Friday Poems: An Autumn Evening

Guess what? I have planned a little surprise for you all today. I am featuring my first guest blogger and when I thought of asking her, I knew it would be for an edition of Friday Poems. Please welcome Cindy to Sweet Eventide! I'm sure you've seen her lovely comments on many posts here since we first met in Blogging Your Way earlier this year.

When I was scouring the stacks to find a poem for this week's Friday Poems, I came across the name of Lucy Maud Montgomery, who we all know is the author of the beloved Anne of Green Gables series. My copies at home are so well worn from years of rifling through its pages and delving into Anne's adventures, that I had forgotten LMM also wrote poetry.

This is a favorite of mine because it illuminates two magical transitions that occur in the course of the year and each day. One, the onset of Autumn, when nature readies to put herself to bed to be sent off to the land 'o dreams. And the other, as Jess will attest, when the promises of day are about to become the magic of night and everything feels spellbound in the dusk.




photo credit: Gorgeoux


An Autumn Evening
by Lucy Maud Montgomery

Dark hills against a hollow crocus sky
Scarfed with its crimson pennons, and below
The dome of sunset long, hushed valleys lie
Cradling the twilight, where the lone winds blow
And wake among the harps of leafless trees
Fantastic runes and mournful melodies.

The chilly purple air is threaded through
With silver from the rising moon afar,
And from a gulf of clear, unfathomed blue
In the southwest glimmers a great gold star
Above the darkening druid glens of fir
Where beckoning boughs and elfin voices stir.

And so I wander through the shadows still,
And look and listen with a rapt delight,
Pausing again and yet again at will
To drink the elusive beauty of the night,
Until my soul is filled, as some deep cup,
That with divine enchantment is brimmed up.


Thanks for letting me guest post this Friday, Jess and her blog readers! It was great fun pouring through so many beautiful words and then finding one that sent my imagination spinning, just like Anne Shirley's would.

Thank you so much Cindy for giving us a Friday Poem to celebrate the new season! Click here to see the photo Cindy chose for her poem. We were unable to use it as it is All Rights Reserved, but it fits the poem so perfectly that I'd love you all to have a look. Please leave me a comment and tell me what you love most about Autumn.


Friday Poems: The Arrow and The Song

Growing up, I attended eight different schools. Needless to say, I do not have any friends "since kindergarten." But now, at the ripe old age of 39, I am proud to say I have had a few select friends for more than half of my life. As an only child, with an estranged mother and deceased father, I treasure these old friends because they are now my only links to my past and my history on this earth. I love traditions and rituals as an adult for all of these reasons and more.

Today's poem is dedicated to old friends and everyone can feel free to hum this song all day too.




photo credit: Leo Reynolds



The Arrow and The Song
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

Longfellow wrote: "October 16, 1845. Before church, wrote The Arrow and The Song, which came into my mind as I stood with my back to the fire, and glanced on to the paper with arrow's speed. Literally an improvisation."

Well blow me down with that kind of talent! People say they like my writing, but come on! I am like an infant in comparison.

Friday Poems: The Courage That My Mother Had

In honor of our beautiful Oma, I searched high and low for a poem to share today. I started with the obvious grief and funeral poems but they did not ring true for me about Oma. She was a fierce, feisty, fun and complicated lady. She was highly artistic, resourceful and opinionated.

As I read poem after poem, I was guided by two things: gratitude for knowing her and respect for her strength throughout her entire life.




The Courage That My Mother Had


The courage that my mother had
Went with her, and is with her still:
Rock from New England quarried;
Now granite in a granite hill.

The golden brooch my mother wore
She left behind for me to wear;
I have no thing I treasure more:
Yet, it is something I could spare.

Oh, if instead she'd left to me

The thing she took into the grave! —
That courage like a rock, which she
Has no more need of, and I have.


Dear Oma,

I know you absolutely hated it when I aimed my camera your way, but it was so worth it! Every single image that I have of you now was worth your anger in the moment. You were beautiful and I wish I had more years to absorb your wisdom and creativity in life.

Love,
Your Grandaughter-in-Law

Friday Poems: In Flight

I chose this poem not for a particular reason this week, but simply because I thought it was beautiful, lyrical and had lovely imagery.


photo credit: Rofanator


In Flight
by Jennifer K. Sweeney

The Himalayan legend says
there are beautiful white birds
that live completely in flight.
They are born in the air,

must learn to fly before falling
and die also in their flying.
Maybe you have been born
into such a life

with the bottom dropping out.
Maybe gravity is claiming you
and you feel
ghost-scripted.

