The Poetry Pantry Is Now Open! - #60

Please take a moment to visit our anthology post and share your thoughts on the topic. We are discussing the idea of having our second anthology published by December. If you wish to see your poetry published come talk with us.

(The Poetry Pantry Second Anthology Discussion Post)

The Poetry Pantry

2nd Chance Poems or 1st time shares

Anything goes!! All Poems, all Poets, All Week!!

Do you have a poem you would like to share? Something that you just felt inspired to write and want others to read. Perhaps it’s a poem that didn’t get as much exposure on your blog as you would have liked. Maybe it’s a poem that you wrote a long time ago that you would like people to revisit. That’s what this section of Poets United is for.

Each Sunday we start a new post with a New Mr. Linky for you. This is so that you can post a link to anything you want us to read, anything at all related to poetry or prose found on your own poetry blogs. It will remain open all week so that you can show us your writings and thoughts. You can post links weekly should you chose to do so. What poetry you put here is up to you so don't be afraid to share with us!!

Classic Poetry-Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.



Wilfred Owen was born in 1893 to a middle-class family in Oswestry in the North of England. Two years later, Owen's grandfather, the financial mainstay of the family, died almost bankrupt. Owen's parents had to move into rented accommodation in the more urban area of Birkenhead. His mother, in particular, resented the family's loss of financial security and its outward signs of gentility.

Owen began to read and write poetry as a child, and, following his mother's interest in religion, started to read the Bible on a daily basis. Owen's family could not afford to send him to public school. Nor, when he failed to win an academic scholarship to the University of London (not as socially or intellectually exclusive as Oxford or Cambridge) in 1911, could they afford to pay for a college education.

Owen thus had to find an occupation suitable to a young man of his class. In 1911, he moved south to the village of Dunsden, near Reading, where he worked as a lay reader (an assistant to a clergyman) until 1913. He attended classes part-time at the University of Reading but, despite encouragement from the head of the English department, he again failed to win the scholarship that would have financed full-time study.

After falling ill in 1913, he decided to work as a private teacher, a profession which required little formal training and which would not compromise his, or his family's, social status. He traveled to France, where he worked until 1915. Just after the outbreak of the war, he wrote to his mother, "While is is true that the guns will effect a little useful weeding, I am furious with chagrin to think that the Minds which were to have excelled the civilization of ten thousand years are being annihilated - and bodies, the product of aeons of Natural Selection, melted down to pay for political statues." (Quoted in Jon Stallworthy, Wilfred Owen: The War Poems (London 1994), p. xxiv)


Learn more about Wilfred Owenhere.

by A.M. Trumble

I Wish I'd Written This

What an ending!

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

By James Wright 

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,   

Asleep on the black trunk,

Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.   

Down the ravine behind the empty house,   

The cowbells follow one another   

Into the distances of the afternoon.   

To my right,

In a field of sunlight between two pines,   

The droppings of last year’s horses   

Blaze up into golden stones.

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.   

A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.

I have wasted my life.

from Above the River: The Complete Poems and Selected Prose.

Click on the title to go to poetryfoundation.org's posting of Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota.  Click on the poet's name to learn more about James Wright.

The Thursday Think Tank #59 - Grass

Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

~ Rupert Brooke

It is the summer season for me here in sunny hot Texas and yesterday after mowing my yard I took a moment and laid on the cool grass beneath the shade of a huge oak tree in my front yard. While the sprinkler head rhythmically beat away showering another portion of my yard I couldn’t help but shut my eyes and think of my youth. It’s not too often that I stop and do something like this and I found it so very refreshing and invigorating that I decided right then this would be tomorrow’s prompt. Well guess what?  Today is tomorrow and here I am inviting you to write about grass.

Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life.

~ Joseph Conrad

When you stop for a moment and you think of the word grass what do you envision? Is it a broad field with a breeze blowing sending ripples across surface? Or maybe you grew up on a farm and you despise the work that came with bailing hay or wheat fields. Can you smell the green freshness of it in your nose? The thought of grass takes me instantly back to my childhood when I would roll around in it without a care in the world; now as an adult I can’t seem to not cringe at the thought of itching or the fear of fire ants.

