On the off chance there are any others here who enjoy reading and occasionally writing poetry, how about a place to share some favorite poems about nature, gardens and all these wonderful growing things around us? Two to start it off... Mending Wall - by Robert Frost Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me~ Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors." XLIII -by e.e. cummings if there are any heavens my mother will (all by herself) have one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but it will be a heaven of blackred roses my father will be (deep like a rose tall like a rose) standing near my (swaying over her silent) with eyes which are really petals and see nothing with the face of a poet really which is a flower and not a face with hands which whisper This is my beloved my (suddenly in sunlight he will bow, & the whole garden will bow)
Primrose Upon a bank I sat, a child made seer Of one small primrose flowering in my mind. Better than wealth it is, I said, to find One small page of Truth's manuscript made clear. I looked at Christ transfigured without fear-- The light was very beautiful and kind, And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signed I read it through the lenses of a tear. And then my sight grew dim, I could not see The primrose that had lighted me to Heaven, And there was but the shadow of a tree Ghostly among the stars. The years that pass Like tired soldiers nevermore have given Moments to see wonders in the grass. Patrick Kavanagh has always been my favourite poet. Consider the first 4 lines , Upon a bank I sat a child made seer of one small primrose flowering in my mind better than wealth it is to find one small page of Truths manuscript made clear. Nature ,poetry ,humanity, innocence in 4 lines 8) Bugs
Garden Magic. This is the garden's magic, That through the sunny hours The gardener who tends it, Himself outgrows his flowers. He grows by gift of patience, Since he who sows must know That only in the Lord's good time Does any seedling grow. He learns from buds unfolding, From each tight leaf unfurled, That his own heart, expanding, Is one with all the world. He bares his head to sunshine, His bending back a sign Of grace, and ev'ry shower becomes His sacramental wine. And when at last his labors Bring forth the very stuff And substance of all beauty This is reward enough. -MARIE NETTLETON CARROLL The Garden. Across the road a garden grew, And bent among the flowers, A spare old man stooped to his task Or he sat and dreamed for hours. He had slaved away his early youth In a pharmacy day and night. A pallid drudge year in, year out, He was starved for color and light. He had no time for romance, He grew to shun mankind. Too stingy to spend emotion, He closed his heart and mind. He reaped the fruits of frustration, In that dull round of care. A life out of doors, the learned man said, Might bring surcease from despair. The gay nasturtiums stirred his heart, Velvet dahlias woke his pride The roses he loved like children, The lily was his bride. He left this mortal plane long since, But the garden calls him still: He walks there when the moon is low, A bent form, dim and chill. -FRANCES STRAWN LIVINGSTON
Oh I love Robert Frost's work!!!Here's my favorite poem!! Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
Why Garden? Dooley is our gardener, And I'm the hired hand. The things I do had best be right, Or I bet that I'll get canned. Tis haul the stone and build the fence. Sure, sometimes it makes no sense. Lovely, huge bags of manure, (I'll carry those for sure.) "Now don't step there!" She tells me that. Confused, I take off me head, And scratch me hat. The day begins at can't see, And ends again at can't see. All the water, Tons of seeds, And then she has To pull the weeds. Her reward is in the flower bloom, And veggies that take all the room. What's in it for me? That's no surprise. Sure, tis the smile that's on her face, And the delight that's in her eyes. Desert Rat
DR you are smooooooth! Do you think you could teach me some of your poetry skills to use on the unsuspecting gnomettes?
These are all fabulous - keep 'em coming! DR, that was soooo sweet! I want to print it out for my little poetry notebook.
This is one I have in a frame on my computer desk. DR wrote it about six years ago. Sunset? Locusts sang their ragged song, and birds flared out of trees. Light faded in gold and scarlet, as the sun dipped below the crest. The clouds above borrowed colors, never intended for them. Sunset in an artist's dream of tints, lit the sky in a day's ending. To the south, distant lightning flashed, while storm clouds roiled. And I think, though I would never admit it, even to myself, No, especially to myself, I watched the storm clouds more intently, than the sunset. Dooley
