Child Of My Dreams

The Kraken

 

Chanson Groënlandaise

by Jules Verne (1828 – 1905)

Le ciel est noir,
Et le soleil se traîne
À peine !
De désespoir
Ma pauvre âme incertaine
Est pleine !
La blonde enfant se rit de mes tendres chansons,
Et sur son coeur l’hiver promène ses glaçons !

Ange rêvé,
Ton amour qui fait vivre
M’enivre,
Et j’ai bravé
Pour te voir, pour te suivre
Le givre.
Hélas ! sous mes baisers et leur douce chaleur,
Je n’ai pu dissiper les neiges de ton coeur !

Ah ! que demain
À ton âme convienne
La mienne,
Et que ma main
Amoureusement tienne
La tienne !
Le soleil brillera là-haut dans notre ciel,
Et de ton coeur l’amour forcera le dégel !

Greenland Song

by Jules Verne
Translation by N. D’Anvers

Dark is the sky,
The sun sinks wearily;
My trembling heart, with sorrow filled,
Aches drearily!
My sweet child at my songs is smiling still,
While at his tender heart the icicles lie chill.

Child of my dreams!
Thy love doth cheer me;
The cruel biting frost I brave
But to be near thee!
Ah me, Ah me, could these hot tears of mine
But melt the icicles around that heart of thine!

Could we once more
Meet heart to heart,
Thy little hands close clasped in mine,
No more to part.
Then on thy chill heart rays from heaven above
Should fall, and softly melt it with the warmth of love!


Giant squid and its even larger counterpart in terms of mass, the colossal squid, inhabit a wide range of north Atlantic oceans and areas around New Zealand, places where deep shelfs form in the ocean.   Due to its tendency to live and feed in the deepest parts of the ocean, the number of intact specimens in recorded history still remains under 200, but reports of giant squid sightings have occurred for thousands of years, capturing the imagination of story tellers for centuries.  As a child I remember watching the movie 20,000 leagues under the sea multiple times and being fascinated by the scene with the giant squid.   I wonder if Verne was inspired by Tennyson’s sonnet?

Jules Verne’s remarkable imagination predicted technologies that didn’t exist during his lifetime.  The fictional submarine Nautillus, functions much like a nuclear powered submarine does today, in that it could roam the oceans for vast periods of time, the 20,000 leagues in the title a reference not to the depth reached, but the distance covered without surfacing.   Verne became enamored with submarines during the 1867 World’s Fair in Paris, where he was able to examine a model of the French submarine Plongeur which had been commission in 1863. I wonder what Verne would think of the current spat between Australia, the United States and France over submarine technologies?   

 Verne in many ways invented the science fiction genre, setting his novels in the second half of the 20th Century to account for the technology that didn’t exist at the time he was writing.  His novels  Journey to the Center of the Earth (1864), Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas (1870), and Around the World in Eighty Days (1872) Verne’s novels have remained popular and profitable in many different languages, ranking him as the third most translated author since 1979, only behind Shakespeare and Agatha Christie.  Do you have a favorite Jules Verne novel or movie adapted from his fiction?


The Kraken

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides: above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumbered and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages and will lie
Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

 

In This Wild City

Migrants Under Texas Bridge Seeking Asylum in United States, September 2021

The New Colossus

by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
 

There is a tragic gap between the dream that was once America and the current migrant crisis.  Like so many complex issues facing our society any and all solutions seem to be overwhelmed by the enormity of the problem. How does poetry connect to humanitarian issues like immigration?    Is poetry relevant anymore in informing and communicating the human condition?   If the Statue of Liberty was being erected in 2021 for the first time, what poem do you think would be selected to commemorate and honor it’s significance today? 


The Pink Crosses

by Amanda Auchter
Ciudad Juárez, Mexico

In this wild city, we are bones
scattered in the valley’s grave. An apron,
a white tennis shoe, a face gone
missing. A mother leans over the dust

scattered in the valley’s grave. An apron
around her waist, on her way to work. The
missing. A mother leans over the dust
and carves her daughter’s initials. Her name

around her waist, on her way to work. The
bones wait to be found; there are always bones. She prays
and carves her daughter’s initials. Her name,
Veronica, and the others, EsmereldaBarbaraBrenda; our

bones wait to be found; there are always bones. She prays
to the gardens tethered to the field of pink crosses:
Veronica, and the others, EsmereldaBarbaraBrenda, our
roses, wild poppies, fragile blooms of morning glories,

It Must Be So

Lord Byron (1788 – 1824)

A Riddle on the Letter E

The beginning of eternity, the end of time and space,
The beginning of every end, and the end of every place.