Maybe you’re the neighbor of the month and you have the house that everyone wonders if you ever work? With a lawn that beautiful there cannot be time for anything else right? Maybe you are a golfer who hits the course just after dawn and enjoys walking up a long par five while the dew of the morning air still clings to the green. Or just maybe, this one is for all you hippies out there, maybe you are a naturist and love the aroma and escape of rolling a small joint and chilling out with your own special grass.

God, I can push the grass apart and lay my finger on Thy heart.

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

There are so many ways to run with this prompt. Which way will you choose? We look forward to reading everyone’s tales of green this week and as always we are happy to have you here.

Life of a Poet - Marian (runaway sentence.)

Kids, one of our most active members, and a Poets United staffer, is Marian of runaway sentence . Marian is our New Member/Blogroll Coordinator, and is an active presence throughout our community. She kindly agreed to let us have a peek into her busy life, and it’s a sweet peek, at a happy family, that does my old heart good!

Poets United: Marian, it is lovely to be sitting down with you at last. What led you to blogging, and the cool name of your site?

Blog of the Week - Photodiction

At Poets United we are all about our community and enjoying each other's work, so please take the time support one of your fellow poets by visiting our Blog of the Week.

This week our Blog of the Week is

Photodiction

By Mario Cerroni, a  poet/blogger & photographer who lives in Ontario Canada. Mario is so much more than a poet. That is just the added bonus that he couples with his wonderful photography. His images are often on display and sold in various art galleries.  If you would like to see more of his photography you can do so by visiting his site also titled Photodiction.  But today we focus on his poetry and his wonderful gift of shaping words to the world he captures with his camera.

Some poems of  Mario's we would like to highlight from his blog are:

The Sanctuary (19/Feb/10)

Spring Crocus (11/Apr/10)

Creation (19/Mar/11)

A Never Ending Love Song (10/Apr/11)


Thanks, Mario, for being part of our community!  We appreciate you and your contributions.

Every week Poets United tries to introduce our members and readers to a poet and poetry blog found  in our community.  Poets United is about reading, writing, and enjoying one another’s poetry; and this is just one more way to show our support for one another. We would love to hear your comments on this poet’s blog and poetry; so please come back after visiting the blog of the week and let us know your thoughts.  I am sure the poet would also like to read comments on her poems.

We hope you enjoy visiting the highlighted blogs each week. Thank you for supporting your fellow poets with positive comments.  You may soon see your blog highlighted here.

The Poetry Pantry Is Now Open! - #59

Please take a moment to visit our anthology post and share your thoughts on the topic.  We are discussing the idea of having our second antholgy published by December.  If you wish to see your poetry published come talk with us. 

(The Poetry Pantry Second Anthology Discussion Post)

The Poetry Pantry

2nd Chance Poems or 1st time shares

Anything goes!! All Poems, all Poets, All Week!!

Do you have a poem you would like to share? Something that you just felt inspired to write and want others to read. Perhaps it’s a poem that didn’t get as much exposure on your blog as you would have liked. Maybe it’s a poem that you wrote a long time ago that you would like people to revisit. That’s what this section of Poets United is for.

Each Sunday we start a new post with a New Mr. Linky for you. This is so that you can post a link to anything you want us to read, anything at all related to poetry or prose found on your own poetry blogs. It will remain open all week so that you can show us your writings and thoughts. You can post links weekly should you chose to do so. What poetry you put here is up to you so don't be afraid to share with us!!

The Poetry Pantry: Second Anthology

Poets United is preparing to begin work on our second Poetry Pantry Anthology. It is our hopes for it to possibly be done in time for the winter holidays. We are considering themes, submission requirements and deadlines at this time and would really like your feedback for this. If you have any ideas or suggestion for this anthology please let us know by emailing us at poetsunited@ymail.com or simply comment in the comment section below. All suggestions will be considered.

