE

-howard finster

I saw this sign at the High today, and was rather facinated by his poems.

this one too:

ee cummings

because it's

because it's

Spring
thingS

dare to do people

(& not
the other way

round)because it

's A
pril

Lives lead their own

persons(in
stead

of everybodyelse's)but

what's wholly
marvellous my

Darling

is that you &
i are more than you

& i(be

ca
us

e It's we)

when faces called flowers float out of the ground

when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april (yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)
when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving-
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
-alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)
when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living-
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
-it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)

hugo is alive

I am relieved to be able to say that my frog is doing well.

Due to detailed circumstances that I don't have time to elaborate on just now, I acquired a fish tank with three goldfish which I brought to my classroom. There were four, but Pete died on the first day of school. A few weeks later I went to buy some more creatures that might cut down on the scum in the tank. I'm not sure they help, but I bought two a-d-o-r-a-b-l-e frogs which we named Victor and Hugo, since we were reading Les Miserables. I love frogs, and I especially love our frogs. They swim around our tank happily, or stick their noses in the rocks. They kick their tiny back legs and then float around with their four limbs sprawled out. They are excessively small and seem fragile (though I admit have survived a few tank-changing catastrophes).

A few days ago I noticed that Hugo was very skinny. The frogs are just a few millimeters thick and about a centimeter wide. Hugo was under a half-centimeter, I'm sure. And when I saw that he couldn't really move around, I was pretty upset. We transfered him to his own little tank with less water so he could reach his food and air. I think it was probably the fresh water that saved him. Today I look at them in their clean tank, and they are swimming happily.

I wrote this poem about my fish a few months ago, and always meant to post it.



webbed footed friends

fall

silently like

leaves

through air

their back legs

p u s h

and they glide noiselessly

floating

through water

faithful in the storm

Praise to the Lord, Who, when tempests their warfare are waging,
Who, when the elements madly around thee are raging,
Biddeth them cease, turneth their fury to peace,
Whirlwinds and waters assuaging.

Praise to the Lord, Who, when darkness of sin is abounding,
Who, when the godless do triumph, all virtue confounding,
Sheddeth His light, chaseth the horrors of night,
Saints with His mercy surrounding.

Let the Amen sound from His people again

-Joachim Neander