Lord Byron

 

If That High World

by Lord Byron

If that high world, which lies beyond
Our own, surviving Love endears;
If there the cherish’d heart be fond,
The eye the same, except in tears –
How welcome those untrodden spheres!
How sweet this very hour to die!
To soar from earth and find all fears
Lost in thy light – Eternity!
It must be so: ’tis not for self
That we so tremble on the brink;
And striving to o’erleap the gulf,
Yet cling to Being’s severing link.
Oh! in that future let us think
To hold each heart the heart that shares;
With them the immortal waters drink,
And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!


On Parting

by Lord Byron

The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see:
The tear that from thing eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.
I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?
By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.

I’ll Sing My Song Like A Rebel

Bob Dylan and Joan Baez

The easiest kind of relationship for me is with ten thousand people. The hardest is with one.

Joan Baez

The Bob Dylan Dream

by Joyce Sutphen

So here is one of the best dreams I’ve
ever had: I am in New York City,

and everything is closed tight except
for one door that is wide open and seems

inviting, so I go through and up the
stairs to a room with wood floors and

a window seat where Bob Dylan is waiting
for me, and we have a long talk about

love and poetry, and afterwards we
stand up and fly over the Village, which

is quiet until we hear some music
a few blocks away so we fly there, and

it’s the Jefferson Airplane Marching Band!
Tell me-does it get much better than that?


Dylan and Baez met in New York City in 1961. Their artistic and romantic attraction was instantaneous and blazed brightly for the next 4 years. But emotions that combustible aren’t always sustainable and theirs burned itself out by 1965. By the end, Baez wanted to continue to play a role in the civil rights movement while Dylan wanted to evolve as an artist and not be limited by audience expectations. Each gave the other something before their parting. Baez would continue to perform Dylan’s legacy of political songs, while Baez bestowed a softer side to Dylan’s trajectory. Baez brought political relevance to Dylan’s lyrics and music through her artistry while Dylan absorbed Baez’s artistic and personal expression in ways that would nudge his muse in a new direction, from indignation towards beauty. Baez had absorbed some of his righteous anger while sheltering some of it from Dylan. 

Dylan shared his perspective on his relationship with Baez and her influence on his life and music in Poem to Joanie. I have shared an excerpt below, a moving tribute to Baez on his understanding of ‘beauty’ and its significance in his art.

Poem To Joanie (Excerpt)

by Bob Dylan

So, once more it’s winter again
An’ that means I’ll wait ’til spring
T’ ramble back t’ where I kneeled
When I first heard the ore train sing
An’ pulled the ground up by its roots
But this time I won’t use my strength
T’ pass the time yankin’ grass
While I’m waitin’ for the train t’ sound
No next time’ll be a different day
For the train might be there when I come
An’ I might wait hours for the cars t’ pass
An’ then as the echo fades
I’ll bend down an’ count the strands a grass
But one thing that’s bound t’ be
Is that instead a pullin’ at the earth
I’ll jus’ pet it as a friend
An’ when that train engine comes near
I’ll nod my head t’ the big brass wheels
An’ say “howdy” t’ the engineer
An’ yell that Joanie says hello
An’ watch the train man scratch his head
An’ wonder what I meant by that
An’ I’ll stand up an’ remember when
A rock was flung by a devil child
An’ I’ll walk my road somewhere between
The unseen green an’ the jet – black train
An’ I’ll sing my song like a rebel wild
For it’s that I am an’ can’t deny
But at least I’ll know not t’ hurt
Not t’ push
Not t’ ache
An’ God knows … not t’ try –

Borderless And Open The Days Go On

Ivor Gurney (1890 – 1937)

with his words
in my head
I slept for thirty
or forty forevers
while the grass shrieked
and the trees tremored…

Deborah Landau

September

By Deborah Landau 
 
Dazzling emptiness of the black green end of summer no one
running in the yard pulse pulse the absence.
 
Leave them not to the empty yards.
 
They resembled a family. Long quiet hours. Sometimes
one was angry sometimes someone called her “wife”
someone’s hair receding.
 