The Poetry Pantry, independent and unaffiliated, is an international poetry anthology published annually or biannually by Poets United, an online poetry blog community. It is run entirely by its community participants under the guidance of its founder Robert Lloyd. The Poetry Pantry features poetry, prose and art submitted and approved by the members of Poets United.

Classic Poetry, "England In 1819" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792 - 1822

England in 1819

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,--

Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow

Through public scorn,--mud from a muddy spring,--

Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,

But leech-like to their fainting country cling,

Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,--

A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,--

An army, which liberticide and prey

Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield,--

Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;

Religion Christless, Godless--a book sealed;

A Senate,--Time's worst statute unrepealed,--

Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may

Burst, to illumine our tempestous day.

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1819

Percy Bysshe Shelley was born on August 4, 1792 in England and attended Sion House Academy before entering University College, Oxford, in 1804. He was ultimately estranged from his wealthy father and expelled from school for atheistic views he expressed in, among other writings, Zastrozzi (1810) and The Necessity of Atheism (1811).

In 1811 he eloped with sixteen-year old Harriet Westbrook (1795-1816) with whom he had two children, a daughter, Ianthe, born in 1813 and a son, Charles, born in 1814. Shortly after Charles’ birth, Shelley invited a male friend to live with his family and encouraged Harriet to embrace the concept of open marriage. This radical notion led to the disintegration of their marriage.

For the next three years Shelley traveled often to study under atheist journalist William Godwin. He continued to write poetry while studying under Godwin, and embracing his radical political philosophy. During this time Shelley met and fell in love with Godwin’s daughter Mary, also a poet and writer. In 1814 the two eloped.

In 1815 the Shelley’s moved to a home in London’s outskirts, soon after which his grandfather died and left them an annual stipend of £1000. His The Spirit of Solitude was published in 1816 and their joint effort History of Six Weeks Tour was published in 1817.

The Shelley’s moved to Italy in 1818, the year her novel Frankenstein was first published. Their son Percy Florence was born a year later. The couple continued work on numerous projects for the next few years, including a tragedy in five acts, The Cenci, and Men of England. Their appreciation of sailing led them to purchase a schooner, “The Don Juan”. While on a sailing trip on 8 July 1822, a storm overtook and sank the vessel. Shelley, just twenty-nine, drowned.

I Wish I'd Written This

Here is a very famous one by Galway Kinnell.

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps

By Galway Kinnell 

 

For I can snore like a bullhorn

or play loud music

or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman

and Fergus will only sink deeper

into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,   

but let there be that heavy breathing

or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house

and he will wrench himself awake

and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together,

after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,   

familiar touch of the long-married,

and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens,

the neck opening so small he has to screw them on—

and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,

his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.

In the half darkness we look at each other

and smile

and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body—

this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,

sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,

this blessing love gives again into our arms.

 

Galway Kinnell, “After Making Love We Hear Footsteps” from Three Books.

 

 

The Thursday Think Tank #58 - Nighttime

Most glorious night!

                 Thou wert not sent for slumber!

~Lord Byron

What does the night mean to you? For some it is nothing more than a time when darkness sets in and it is time for sleep. Then there are others who thrive at night. There are those that discover, create and live within the night. The night plays host to a million burdens, beasts, passions and experiences and that is only what may occur with the first few fingers of darkness touching us.

When the midnight hour is upon the world do you sleep? Do you find yourself in a small corner of your house enjoying the privacy while reading by candlelight or do you cower hoping that vampires, werewolves and lord knows what else are just fantasies? Maybe you are the predator at night, maybe it is you who skulks in the darkness searching for your next victim. Better yet do you attend Cocktail Parties, Pot Lucks, and Dance Clubs or frequent a wonderfully seedy establishment drowned in the stench of bourbon and cigarette smoke. What do you do at night?

Hawthorne once said “Moonlight is sculpture” and I couldn’t agree more. For me the night is a time for the imagination to let loose and run wild. What will you write when you think of nighttime, will you find a passionate love story to tell, perhaps a romantic rendezvous? The options and ideas for this week’s prompt are limitless. Sit back and think of the night. Think of sunset and moonlight. Think even of the first rays of light peaking over the horizon and then write. Write what comes to you.