For the one that lives inside the fall,
the sky beneath the sky of all.

Jennifer Sweeney's book How to Live on Bread and Music definitely sounds intriguing.

This long weekend I may find myself at the Alameda Antique Fair. If so, I will be sure to bring my camera so I can share the visual goodies with you all next week.

Bon week-end!

Friday Poems: Apache Wedding Prayer

A very important person from my son's old, wonderful, preschool is getting married tomorrow!

Unfortunately we cannot attend, but our hearts are with E&W as they join their lives and celebrate their love. I'd like to dedicate Friday Poems to them today with a verse we used in our own wedding ceremony.


a stained glass window from E&W's church

Apache Wedding Prayer

Now you feel no rain,
For each of you will be shelter to the other.

Now you will feel no cold,
For each of you will be warmth to the other.

Now there is no more loneliness,
For each of you will be companion to the other.

Now you are two bodies,
But there is one life before you.

Go now to your dwelling place,
To enter into the days of your togetherness.
And may your days be long and good upon the earth.


Many congratulations to you both! 
Don't forget to eat on your wedding day!

Love, the Js

Friday Poems: Bed in Summer

Ever since we put the swing up in our family room, I am feeling whimsical, child-like and more playful. So this week's poem reminds me of me in a way and of course, my Noodle.

Enjoy!


photo credit: AdWriter


Bed in Summer


In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet,
Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?


Friday Poems: The Dining Room

Oh my goodness, sometimes the stars align just so and my world comes together for Friday Poems. 

On Wednesday night, my MIL came over and helped me figure out the best place for my dining table and buffet that I inherited from her. On Thursday, I spent all day working to clear the living room and dining room of boxes so I could move the buffet into position. Last night, I was able to sit in my tidy dining room and snap a few photos. 


a little glass of sunshine

Today I went to the library to force myself to rest. I've been lost in France this week and found myself in the foreign language section where I stumbled upon Selections from French Poetry, circa 1965. Next I walked confidently to the international music where I knew there would be a Carla Bruni cd waiting for me. And there was...one single cd, her new one! (That's an iTunes link btw). What a fascinating woman that I am only learning about this week.

Without further ado, notre poésie!


A glimpse of an old dresser, now a buffet


La Salle à Manger
(The Dining Room)
by Francis Jammes (1868-1938)
translated by Joseph T. Shipley

There is a rather dull cupboard here
that knew the voice of my great aunts,
that knew the voice of my grandfather dear,
that knew the voice of my father too;
and to these memories it is true.
You're wrong to think it can only sit,
because I talk with it.

There's also a cuckoo made of wood.
I don't know why its voice is no longer good.
I don't like to ask . . . You see,
the voice might really be
broken, up there in its head,
just like the voice of the dead.

There's also an old buffet
that smells of wax and of conserve,
meat, and bread, and ripened pears.
It's a faithful servant and it swears
'twill all our goods preserve.

Lots of men and women have been here, near it,
who do not believe in such a spirit.
And I smile, when a visitor comes my way,
that he thinks me alone, and starts to say:
"Good morning, Mr. James, how are you today?"

Click here to hear the poem in French!

Au revoir!

Friday Poems: Back Yard

It is the eve of a new month that will bring a new school year, with longer days. This new month is going to mark the beginning of my job search. I wonder where I will end up? 

For now, it is still July and it's nice to remember the now. Sunsets. Key lime martinis with my husband on Friday nights. Movie escapes with music to drool over.

Maybe this is the weekend I will hang my lanterns in the back yard...


photo credit: Dana Graves


Back Yard
by Carl Sandburg

Shine on, O moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,
All silver under your rain to-night.

An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion.
A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month;
     to-night they are throwing you kisses.

An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a 
     cherry tree in his back yard.

The clocks say I must go--I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking
     white thoughts you rain down.

     Shine on, O moon,
Shake out more and more silver changes.


Friday Poems: Where the Sidewalk Ends

Today I'm in the mood for a classic children's poem (and poet) after the time I spent with the Noodle yesterday. I forgot to mention my visit to the most awesome Hicklebee's. Not only do they boast a resourceful staff and welcoming environment (a bathtub filled with pillows for weary parents), but they have the most colorful restroom with drawings and notes from many authors and illustrators.


hopskotch instructions left by a littler Jessica 
dated July 4th, discovered by a bigger Jessica yesterday


Where the Sidewalk Ends
by Shel Silverstein


There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.




