Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Books

“A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,

A Jug of Wine, A Loaf of Bread—and Thou” — Omar Khayyam

Source

“ Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested;” — Francis Bacon

“Hungry man, reach for the book: it is a weapon.” — Bertolt Brecht

“Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home.” — Anna Quindlen, How Reading Changed My Life

Midweek Motif ~ Books

These days we read both P(Print)-Book and E(Electronic)-Book. We may be traditional (being raised on ink and paper) only interested in a physical book or be prone to more complex technology. We are the happy denizens of the world of Books.

How are you connected to a book? How is your book world? How was your first meet? You might want to honor a book special to you.

The material quality of a book that is the smell and feel of a p-book of the olden world or the pleasure of tapping the glass surface of an e-book might find its place in your lines today.

You might include anything that’s also connected to books: any place, person or time.

Share your experiences of this magic world:

The Reading Mother

by Strickland Gillilan

I had a mother who read to me

Sagas of pirates who scoured the sea,

Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth,

"Blackbirds" stowed in the hold beneath.

I had a Mother who read me lays

Of ancient and gallant and golden days;

Stories of Marmion and Ivanhoe,

Which every boy has a right to know.

I had a Mother who read me tales

Of Gelert the hound of the hills of Wales,

True to his trust till his tragic death,

Faithfulness blent with his final breath.

I had a Mother who read me the things

That wholesome life to the boy heart brings--

Stories that stir with an upward touch,

Oh, that each mother of boys were such!

You may have tangible wealth untold;

Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.

Richer than I you can never be--

I had a Mother who read to me.

My Days Among the Dead Are Past

by Robert Southey

My days among the Dead are past;

    Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,

    The mighty minds of old;

My never-failing friends are they,

With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,

    And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel

    How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedew'd

With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead, with them

    I live in long-past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

    Partake their hopes and fears,

And from their lessons seek and find

Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead, anon

    My place with them will be,

And I with them shall travel on

    Through all Futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,

That will not perish in the dust.

There is no Frigate like a Book

by Emily Dickinson

There is no Frigate like a Book 

To take us Lands away 

Nor any Coursers like a Page 

Of prancing Poetry – 

This Traverse may the poorest take 

Without oppress of Toll – 

How frugal is the Chariot 

That bears the Human Soul –

   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 ~ Holiness /Holy Day)

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Ninety / The Nineties

“I heard one presidential candidate say that what this country 
needed was a president for the nineties. I was set to run again. 
I thought he said a president IN his nineties.” 
― Ronald Reagan, Speaking My Mind: Selected Speeches

“She's all brute force and '90s clichés.” 
― Rainbow Rowell, Carry On

“People have told me 'Betty, Facebook is a great way to keep in touch with 

old friends....'  At my age, if I wanted to keep in touch 
with old friends, I'd need a Ouija board” 
― Betty White

Midweek Motif ~ 

Ninety / The Nineties

Because this is Leap Year, March 30th is the 90th day of the year. Let's celebrate the number 90 and ninety minutes, ninetieth days, ninetieth years, the  1990s or the 1890s:

The Gay Nineties is an American nostalgic term referring to the decade of the 1890s. It is known in the United Kingdom as the Naughty Nineties, and refers there to the decade of supposedly decadent art by Aubrey Beardsley, the witty plays and trial of Oscar Wilde, society scandals and the beginning of the suffragette movement).

(Note that in the USA, we are just beginning to expose the history of the 1890s from other than white points of view.  That's why I include the Lucille Clifton poem below.  I wonder if that is true of other locations as well?)

 Your Challenge:  Today you have a vast choice of subject: the 90s.  There are two cautions: (1) write a new poem and (2) let your theme echo in your poem like a motif in music.  One way to do that is by refrain or repetition, but there are many other ways.  Enjoy.

The City's Oldest Known Survivor of the Great War

BY JAMES DOYLE

marches in uniform down the traffic stripe

at the center of the street, counts time

to the unseen web that has rearranged

the air around him, his left hand

stiff as a leather strap along his side,

the other saluting right through the decades

as if they weren't there, as if everyone under ninety

were pervasive fog the morning would dispel

in its own good time, as if the high school band

all flapping thighs and cuffs behind him

were as ghostly as the tumbleweed on every road

dead-ended in the present, all the ancient infantry

shoulder right, through a skein of bone, presenting arms

across the drift, nothing but empty graves now

to round off another century,

the sweet honey of the old cadence, the streets

going by at attention, the banners glistening with dew,

the wives and children blowing kisses.

The Old Man's Complaints. And how he gained them

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,

The few locks which are left you are grey;

You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,

Now tell me the reason I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,

I remember'd that youth would fly fast,

And abused not my health and my vigour at first

That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,

And pleasures with youth pass away,

And yet you lament not the days that are gone,

Now tell me the reason I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,

I remember'd that youth could not last;

I thought of the future whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,

And life must be hastening away;

You are chearful, and love to converse upon death!

Now tell me the reason I pray.

I am chearful, young man, Father William replied,

Let the cause thy attention engage;

In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!

And He hath not forgotten my age.

mulberry fields

BY LUCILLE CLIFTON

they thought the field was wasting

and so they gathered the marker rocks and stones and

piled them into a barn    they say that the rocks were shaped

some of them scratched with triangles and other forms    they

must have been trying to invent some new language they say

the rocks went to build that wall there guarding the manor and

some few were used for the state house

crops refused to grow

i say the stones marked an old tongue and it was called eternity

and pointed toward the river    i say that after that collection

no pillow in the big house dreamed    i say that somewhere under

here moulders one called alice whose great grandson is old now

too and refuses to talk about slavery    i say that at the

masters table only one plate is set for supper    i say no seed

can flourish on this ground once planted then forsaken    wild

berries warm a field of bones

bloom how you must i say

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

                                     (Next week Susan's Midweek will be ~ Citizenship)

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