We look forward to reading and living the life that is inspired in your pen by the darkness.

Life of a Poet - Daniel Jay

It’s the Boys’ turn for an interview, so I stopped by Thinking With An Open Mouth and asked Daniel Jay if he was up for it. He has just completed passing his boards as a registered nurse, after a gruelling course of study and training, but he said “Sure!” Daniel is a very talented photographer, as well as a poet and musician, so the photos he sent me are extra special, including the ones taken of Daniel by his wife, Jen. They really know how to set up a photo! Grab a cuppa – Daniel loves coffee – and gather round.

Poets United: Daniel, it is so good of you to meet with us. Congrats on passing your boards! Is there a story about the name of your blog?

Daniel: My blog came long after my beginning as a writer, so in theorizing an appropriate entry phrase to my blog, the name really just popped into my head - Thinking With an Open Mouth.  That's what I'm doing on there.  Thinking out loud.  And not just the normal, harmless ones that no one ever hears.

The Poetry Pantry Is Now Open! - #58

We will be looking for a new Poetry Pnatry Image so if you have any ideas or know of a good image to use please send it our way.

The Poetry Pantry

2nd Chance Poems or 1st time shares

Anything goes!! All Poems, all Poets, All Week!!

Do you have a poem you would like to share? Something that you just felt inspired to write and want others to read. Perhaps it’s a poem that didn’t get as much exposure on your blog as you would have liked. Maybe it’s a poem that you wrote a long time ago that you would like people to revisit. That’s what this section of Poets United is for.

Each Sunday we start a new post with a New Mr. Linky for you. This is so that you can post a link to anything you want us to read, anything at all related to poetry or prose found on your own poetry blogs. It will remain open all week so that you can show us your writings and thoughts. You can post links weekly should you chose to do so. What poetry you put here is up to you so don't be afraid to share with us!!

Classic Poetry-APPARUIT by Ezra Pound

APPARUIT

GOLDEN rose the house, in the
portal I saw
thee, a marvel, carven in subtle

stuff, a portent. Life died down in the lamp and
flickered,

caught at the wonder.

Crimson, frosty with dew, the roses bend

where

thou afar moving in the glamorous sun
drinkst in life of earth, of the air, the

tissue

golden about thee.

Green the ways, the breath of the fields

is thine there,

open lies the land, yet the steely going
darkly hast thou dared and the dreaded
aether

parted before thee. 1912

Of all the major literary figures in the twentieth century, Ezra Pound has been one of the most controversial; he has also been one of modern poetry's most important contributors. In an introduction to the Literary Essays of Ezra Pound, T. S. Eliot declared that Pound "is more responsible for the twentieth-century revolution in poetry than is any other individual." Four decades later, Donald Hall reaffirmed in remarks collected in Remembering Poets that "Ezra Pound is the poet who, a thousand times more than any other man, has made modern poetry possible in English."

The importance of Pound's contributions to the arts and to the revitalization of poetry early in this century has been widely acknowledged; yet in 1950, Hugh Kenner could claim in his groundbreaking study The Poetry of Ezra Pound, "There is no great contemporary writer who is less read than Ezra Pound." Pound never sought, nor had, a wide reading audience; his technical innovations and use of unconventional poetic materials often baffled even sympathetic readers. Early in his career, Pound aroused controversy because of his aesthetic views; later, because of his political views. For the greater part of this century, however, Pound devoted his energies to advancing the art of poetry and maintaining his aesthetic standards in the midst of extreme adversity.


by A.M. Trumble


more information about Ezra Pound

I Wish I'd Written This

Rhyming is hard to do well.  Apparently not for Miller Williams.  This one is good! 