Friday Poems: This Is Just To Say

I was looking for a poem to share today, something about summer or nature or the home. When I read this, I knew it was The One because of a special moment Jeff caught on camera while I was out on an errand the other day.


photo credit: Jeff Nichols


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

Friday Poems: New Sights

Considering today is Moving Day, I thought this little poem (from my now overdue Poetry by Heart library book) was quite perfect for Friday Poems.


photo credit: Muffett


New Sights
Anonymous

I like to see a thing I know
Has not been seen before,
That's why I cut my apple through
To look into the core.

It's nice to think, though many an eye
Has seen the ruddy skin,
Mine is the very first to spy
The five brown pips within.


I have many new sights to see in the new house as we make it into our home: new corners, new views, new neighbors, new trees, new critters, new routes to & fro, plus deer! I won't have new internet until Monday however; so if you're missing me here on the blog, you can probably find me tweeting (from my hand-me-down iPhone).

I wish everyone a relaxing holiday weekend! We plan to take a little R&R from unpacking on Saturday afternoon. We'll be swimming and BBQing (of course) with both sides of our family at my uncle's house. 

P.S. I will never look at an apple seed the same way after this poem. One reason you gotta love poetry!

Friday Poems: Sea Fever

Yesterday I took the Noodle and my 9 y.o. cousin out for a few adventures, including playing at Mission Bay. When I lived here in San Diego, I rarely went to Mission Bay but now I see it is a truly great place to go with kids. Calm waters + lots of sand = happy kids.

You can't help but have sea fever here between all the Navy sightings and sailboats, not to mention the clear blue skies and windy afternoons.

Froggies say, "I must go down to the seas again!"


Sea Fever
by John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white
  sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn
  breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the
  running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds
  flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-
  gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's 
  like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing
  fellow-rover,
And quite sleep and a sweet dream when the long
  trick's over.

You all know what I'll be doing this weekend -- driving back north through the lovely state of California. My husband is flying in tonight to help me out, isn't he the best!?! I'm a lucky gal. Sunday, I may or may not be priming the wood paneling in the new house. The big move is next Thursday.

I wish you a wonderful summer weekend!

Friday Poems: maggie and milly and mollie and may

Dear Readers,


Pardon my delay in sharing a poem but I was with all my boys, down by the seashore, celebrating the end of kindergarten. I think going straight to the beach after school gets out on the last day is a mighty fine tradition to begin in our family!




maggie and milly and molly and may
by e.e. cummings

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember
  her troubles, and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing
  bubbles: and 

may came home with a smooth round stone
so small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea.

I wasn't altogether absent today, I made an appearance over at the lovely Green Phone Booth this morning.

Happy Weekend!

Friday Poems: Sea Fever

Yesterday I took the Noodle and my 9 y.o. cousin out for a few adventures, including playing at Mission Bay. When I lived here in San Diego, I rarely went to Mission Bay but now I see it is a truly great place to go with kids. Calm waters, lots of sand = happy kids. 

You can't help but have sea fever here between all the Navy sightings and sailboats, not to mention the clear blue skies and windy afternoons.

Froggie says, "I must go down to the seas again!"

Sea Fever
by John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and
  the sky.
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white 
  sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn
  breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the
  running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-
  gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy
  life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's 
  like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-
  rover,
And quite sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's 
  over.


You all know what I'll be doing this weekend -- driving back north through the lovely state of California. My husband is flying in tonight to help me out, isn't he the best!?! I'm a lucky gal. Sunday, I may or may not be priming the wood paneling in the new house. The big move is next Thursday.

I wish you a wonderful summer weekend!

Friday Poems: Next Time

I read the following poem the other day after seeing it in a photo on SouleMama's post Snapshots. It is a long, wonderful post imho. I recently ordered Amanda's book The Creative Family with the balance on an Amazon gift card. I am so excited for it to arrive.

In the meantime, enjoy this lovely poem.


My MIL got the most darling market umbrella ever!

Next Time
by Mary Oliver

Next time what I'd do is look at
the earth before saying anything. I'd stop
just before going into a house
and be an emperor for a minute
and listen better to the wind
  or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether
blame or praise or just passing time,
I'd watch the face, how the mouth 
has to work, and see any strain, any
sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more -- the earth
bracing itself and soaring, the air
finding every leaf and feather over
forest and water, and for every person
the body glowing inside the clothes
  like a light.

