At the Touch of You
Witter Bynner, 1881 – 1968
At the touch of you,
As if you were an archer with your swift hand at the bow,
The arrows of delight shot through my body.
You were spring,
And I the edge of a cliff,
And a shining waterfall rushed over me.
Bynner was born in NYC, spending his formative years in Brookline, MA and at Harvard before embarking on travels, that ultimately led him to Santa Fe, NM. Bynner was friends with D.H. Lawrence who based characters on these two “friends” in his book, The Plumed Serpent.
In what has become an unintentional tradition, each October I post this poem. It is a personal favorite and happens to be by the 20th century poet, Robert Frost.
Nothing gold can stay was inspired by the fall foliage in New England and was written nearly 100 years ago, back in 1923.
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.
When I was growing up I spent a lot of time with my cousins but as we’ve grown older we’ve gone our separate ways and rarely see each other. However, I still love and care about my family, so I was impressed when his boyfriend posted this brief video that my cousin, Matt Albiani, created. It appears to be based off of a poem he wrote back in 1996.
Check out the video above then leave a comment and like it. 🙂
IT CAN’T BE AUGUST YET, CAN IT?
I DON’T KNOW – I JUST WOKE UP AND LOST TRACK OF TIME.
BUT THE DOOR IS OPEN. AND SO IS THE WINDOW
WHERE I STAND, LEAN OUT
AND LET THE SUN ON MY SHOULDERS
NOW BROWN AND FRECKLED.
I CAN SEE BLUE WATER THROUGH THE TREES
AND WHITE CANVAS SAILS THAT TAKE ME AWAY
TO THE ISLAND ON THE LAKE
WHERE THE SKY IS ALWAYS CLEAR
AND SEPTEMBER NEVER COMES
I’ve posted this poem previously but thought it worth sharing again.
In the Summer was written by a Syrian named Nizar Qabbani. I love this poem and its melancholic message seems to make it all the more romantic.
Salem, MA is set to host the 10th annual Massachusetts Poetry Festival, May 4-6. Turning this picturesque New England town into epicenter of contemporary American poetry, and providing you the chance to hear many of the nation’s best poets read and discuss their work in intimate and engaging forums.
The Massachusetts Poetry Festival is the nation’s largest annual poetry festival, showcasing nearly 100 poetry readings and workshops, a small press and literary fair, panels, poetry slams, visual arts, and open-air performances. This year’s festival will include nearly 300 local and nationally known poets.
Of particular interest are the discussions, College Slammers – Poetry Slam from students at area colleges on Friday, May 4th from 9-10:30PM at the Hawthorne Hotel; We’re Here. We’re Queer: New Poetry Books by LGBTQ Writers on Saturday, May 5th from 2-3PM at the Hawthorne Hotel; and The Shakespeare Time-Traveling Speakeasy on Sunday, May 6th from 2:30 – 3:30PM at the P.E.M.For more information about the festival visit their website, masspoetry.org.
Photo of George Olesky by Nile Hawver / Nile Scott Shots from SpeakEasy Stage Co. “Shakespeare in Love”
Dorothy Parker’s six-line poem from the 1920s is a cynical assessment of romance. However in the age of Tinder and exchanging dozens of emails or texts before coming together or organically meeting, Ms. Parker’s cynicism seems remarkably current for a poem that is nearly 100 years old.
By the time you swear you’re his,
Shivering, and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Indefinite, undying –
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.
– Dorothy Parker, from Unfortunate Coincidence
Every winter I share this poem – a personal favorite from one of my favorite poets, Robert Frost. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening is a poem Frost wrote nearly 100 years ago in 1922 and was first published a year later in his Pulitzer Prize winning, New Hampshire volume.
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.