For a Girl I Know about to Be a Woman

By Miller Williams

Because you’ll find how hard it can be

to tell which part of your body sings,

you never should dally with any young man

who does any one of the following things:

tries to beat all the yellow lights;

says, “Big deal!” or “So what?”

more than seven times a day;

ignores yellow lines in a parking lot;

carries a radar detector;

asks what you did with another date;

has more than seven bumper stickers;

drinks beer early and whiskey late;

talks on a cellular phone at lunch;

tunes to radio talk shows;

doesn’t fasten his seat belt;

knows more than God knows;

wants you to change how you do your hair;

spits in a polystyrene cup;

doesn’t use his turn signal;

wants you to change your makeup;

calls your parents their given names;

doesn’t know why you don’t smoke;

has dirt under his fingernails;

makes a threat and calls it a joke;

pushes to get you to have one more;

seems to have trouble staying awake;

says “dago” and “wop” and words like that;

swerves a car to hit a snake;

sits at a table wearing a hat;

has a boneless handshake.

You’re going to know soon enough

the ones who fail this little test.

Mark them off your list at once

and be very careful of all the rest.

  

“For a Girl I Know about to Be a Woman” from Some Jazz A While: Collected Poems.

Click on the title to go to poetryfoundation.org's posting of For a Girl I Know about to Be a Woman.  Click on the poet's name to learn more about Miller Williams.

The Thursday Think Tank #57 - Loneliness

“We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.” ~ Orson Welles

Loneliness; over the years the idea or feeling of being alone has influenced many writers and poets in many ways. While some find solace in being alone others absolutely abhor and fear it. What does the idea of being alone mean to you?

I expect the thoughts of being alone to invoke a lot of deep emotions that some folks can’t or do not wish to bring themselves to write about and I understand that.  So we give you an out of sorts here if you can't or dont want to attempt writing from a lonely place. 

From the term loneliness a person can take the word "Alone".  It is not as harsh a concept or as desolate an Idea. I would like to point out that not always is being alone a bad and emotionally draining concept.  It is not loneliness.  Teachers after a long day of screaming five year olds like to be alone. Rock stars, movie stars and even the president take comfort in getting a few moments to themselves. I know my mother was happy when I went off on some adventure because that guaranteed her some “Alone Time”. This usually entailed Tammy Wynette blaring on the record player and half a bottle of wine but she was happy. 

If you dare to actually take the challenge of writing about true loneliness or the feeling of being lonley we cant wait to read your sullen words.  There are some who enjoy the feeling of lonelinees.  The belief that there is no one and nothing out there but you.  Although to me this is huge emotional drain I find some of my best writing comes during those times.  It makes you reflect on life and the many aspects of it we tend to ignore on a regular basis.

So this week we give you the prompt of loneliness. When does it strike you the most, the holidays after the family has left? When someone close to you has passed on? When you move away from your childhood home? When do you feel you’re most alone?

The best thing about Poets United is we are here to ensure you are not alone unless you want to be. Any given day you can reach out and someone in this community will be there for a comment, a smile or just a simple acknowledgment.

We know this prompt may cause you to tug at some deeper heart strings but know that we look forward to reading what you write and share with us.  With your words you may convince yourself and others that we are not alone in what we feel.

Life of a Poet - A.M. Trumble

Hi, kids! In our community, we have a very energetic member called A.M. Trumble You can find her poems at Originals, and some cool examples of interior design on her other blog, A.M. Designs. Amy is a Poets United staffer; she is our ambassador on facebook, https://www.facebook.com/PoetsUnited where she does a simply terrific job of keeping our profile happening out in the Big World. Yay, Amy! We all thank you so much for that! Somehow, I picture Amy in a loft, so let’s open the door, peek in, and see what the youngster has been up to.

Poets United: Amy, so happy to sit down with you at last! Is there a story behind the name of your blog?

Amy: The concept is almost juvenilely simple-I was reading an interview of The New Pornographer’s front man AC Newman –-they asked him how he came up such an “original” sound-he stated that his originality was only the result of his failed attempts to copy his idols. I loved that idea-and “stole” it immediately. And so “Originals” was born. I think it has really summed up, for me and my readers, my creative pursuits as far as my writing style and everything I attempt to do, especially online. I always like to think I’m at least attempting to do something new and different, but it seems to turn out best when it happens accidentally.

