Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Solitude

“The cure for loneliness is solitude”— Marianne Moore

SOURCE

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is a society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar;

I love not man the less, but Nature more”— Lord Byron

     Midweek Motif ~ Solitude

We all have an inner space within us to house our own thoughts, feelings. It’s wonderful to be lost there; to be alone; to find the ‘self’ and the ‘bliss of solitude’.

Solitude is an essential human need to replenish the soul. It does clear the weary mind of the clutter and gives élan to your existence.

No wonder poets and artists often choose to be solitary.

Our Motif today is Solitude:

Winter Solitude

by Matsuo Basho

Winter solitude--
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.

(Translated by Robert Hass) 

The Solitude of Night

by Li Po

It was at a wine party—

I lay in a drowse, knowing it not.

The blown flowers fell and filled my lap.

When I arose, still drunken,

The birds had all gone to their nests,

And there remained but few of my comrades.

I went along the river—alone in the moonlight.

   (Translated by Shigeyoshi Obata)

Solitude

by Harold Monro

WHEN you have tidied all things for the night,
And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep,
You'll pause a moment in the late firelight,
Too sorrowful to weep.

The large and gentle furniture has stood
In sympathetic silence all the day
With that old kindness of domestic wood;
Nevertheless the haunted room will say:
'Someone must be away.'

The little dog rolls over half awake,
Stretches his paws, yawns, looking up at you,
Wags his tail very slightly for your sake,
That you may feel he is unhappy too.

A distant engine whistles, or the floor
Creaks, or the wandering night-wind bangs a door

Silence is scattered like a broken glass.
The minutes prick their ears and run about,
Then one by one subside again and pass
Sedately in, monotonously out.

You bend your head and wipe away a tear.
Solitude walks one heavy step more near. 

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—

                (Next week Susan’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Writing Poetry)

The Living Dead

Spring Poems

It's Spring Equinox here in the Southern Hemisphere, and I was looking for a poem to read tomorrow at a celebration of this event. Many of the ones I found were clearly written about the Northern Hemisphere; you can tell by the kinds of trees mentioned, for instance. And/or I thought them unsuitable because they were couched in very old-fashioned (to us) language. But I liked these.

Very Early Spring  

by Katherine Mansfield

The fields are snowbound no longer;
There are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green.
The snow has been caught up into the sky--
So many white clouds--and the blue of the sky is cold.
Now the sun walks in the forest,
He touches the boughs and stems with his golden fingers;
They shiver, and wake from slumber.
Over the barren branches he shakes his yellow curls.
Yet is the forest full of the sound of tears....
A wind dances over the fields.
Shrill and clear the sound of her waking laughter,
Yet the little blue lakes tremble
And the flags of tenderest green bend and quiver. 

Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923), better known for her short stories, was a New Zealander but for most of her adult life preferred to live in London. Sadly, her life was ended by tuberculosis at the age of 34. 

A Spring Sonnet 

by Arthur Henry Adams

Last night beneath the mockery of the moon
I heard the sudden startled whisperings
Of wakened birds settling their restless wings;
The North-east brought his word of gladness, "Soon!"
And all the night with wonder was a-swoon.
A soul had breathed into long-dreaming things;
Some unseen hand hovered above the strings:
Some cosmic chord had set the earth in tune.
And when I rose I saw the Bay arrayed
In her grey robe against the coming heat.
A pulse awoke within the stirring street–
The wattle-gold upon the pavements thrown,
And through the quiet of the colonnade
The smoky perfume of boronia blown. 

Arthur Adams (1872-1936) was another New Zealander, whose career in journalism also took him to Australia, China and London. He was a playwright and novelist as well, and for a time private secretary and literary adviser to the Sydney theatre manager, J.C. Williamson. Later he was for some years editor of 'The Red Page' (literary gossip and opinions) of the famous Sydney journal, The Bulletin.

Spring Night In Lo-Yang Hearing A Flute 

by Li Po

In what house, the jade flute that sends these dark notes drifting,
scattering on the spring wind that fills Lo-yang?
Tonight if we should hear the willow-breaking song,
who could help but long for the gardens of home?

Li Po (701-762) was a Chinese poet of the Tang dynasty (also known as Li Bai, Li Pai, Li T'ai-po and Li T'ai-pai). Wikipedia tells us that he was 'acclaimed from his own day to the present as a genius and a romantic figure who took traditional poetic forms to new heights'.

He was in the Northern Hemisphere of course, and this sweetly homesick poem is only tenuously about Spring, but it appealed to me anyway. Willows are not indigenous to Australia but they do grow here. In fact there were two in our back yard when I was a child; perhaps that's why I like the poem so much.

Although many of you are now in Autumn (my favourite season) I hope you'll all enjoy this little touch of Spring.

(And which poem will I choose to read at the Equinox? Possibly none of the above. I'm still looking. But if it's one of these it will probably be the Adams, despite some rather olden-day constructions. It has the most Australian flavour. And it fits the theme of the event, which is 'New Beginnings'. The Mansfield is sweet, but although we do have snow in Australia, not in this part of it.) 

Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings and images remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable. (older poems may be out of copyright)

The images used in this post are all in the Public Domain. The third is 'Li Bai In Stroll' by Liang Kai (1140–1210)

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Mountain

source

"A few hours' mountain climbing make of a rogue and a saint

two fairly equal creatures." 

~ Friedrich Nietzsche

"I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. 

And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land." 

~ Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Midweek Motif ~ Mountain

Mountains draw me to them, perhaps because I was born in the shadow of the Catskill Mountains and played on mountain sides as a child.   Heights and metaphors both scared me at one time, but I never could stay away.  Can you?  

Challenge:  Let's take each other into the mountains with this week's new poem ~ or at least onto one "mountain" of your choice.

Add caption

Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain

BY LI PO

TRANSLATED BY SAM HAMILL

The birds have vanished down the sky.

Now the last cloud drains away.

We sit together, the mountain and me,

until only the mountain remains.

Li Po, “Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain,” translated by Sam Hamill from Crossing the Yellow River: 

Three Hundred Poems from the Chinese. Copyright © 2000 by Sam Hamill. 

excerpt from Chattanooga

BY ISHMAEL REED

    1 

    Some say that Chattanooga is the

    Old name for Lookout Mountain

    To others it is an uncouth name

    Used only by the uncivilised

    Our a-historical period sees it

    As merely a town in Tennessee

    To old timers of the Volunteer State

    Chattanooga is “The Pittsburgh of

    The South”

    According to the Cherokee

    Chattanooga is a rock that

    Comes to a point

    They’re all right

    Chattanooga is something you

    Can have anyway you want it

    The summit of what you are

    I’ve paid my fare on that

    Mountain Incline #2, Chattanooga

    I want my ride up

    I want Chattanooga

      . . . . 

    (Read the rest HERE at the Poetry Foundation.)

Choices

BY TESS GALLAGHER

I go to the mountain side

of the house to cut saplings,

and clear a view to snow

on the mountain. But when I look up,

saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in

the uppermost branches.

I don’t cut that one.

I don’t cut the others either.

Suddenly, in every tree,   

an unseen nest

where a mountain   

would be.

                     

                              for Drago Štambuk

[Used here without permission.]  Tess Gallagher, "Choices" from Midnight Lantern:New and Selected Poems. 

Copyright © 2011 by Tess Gallagher.  Reprinted by permission of Graywolf Press.  

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Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others 

in the spirit of the community.

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(Next week, Sumana's Midweek Motif will be Courage. )

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