I hope you all glow inside like this pretty umbrella in my backyard, begging for summer evenings, laughter and lemonade. And lifted voices! 

Enjoy your weekend!

Ciao,
Jess

Friday Poems: Littlefoot, 19

Mrs. French has done it again, gone into Flickr with a dreamy vision  that goes straight from her heart into mine. This time it's pink peonies. As I commented there, I passed up a bunch of pink peonies just the other day, but now I am determined to get some to enjoy this weekend.*


© 2006, Pear Biter


Thus inspired, I went looking for a poem. Since I cannot control line spacing here in my blog, I have done a screen shot from Poets.org because it seems clear to me that the spacing is a key visual element to Charles Wright.

Littlefoot, 19 [This is the bird hour]
by Charles Wright



















I have a hunch that Ribelli and I will be spending some time together this weekend. (Are you wondering, "Who is the mysterious Ribelli?" Well, I just this instant decided to name my camera -- she is a rebel and everything sounds better to me in Italiano.)

Friday Poems: Where I'm From

Today's post comes to us via this awesome blog Writers in the Schools. They aim to engage children in the "pleasure and power of reading and writing."The blog features work by K-12 kids in their program. Incredible!


Where I'm From
by Maria, 3rd grade

I am from the beach in Acapulco
that smells so fresh,
from the ice cream that melts
in the hot, hot sun,
the waves that come and go,
from the sand that people use
to build sandcastles at sunset.

I am from the food cooking
in the warm kitchen,
the barking that my dog does
when he is hungry,
from the cup of water that I drink.

I am from the bread I like to smell,
from the voices of people trying
to talk to each other,
and the bread coming out of the oven.
I'm from my Mom who I touch
so that I will not get lost.

Oh my goodness! I'm squealing with delight over this poem! It was posted just this very morning too. Let's all go leave Maria a comment on her poem! Plus then you can see the photo they posted with her poem...


Friday Poems: Diane di Prima

Today's poem is by Diane di Prima. I had never heard of her until last night when I was reading about her in Word of Mouth (which I was reading again because it's due back at the library today). 

An Italian-American poet and major figure of the beat movement, how have I never run across her considering my dad came of age in the 60s and my English degree?


photo courtesy of The University of Louisville

From the book's introduction: "She believes there is a worldwide war going on against the imagination, and that we have to resist at all costs the flattening and deadening of our dreams." This anthology of poems was published in 2003 so I really wonder if her opinion has changed considering the explosion of creativity on the web via blogs, Etsy, etc.

Here now is our Friday Poem, which di Prima wrote for her maternal nonno.

April Fool Birthday Poem for Grandpa
by Diane di Prima

Today is your
birthday and I have tried
writing these things before,
but now
in the gathering madness, I want to
thank you
for telling me what to expect
for pulling
no punches, back there in that scrubbed Bronx parlor
thank you
for honestly weeping in time to
innumerable heartbreaking
italian operas for
pulling my hair when I
pulled the leaves off the trees so I'd
know how it feels, we are
involved in it now, revolution, up to our
knees and the tide is rising, I embrace
strangers on the street, filled with their love and
mine, the love you told us had to come or we
die, told them all in that Bronx park, me listening in
spring Bronx dusk, breathing stars, so glorious
to me your white hair, your height your fierce
blue eyes, rare among italians, I stood
a ways off, looking up at you, my grandpa
people listened to, I stand
a ways off listening as I pour out soup
young men with light in their faces
at my table, talking love, talking revolution
which is love, spelled backwards, how
you would love us all, would thunder your anarchist wisdom
at us, would thunder Dante, and Giordano Bruno, orderly men
bent to your ends, well I want you to know
we do it for you, and your ilk, for Carlo Tresca,
for Sacco and Vanzetti, without knowing
it, or thinking about it, as we do it for Aubrey Beardsley
Oscar Wilde (all street lights shall be purple), do it
for Trotsky and Shelley and big/dumb
Kropotkin
Eisenstein's Strike people, Jean Cocteau's ennui, we do it for
the stars over the Bronx
that they may look on earth
and not be ashamed.


Phew, I don't know half of those people but it's okay! I know my grandma loved Italian opera, especially Caruso and later Bocelli of course. I wonder if my dad went to the Bronx and listened to her grandpa Dominic Mallozzi stir up the masses? And, by the way, I *totally* believe that part about the hair pulling.

Happy Friday friends, and don't forget you can enter my giveaway until 5 p.m. PST today! I will announce the winner bright and early on Monday morning.