The Bookshelf

The Bookshelf is an extension of the Poets United Community. Since Poets United’s inception we have grown into a large and diverse community with poets and writers from all over the world with various writing styles. Many of our members have been published or have self published their writings through Lulu or some other form of small press. We have decided that in a further effort to support our members and their crafts we would set up a place where members of Poets United who have published poetry or prose can get a little more exposure.

Any active members of Poets United (60 Days or more) can have their books listed at “The Bookshelf” as long as they are poetry or prose related. They do not have to be strictly Poetry or Prose, since we know some of our member’s dabble in many of the arts, but there has to be some apsect of poetry or prose found in the listed material. This listing is not intended as a place to bombard our members with pleas for books to be purchased or read. This is merely a small database or compilation of works that anyone can browse and possibly consider picking up a copy or two from their fellow writers and friends.

Our posts will be simple and short, listing all relevant information in regards to the poet and the published material. The information found here will be submitted by our members for our members. Should you wish to submit some of your own published work please be sure to see our “Add Your Book Today” section.

As the poetry community continues to grow Poets United is glad to help further the progress by giving its members any and every opportunity to shine. We hope that this addition becomes one of those opportunities.

(We ask that you are patient with us in this new endeavor as we are certain there will be a few tweaks here and there in the beginning.)

The Poetry Pantry Is Now Open! - #57

The Poetry Pantry

2nd Chance Poems or 1st time shares

Anything goes!! All Poems, all Poets, All Week!!

Do you have a poem you would like to share? Something that you just felt inspired to write and want others to read. Perhaps it’s a poem that didn’t get as much exposure on your blog as you would have liked. Maybe it’s a poem that you wrote a long time ago that you would like people to revisit. That’s what this section of Poets United is for.

Each Sunday we start a new post with a New Mr. Linky for you. This is so that you can post a link to anything you want us to read, anything at all related to poetry or prose found on your own poetry blogs. It will remain open all week so that you can show us your writings and thoughts. You can post links weekly should you chose to do so. What poetry you put here is up to you so don't be afraid to share with us!!

Classic Poetry, "Prophecy" by Elinor Wylie

Elinor Wylie, 1885-1928

Prophecy

I shall lie hidden in a hut

In the middle of an alder wood,

With the back door blind and bolted shut,

And the front door locked for good.

I shall lie folded like a saint,

Lapped in a scented linen sheet,

On a bedspread striped with bright-blue paint,

Narrow and cold and neat.

The midnight will be glassy black

Behind the panes, with wind about

To set his mouth against a crack

And blow the candle out.

- Elinor Wylie, 1923

Elinor Wylie was born in Somerville, New Jersey in 1885 to a wealthy family. Raised in Washington D.C. to be a socially prominent “lady of the manor,” Elinor attended both The Baldwin School and Holton-Arms School. Well-educated as well as being a noted beauty and gifted artist, Elinor’s personal life often overshadowed her professional accomplishments; and she became most well-known for her multiple marriages and numerous affairs.

Torn between painting and writing, Elinor ultimately committed to words rather than oils. She wrote eight novels and books of poetry. Her first book, Incidental Numbers (1912), was published privately in England. Nets to Catch the Wind (1921) was her first critically acclaimed work. Other volumes of poetry include: Black Armour (1923), Trivial Breath (1928), Angels and Earthly Creatures (1929), and Collected Poems of Elinor Wylie (1932). In late 1928, she finished the last poem for Angels and Earthly Creatures, and prepared the manuscript for the printer. She died from a stroke the following day at the age of 43.

The Thursday Think Tank #56 - Reading

It is the first week of the month and time for our photo prompt. I so enjoyed your view, your words, on the prompt “time out”! Your words reflected so many unique views, all wonderful to read~

This photo I emailed to a magazine and it was selected for the Miscellany column in Somerset Life. I didn’t know it was picked; I had pre-ordered an issue. I was stunned when I saw my photo graced their pages. I think I will try again. Here is a link, if you would like to do the same: Stampington Submissions

At first when I see this photo, I think of late fall, early winter when the weather drives us indoors. We allow more time for reading, but summer does as well. This is why there is a summer reading list, on every morning TV news show. Winter and summer is when we must read the most, this is what the experts tell us. Book sales tell the real story! Perhaps you lie on a sandy beach and indulge yourself with a good yarn or curl up in a comfy spot at home; I would love to hear about your time of escape. We as poets are intrigued by the facets of words; we know how their dazzling brilliance attracts and eludes us. Please pen a poem about reading; you can be general or specific. Many facets of our time are not our own. Reading and writing allows the insight of our souls, to be revealed. Write a poem that expresses a favorite book you have read or your feelings of the written word.