An uptick in the hormone canopy embodied a restlessness
and oh what to do with it.
 
(How she arrived in a hush in a looking away and not looking.)
 
It had been some time since richness intangible
and then they made a whole coat of it.
 
Meanwhile August moved toward its impervious finale.
A mood by the river. Gone. One lucid rush carrying them along.
 
Borderless and open the days go on—
 

A friend of Ivor Gurney’s described him as being “so sane in his insanity.”  Gurney spent the last 15 years of his life in psychiatric hospitals in England, believing himself to actually be Shakespeare for a portion of that time.   A self described composer more than poet or playwright, he wrote more than 300 songs in his lifetime.  Only a small fraction of his music has been performed or recorded.
 
Born in the city of Gloucester in 1890, Gurney was fascinated by music. As a boy he studied under the organist, Dr Herbert Brewer at the Gloucester Cathedral.  Following his service in WWI, he was awarded a scholarship to the Royal College of Music to study composition with Sir Charles Stanford.  But life’s challenges intervened and a nervous breakdown interrupted his studies.
 
However Gurney is an inspiration of resilience. Despite worsening mental and physical health in his early 30’s, the early years of his commitment were productive creatively.  Its unclear how much of his mental illness was attributable to PTSD from the war or the physical impact of being gassed in the trenches but his mental health deteriorated over time until he was unable to continue as an artist the final few years of his life.  His cause of death was tuberculosis, which was rampant in the locked wards of mental institutions of the time.
 
I find it interesting to pair modern poets with counterparts from a 100 years ago.  Some similar ideas run through these two poems around the impermanence of permanence and how the external world moves on without us, regardless of the machinations of our inner life. 
 
 

Sonnet – September 1922

by Ivor Gurney

Fierce indignation is best understood by those
Who have time or no fear, or a hope in its real good.
One loses it with a filed soul or in sentimental mood.
Anger is gone with sunset, or flows as flows
The water in easy mill-runs; the earth that ploughs
Forgets protestation in its turning, the rood
Prepares, considers, fulfils; and the poppy’s blood
Makes old the old changing of the headland’s brows.

But the toad under the harrow toadiness
Is known to forget, and even the butterfly
Has doubts of wisdom when that clanking thing goes by
And’s not distressed. A twisted thing keeps still –
That thing easier twisted than a grocer’s bill –
And no history of November keeps the guy.

Believe Me, I Loved You All

Michale Oakshott (1901 – 1990)

The man of conservative temperament believes that a known good is not lightly to be surrendered for an unknown better.

Michael Oakshott

The mother 

by Gwendolyn Brooks

Abortions will not let you forget.
You remember the children you got that you did not get,   
The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,   
The singers and workers that never handled the air.   
You will never neglect or beat
Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.
You will never wind up the sucking-thumb
Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,   
Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.
 
I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed children.
I have contracted. I have eased
My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.
I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized
Your luck
And your lives from your unfinished reach,
If I stole your births and your names,
Your straight baby tears and your games,
Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches, and your deaths,
If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,
Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.   
Though why should I whine,
Whine that the crime was other than mine?—
Since anyhow you are dead.
Or rather, or instead,
You were never made.
But that too, I am afraid,
Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?   
You were born, you had body, you died.
It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.
 
Believe me, I loved you all.
Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you
All.
 

If you have never heard of Michael Oakeshott, you are in good company.   He was a British economist, thinker, philosopher who hit his academic zenith in the 1950’s and 1960’s.  His dictum was society since the enlightenment had fallen down the rabbit of hole of a misplaced faith in “rationalism.” Oakeshott believed that all of our carefully considered plans of the past 200 years had created an illusion that bureaucrats and governments employing an army of rationalists with the latest “technical knowledge” could solve all our problems, when in reality, no government, regardless of its political disposition can solve the complicated problems our world faces.  This dictum supports the concept of a right to privacy as individuals, as the more government gets involved in our personal life the more onerous becomes the intrusion.  Government needs to function to create the foundation for a shared public good, build the infrastructure on which we can all conduct business, create some framework of fairness, protect some level or right to privacy and basic liberties to conduct our own lives and a process to implement justice. But what Oakeshott was advocating for is to not ignore “practical knowledge”, i.e. tradition, in favor of radical change, even a radical change to return to a distant past.

