Each October, I’ve been faithfully posting this poem since 2009. I love how accessible Frost’s poem is – even to those who claim they “don’t get poetry”. Inspired by the fall foliage of New England, Frosts’ words weave a visual that is easy to follow.
The underlying meaning of this poem also reminds me to make the most of each day and to try and take nothing for granted – a good message for all of us.
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.
This poem, which was first published in the Yale Review in 1923, would go on to win the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1924. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
I like to post this poem each summer. Written by Nizar Qabbani; a Syrian diplomat and poet who lived in the last century and published more than 50 books. His work was known for its sensuality – not something many arab poets were known for at the time. This poem has an unmistakeable melancholic and romantic tone that I love.
Everyone is Irish, if only on St. Patrick’s Day, which is tomorrow, Thursday, March 17th. I’ve republished a slightly naughty limerick I wrote a few years ago in honor of the holiday.
Lim’ricks are the naughtiest prose Dirty rhymes we love to compose Men from Nantucket Shouting, “Go $uck it!” Are fun to write I suppose
If you have a limerick you’d like to share, I’d enjoy reading it. Feel free to e-mail me or leave it in the comments section for others to enjoy.
What perfect timing for this annual winter post. Yesterday Boston was sunny and in the low 60s and this morning it is snowing. Above is a photo I’ve been using in recent years when I publish this poem. It was taken several years ago at dusk, while the snow was still falling. Sergio and I were walking back to my parent’s house on Lake Winnipesaukee.
STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
The poem was written by Robert Frost one hundred years ago in 1922 while he was living in Vermont. It was published a year later in Frost’s New Hampshire volume, earning the poet the 1924 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
One of the surprising benefits of blogging has been making friends with people I likely would never have otherwise met. One such friend is Tony.
Tony recently returned to blogging after taking the past few years off, and I wanted to give his new blog a shout out, because I really enjoy his writing and think readers of this blog might appreciate his decidedly naughty sense of humor too.
A good example of how titillating Tony’s writing can be is on display in his recent post, I Will Remember, which he shares is “an elegy for a favorite paint brush”. If you read the poem, you’ll appreciate the clarification because the subject matter could easily be confused.
While Tony may wonder if he can still write well, it seems to me like he has not lost his voice, and I look forward to reading more of his posts. I’ve included his newest blog in my blogroll, but you can also check it out here, tennesseetony.com.
Yesterday Sergio and I drove up to Northern Vermont for the day. The camera shots taken by Sergio as we whizzed up Route 89 don’t do the foliage justice, which was particularly beautiful in New Hampshire near Hanover, Lebanon, and Enfield. The bright colors blanketing the valleys, rolling foothills and mountains made the 3.5 hour drive enjoyable and reminded me of Robert Frost’s poem, Nothing Gold Can Stay.
I’ve been faithfully posting this poem since 2009 each October in part because I love it but also because Frost’s poem is so accessible – even to those who claim they “don’t understand poetry”. Inspired by the fall foliage of New England, Frosts’ words weave a visual that is easy to follow. The underlying meaning of also reminds me to make the most of each day and to try and take nothing for granted – a good message for all of us in these times.
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.
This poem, which was first published in the Yale Review in 1923, would go on to win the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1924. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
Porsha Olayiwola is Boston’s poet laureate, but I was unaware of her until I read a recent article in The Boston Globe magazine about her commission to write a poem exploring the history of Black Boston. The article shares how Porsha first came to Boston a decade ago to work at the Pine Street Inn and the cultural shock of moving from her predominantly black neighborhood in Chicago to Boston’s South End. She writes of her move to Boston and her experience over the past decade as she has come to make Boston her home, here.
But the reason I wrote this post is to share a fiery video of Porsha from a few years ago at the Camp Bar in St. Paul, Minnesota where she shared her unapologetic anger and frustration in her poem, Unnamed. It evokes strong emotion through language. Weaving upsetting and unsettling images and reminders of our past, Porsha shares her perspective on the power of a name. The language is strong and the anger palpable. It is a powerful poem.
You can read more of her work, see more of her videos, and learn more about Porsha online at porshaolayiwola.com. She is a force to be reckoned with and I hope to see and hear a lot more of her here in Boston in the years that follow.
For the past few years, each winter I share this poem by American poet, Robert Frost. The poem was written ninety-nine years ago while living in Vermont back in 1922 and it was published a year later in Frost’s New Hampshire volume. The book earned Frost the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1924. One of the reasons I love Frost is because his poetry is so accessible but at the same time he elevates the experience through his use of words, rhythm and symoblism.
Above is a photo Sergio took when we were walking to my parent’s house at Lake Winnipesaukee. It was dusk and the snow was still falling. It felt like we were the only ones around. The photo is a favorite of mine and reminds me of this poem. We are only missing a horse, harness and bells.
STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
Amanda Gorman recited The Hill We Climb at the inauguration for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris on January 20, 2021. The 19 year old Harvard University sophomore is the youngest inaugural poet ever and the first to be named national youth poet laureate. Below, is a video of her recitation of the poem.
When day comes we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade? The loss we carry, a sea we must wade. We’ve braved the belly of the beast, we’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace and the norms and notions of what just is, isn’t always justice. And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it, somehow we do it, somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken but simply unfinished.
We, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president only to find herself reciting for one. And, yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine, but that doesn’t mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect, we are striving to forge a union with purpose, to compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man.
So we lift our gazes not to what stands between us, but what stands before us. We close the divide because we know to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside. We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another, we seek harm to none and harmony for all.
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true: that even as we grieved, we grew, even as we hurt, we hoped, that even as we tired, we tried, that we’ll forever be tied together victorious, not because we will never again know defeat but because we will never again sow division.
Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree and no one should make them afraid. If we’re to live up to our own time, then victory won’t lie in the blade, but in in all of the bridges we’ve made.
That is the promise to glade, the hill we climb if only we dare it because being American is more than a pride we inherit, it’s the past we step into and how we repair it. We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation rather than share it. That would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy, and this effort very nearly succeeded. But while democracy can periodically be delayed, but it can never be permanently defeated.
In this truth, in this faith, we trust, for while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us, this is the era of just redemption we feared in its inception we did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour but within it we found the power to author a new chapter, to offer hope and laughter to ourselves, so while once we asked how can we possibly prevail over catastrophe, now we assert how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us.
We will not march back to what was but move to what shall be, a country that is bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free, we will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation, our blunders become their burden. But one thing is certain: if we merge mercy with might and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change our children’s birthright.
So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left, with every breath from my bronze, pounded chest, we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one, we will rise from the golden hills of the West, we will rise from the windswept Northeast where our forefathers first realized revolution, we will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the Midwestern states, we will rise from the sunbaked South, we will rebuild, reconcile, and recover in every known nook of our nation in every corner called our country our people diverse and beautiful will emerge battered and beautiful, when the day comes we step out of the shade aflame and unafraid, the new dawn blooms as we free it, for there is always light if only we’re brave enough to see it, if only we’re brave enough to be it.
Yesterday’s activities in D.C. championed by the President and the Republican Party (yes, I find the entire Republican Party complicit) had me tossing and turning last night much like I was last spring when I first wrote this poem.
random thoughts ramble through my head thinking these thoughts are keeping me from bed- round-n-round, back-n-forth they go yet where will this lead? i don’t know-
so i toss-n-turn in my bed with images run amuck in my head- a restful sleep i need, i know but that will have to wait til tomorrow-
An image of a terrorist roaming the halls of the U.S. Congress with a Confederate flag, while someone who appears to be “security” doing nothing to stop him.
I will watch this pot and bring it to a boil! More and more lies should help start this roil. Now a dash of sedition to make more turmoil.
“My kingdom for a horse” he shouts into the air, I need to poke, provoke and create dispair.
Hate and anger I’ll throw into the pot! Stir it, stir it – can you smell the rot? Lies and half truths will season this lot.
Double double toil and trouble, Fire burn and caldron bubble.
The votes of 80+ million were what was required! Even still, all those politicians balked and conspired. But hear me now, on January 20th, “You’re fired!”
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I know rhyming patterns can make poems sound like nursery rhymes, but for someone who only dabbles in poetry, a rhyming pattern gives some structure to my poems. I’ve never been particularly artful in my writing so there is none of the subtlety usually associated with poetry, but in this instance, I’m okay with that.
little tree little silent Christmas tree you are so little you are more like a flower
who found you in the green forest and were you very sorry to come away? see i will comfort you because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark and hug you safe and tight just as your mother would, only don’t be afraid
look the spangles that sleep all the year in a dark box dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine, the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,
put up your little arms and i’ll give them all to you to hold every finger shall have its ring and there won’t be a single place dark or unhappy
then when you’re quite dressed you’ll stand in the window for everyone to see and how they’ll stare! oh but you’ll be very proud
and my little sister and i will take hands and looking up at our beautiful tree we’ll dance and sing “Noel Noel”
Initially published in 1920, EE Cummings is one of America’s greatest poets. Born in 1894 in Cambridge, MA, he lived most of his life in New England, passing away in 1962 in his home in North Conway, NH.
The poem shares the excitement a young brother and sister feel about their little Christmas tree. In more modern times, a children’s book was illustrated and used the poem, but I couldn’t find much more about this work. MichaelasMommy Blog provides some more thoughts and insights into the poem for those who may be interested.
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
I love poetry but I know that it is a form of expression that confounds or can come across as trite to many, and I get it. I often don’t understand or appreciate poems either, but when I connect with a poem it inspires something within me and evokes a strong emotional response.
The poem shared above is by one of the greatest English speaking poets of all time. W.B. Yeats. It was first published in 1899, but still inspires me. What I have always been struck by in this poem are the last two lines.
I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
It is fair to say that 2020 has been a difficult year no matter who you are, what you do or your politics might be. So let’s all be mindful of each other’s dreams and tread softly as we approach election day here in the U.S. and in the days, weeks and months that follow the election.
Every fall since 2009, I post this poem from American poet, Robert Frost. It’s one of my favorites and is accessible to even those who “don’t get poetry”. His words, which were inspired by the fall foliage of New England, create a visual that is easy to follow and the underlying meaning is both meaningful and obvious. The poem was first published in the Yale Review in 1923 and won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry the following year in 1924.
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.
With the Summer Solstice having just occurred, I thought it appropriate to repost this poem. Slightly melancholic and romantic, In the Summer, is a personal favorite that was written by a Syrian poet, Nizar Qabbani.
BosGuy 