Life of a Poet~Amy Barlow Liberatore

Kids, this is why I love doing interviews so much. Every person - and especially every poet - has a story, and the poet we are featuring today is one of the most interesting folks in blogdom, in my humble opinion. Today we are sitting down with Amy, of Sharp Little Pencil, whose writings, passion and activism I have long admired.  Pull a deck chair into the shade, pour some ice-cold lemonade, and get ready to be entertained by this very interesting poet/musician/activist/mother/pastor’s wife.

Poets United: Amy, is there a story behind the name Sharp Little Pencil? What led you to the world of blogging?

Amy: The name Sharp Little Pencil was a fluke (as are many things in my life!)  I was using the electric sharpener and discovered that if you twist the pencil, the end is neater.  I said to my husband, “Now THERE’S a sharp little pencil.”  Boom.

The Poetry Pantry Is Now Open - #56

The Poetry Pantry

2nd Chance Poems or 1st time shares

Anything goes!! All Poems, all Poets, All Week!!

Do you have a poem you would like to share? Something that you just felt inspired to write and want others to read. Perhaps it’s a poem that didn’t get as much exposure on your blog as you would have liked. Maybe it’s a poem that you wrote a long time ago that you would like people to revisit. That’s what this section of Poets United is for.

Each Sunday we start a new post with a New Mr. Linky for you. This is so that you can post a link to anything you want us to read, anything at all related to poetry or prose found on your own poetry blogs. It will remain open all week so that you can show us your writings and thoughts. You can post links weekly should you chose to do so. What poetry you put here is up to you so don't be afraid to share with us!!

Classic Poetry-London by William Blake

London

By William Blake 1757–1827

I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.


In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.


How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.


But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.





In his Life of William Blake (1863) Alexander Gilchrist warned his readers that Blake "neither wrote nor drew for the many, hardly for work'y-day men at all, rather for children and angels; himself 'a divine child,' whose playthings were sun, moon, and stars, the heavens and the earth." Yet Blake himself believed that his writings were of national importance and that they could be understood by a majority of men. Far from being an isolated mystic, Blake lived and worked in the teeming metropolis of London at a time of great social and political change that profoundly influenced his writing. After the peace established in 1762, the British Empire seemed secure, but the storm wave begun with the American Revolution in 1775 and the French Revolution in 1789 changed forever the way men looked at their relationship to the state and to the established church. Poet, painter, and engraver, Blake worked to bring about a change both in the social order and in the minds of men.


by A.M. Trumble

I Wish I'd Written This

I love a good metaphor.  Read this poem for an excellent example of the use of metaphor.  She just cuts off a soft pat, spreads it around, and lets it melt into the nooks and crannies of the page. 

 

Butter

By Connie Wanek

Butter, like love,

seems common enough

yet has so many imitators.

I held a brick of it, heavy and cool,

and glimpsed what seemed like skin

beneath a corner of its wrap;

the décolletage revealed

a most attractive fat!

And most refined.

Not milk, not cream,

not even crème de la crème.

It was a delicacy which assured me

that bliss follows agitation,

that even pasture daisies

through the alchemy of four stomachs

may grace a king's table.

We have a yellow bowl near the toaster

where summer's butter grows

soft and sentimental.

We love it better for its weeping,

its nostalgia for buckets and churns

and deep stone wells,

for the press of a wooden butter mold

shaped like a swollen heart.

 

Source: Poetry (February 2000).

Click on the title to go to poetryfoundation.org's posting of Butter.  Click on the poet's name to learn more about Connie Wanek.