Oakeshott refreshingly did not feel government and politicians should be free of ideology or careful thought.  In fact he felt poetry had a role to play in constructing the balance between our public and private lives and the positive influence it could have on shaping public discourse.  He felt poetry should inspire society in grappling with complex topics that are difficult to frame in written communication, required for the crafting of laws and regulations.  Oakeshott admired poetry’s ability to create the illusion of what he called an “eternal presence” between the author and reader, “conveying our most intimate moments, sharing with us their most intimate feelings feelings, whispering in our ears in the most delicate ways.” 

Today’s poems are great examples of how words can be incomplete, yet convey complex ideas on sex, pregnancy and reproductive rights.  Abortion is a difficult topic and a very difficult personal decision, but one best left to the individual and their loved ones to make.  As a society our ability to provide safe and equitable access to women’s health care helps communities across the economic spectrum be healthier than they would be without that access. 

Oakeshott advocated for the role of a “conservative” government, not in the sense of how we might define it today, where conservatism only means leaning right.  In his definition it could equally apply to both ends of the political spectrum.  His vision for a conservative government was a way to control what he called “monomaniacs”, individuals overly focused on single issue politics.  Oakeshott wrote; “we tolerate monomaniacs, but why should we be ruled by them?”  Oakeshott believed in the concept that the individual had a right to continue their traditions.  The problem with a pluralist society of immigrants we barely call a democracy anymore, is there are no widely shared traditions and the monmaniacs have run a muck.   We have become a nation of individualists, armed with the portion of the constitution we believe protects our “freedoms” when in fact each side wants nothing to do with the other’s penchant for extremism and want’s the courts to side with their interpretation of the laws.   Let’s see where that gets us as a society in another 20 years.

Maybe we all need to read a bit of Oakeshott in the wake of the insanity of the kinds of laws and jurisprudence dominating the headlines, laws that seriously undermine all of our right to privacy.  Texas has decided to deputize its citizens to enforce a law that reaches all the way into the realm of rooting out thought crimes among our families and neighbors, even those we don’t know.  The law has been constructed in such a way as to make it difficult to challenge and pits individuals against individuals, the rich against the poor.  It is a law that isn’t meant to make sense, it is intended to be confusing and convoluted, to create fear and create the illusion of access to health care.  Make no mistake there is big money behind this scheme for reasons I have yet to comprehend other than it is a test case for a minority power grab.   

The question through Oakeshott’s lens is what is tradition?  I believe tradition in 2021, the tradition the vast majority of Americans believe in and trust, is the right to make our own health care decisions, including reproductive health care decisions.  Roe vs Wade has become interwoven into the fabric of our society and stands for more than just reproductive health, it stands for a level of protection to our personal destiny that all of us rely upon in our concept of well being, the idea that we are in control of our own lives. 

Oakeshott wrote,  “Is it not the task for a government to protect its subjects against the nuisance of those who spend their energy and wealth in the service of some pet indignation?”   The problem is we are now locked in a battle in this country, between a dwindling minority of religious zealots who believe they are on the side of their religion on issues like abortion, for which the growing majority of Americans believe abortion rights was decided law two generations ago, who believe that American society protects separation of church and state on personal health care decisions.  The vast majority of Americans believe the present American tradition is access to safe and affordable abortion as part of the foundation of  a woman’s individual freedoms.   Tradition works both ways and what was new 50 years ago, is now established law that the majority will organize to protect.  There is a question that the Republicans who think they have been clever should ponder;  What is the size of the hornets nest of passionate zealots who believe in the right to privacy as a fundamental underpinning of Roe vs Wade that will be flying forth in the years ahead?  And the question everyone who opposes this erosion of our personal liberty should be asking, what are you prepared to do to protect your rights in terms of your time and money to counter this serious attack? 


rape

by Patti Smith

yum yum the stars are out. I’ll never forget how you
smelled that night. like cheddar cheese melting
under fluorescent light. like a day-old rainbow fish.
what a dish. gotta lick my lips. gotta dream I day-
dream. thorozine brain cloud. rain rain comes com-
ing down.
all over her. there she is on the hill. pale as a posy.
getting soaking wet. hope her petticoats shrink.
well little shepherd girl your gonna kingdom come.
looking so clean. the guardian of every little lamb.
well beep beep sheep I’m moving in.
I’m gonna peep in bo’s bodice. lay down darling don’t
be modest let me slip my hand in. ohhh that’s soft
that’s nice that’s not used up. ohhh don’t cry. wet
what’s wet? oh that. heh heh. that’s just the rain
lambie pie. now don’t squirm. let me put my rubber
on. I’m a wolf in a lamb skin trojan. ohh yeah that’s
hard that’s good. now don’t tighten up. open up be-
bop. lift that little butt up. ummm open wider be-bop.
come on. nothing. can. stop me. now. ohhh ahhh.
isn’t that good. my. melancholy be-bop.

Oh don’t cry. come on get up. let’s dance in the grass.
let’s cut a rug let’s jitterbug. roll those tiny white
stockings down. bobby sock-o let’s flow. come on this
is a dance contest. under the stars, let’s alice in the
grass.
let’s swing betty boop hoop
let’s birdland let’s stroll
let’s rock let’s roll
let’s whalebone let’s go
let’s deodorize the night.

Fruitful Crops In Every Field

Harvesting wheat by hand.

“Poetry is a sort of truancy, a dream within the dream of life, a wild flower planted among our wheat.”

— Michael Joseph Oakeshott

Portrait of a Machine

by Louis Untermeyer

What nudity as beautiful as this
Obedient monster purring at its toil;
These naked iron muscles dripping oil
And the sure-fingered rods that never miss.
This long and shining flank of metal is
Magic that greasy labour cannot spoil;
While this vast engine that could rend the soil
Conceals its fury with a gentle hiss.
It does not vent its loathing, it does not turn
Upon its makers with destroying hate.
It bears a deeper malice; lives to earn
It’s masters bread and laughs to see this great
Lord of the earth, who rules but cannot learn,
Become the slave of what his slaves create.


One hundred years ago it took 40 hours of labor from planting to harvest with the best horse drawn equipment at the time to raise 100 bushels of corn.   Today it takes around 2 hours.  We have 20X increased productivity and with it 20X increased the cost of production and reduced 20X the workforce needed to produce it.  The reason we’ll never go back is no one would want to work that hard ever again for so little wages.  We have grown comfortable in the marvels that the internal combustion engine and fossil fuels have created and there is no bridge back to a pastoral rural economy.  But as these poems both remind us, there is a cost to our efficiency that goes beyond finances.   There is a human cost in our souls being tethered to the very machines that have transformed lives. 

 


Agricultural Implements and Machinery

by James Mcyintre (1828- 1906)

Poor laborers, they did sad bewail,
When the machine displaced the flail ;
There’s little work, now, with the hoes,
Since cultivators weed the rows.

Labor it became more fickle
When the scythe took place of sickle ;
Labor still it did sink lower
By introduction of mower ;

And the work was done much cheaper
When they added on the reaper.
Another machine to it they join,
Mower, reaper, binder, they combine.

Machines now load and stow away
Both the barley and the hay,
And the farmers do get richer
With the loader and the pitcher.

There’s little work now for the hoes,
Since cultivators weed the rows ;
They sow and rake by the machine-
Hand labor’s ‘mong the things have been.

Armed with scythes, the old war chariot
Cut down men in the fierce war riot ;
Round farmer’s chariot falls the slain,
But ’tis the sheaves of golden grain.

This harvest, now, of eighty-four,
Will great wealth on farmers pour,
For there is abundant yield
Of fruitful crops in every field.

Life’s Sunny Hours Flit By

Bronte Sisters Writing – Illustration by J. Swaney

“Happiness quite unshared can scarcely be called happiness; it has no taste.”

Anne Bronte (1820 – 1849)

Life

by Charlotte Bronte (1816 – 1855)

LIFE, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall ?

Rapidly, merrily,
Life’s sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly !

What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away ?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O’er hope, a heavy sway ?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair !


I Know Not How It Falls on Me

by Emily Bronte (1818 – 1848)

I KNOW not how it falls on me,
This summer evening, hushed and lone;
Yet the faint wind comes soothingly
With something of an olden tone.

Forgive me if I’ve shunned so long
Your gentle greeting, earth and air!
But sorrow withers e’en the strong,
And who can fight against despair?

Kind Air Breathed Kindness Everywhere

Louis Untermeyer (1885 – 1977)

Poetry is the power of defining the indefinable in terms of the unforgettable.

Louis Untermeyer

Prayer For This House

by Louis Untermeyer

 

MAY nothing evil cross this door,
And may ill-fortune never pry
About these windows; may the roar
And rains go by.

Strengthened by faith, the rafters will
Withstand the battering of the storm.
This hearth, though all the world grow chill,
Will keep you warm.

Peace shall walk softly through these rooms,
Touching your lips with holy wine,
Till every casual corner blooms
Into a shrine.

Laughter shall drown the raucous shout
And, though the sheltering walls are thin,
May they be strong to keep hate out
And hold love in.


Louis Untermeyer was a businessman, poet, translator, educator and editor who followed his passion mid-life to become one of the most influential anthologists of poetry in the early 20th Century.   Untermeyer spent his 20’s and early 30’s in the family jewelry business in New York City, but eventually followed his literary passions.  He was fond of puns and rhymes and felt that poetry didn’t need to be an elite artistic endevour but was something that should be enjoyed by everyone.   He focused on a wide range of poetry, from children’s verse to poetry anthologies used in Universities to introduce countless college students to English literature.  

Untermeyer was a liberal all his life and aligned his politics around civil rights and a more just society.  Late in life he left New York City and like Frost,  retired to the country, preferring the solitude of his gardens and nature over the busy streets of New York City. 

Untermeyer is known more for his work as an anthologist and translator, but his own poetry I find playful and inspiring.  I was particularly taken with the poem above, but wonder how successful he was in his own right in the affirmation expressed.  Married and divorced four times, martial harmony in Untermeyer’s households seemed to have eluded him, now matter how strong the sentiments he successfully put to rhyme. 

Both Adams and Untermeyer share the distinction of serving as Poet Laureate when the title was known as the Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress.  Adams poem below took a bit for me to wrap my head around.  It is an example of a poem that I have a hard time connecting to the whole of it, but I was taken with these three lines; Thus I lived then, till this air breathed on me.  Till this kind are breathed kindness everywhere, There where my times had left me I would stay.  For me sometimes a couple of lines is all I take from a poem and the rest takes a while to sink in before the emotion or thoughts expand beyond the portion that I am attracted.  Sometimes the entirety of a poem I  never understand.   Do you have poems like that; where there is only one line that stays with you, inspires you? 


Alas, Kind Element!

By Leonie Adams 
 
Then I was sealed, and like the wintering tree
I stood me locked upon a summer core;
Living, had died a death, and asked no more.
And I lived then, but as enduringly,
And my heart beat, but only as to be.
Ill weathers well, hail, gust and cold I bore,
I held my life as hid, at root, in store:
Thus I lived then, till this air breathed on me.
Till this kind air breathed kindness everywhere,
There where my times had left me I would stay.
Then I was staunch, I knew nor yes nor no;
But now the wishful leaves have thronged the air.
My every leaf leans forth upon the day;
Alas, kind element! which comes to go.

Words That Stumble Into Stars And Hide

Joseph Auslander

So there are no more words and all is ended; The timbrel is stilled, the clarion laid away; And Love with streaming hair goes unattended, Back to the loneliness of yesterday.

Joseph Auslander

I Know It Will Be Quiet When You Come

by Joseph Auslander  (1897-1965)
 

I know it will be quiet when you come:
No wind; the water breathing steadily;
A light like ghost of silver on the sea;
And the surf dreamily fingering his drum.
Twilight will drift in large and leave me numb
With nearness to the last tranquility;
And then the slow and languorous tyranny
Of orange moon, pale night, and cricket hum.

And suddenly there will be twist of tide,
A rustling as of thin silk on the sand,
The tremor of a presence at my side,
The tremble of a hand upon my hand:
And pulses sharp with pain, and fires fanned,
And words that stumble into stars and hide.


In Envy of Cows

by Joseph Auslander (1897-1965)

 

The cow swings her head in a deep drowsy half-circle to and over
Flank and shoulder, lunging
At flies; then fragrantly plunging
Down at the web-washed grass and the golden clover,
Wrenching sideways to get the full tingle; with one warm nudge,
One somnolent wide smudge
Sacred to kine,
Crushing a murmurous of late lush August to wine!

The sky is even water-tone behind suave poplar trees—
Color of glass; the cows
Occasionally arouse
That color, disturb the pellucid cool poplar frieze
With beauty of motion slow and succinct like some grave privilege
Fulfilled. They taste the edge
Of August, they need
No more: they have rose vapors, flushed silence, pulpy milkweed