April
is poetry month so I thought I’d bring you a few poems from Maine poets and
from a special friend of mine, Ruby Zagoren, who was my writing mentor in
Connecticut. I’ve tried to feature spring like poetry mostly with uplifting
themes to mirror the renewal of life in the Spring. Easter and Spring are a
time of new growth, new feelings of hope for better things to come. I hope
these poems reflect the spirit of the season and renew your spirit as well.
RED
WINGS
Where meadow bogs,
Where hummocks group,
The redwings come,
The throaty troup.
The meadow fills
As redwings raise
In hoarse bird trills
Their rusty praise
---Ruby Zagoren
This poem is by our
Rockland Poet Laureate, Kendall Merriam. It appeared in the Herald Gazette, or The Village Soup Gazette, can’t remember which, on February 16,
2012
Fisherman’s
Moon
The water is cold, briny
This time of year
Every time of year
A life of risk
That hardens hands,
spirit
We love cooking the
catch
Not really understanding
the complexity of the trade
Many start young
Some are lost young
But what else is there
to do
For coastal workers
They go out
Challenging the sea to give
up its wealth
Tonight, the moon shines
Down to the seabed, deep
down
Does it wake the lost
fishermen
Sleeping there
Waiting for what my
friend
Sandra Jackson Mank
A South Thomaston girl
Says the last trump
Will call those fastened
down below
And the sea will give
them up
Across the harbor shines
a light
A light of forgiveness
That begs God’s moon
To bring swift
resurrection
Of all the beloved of
the coast
Does even God know the
suffering
That He creates with
wind and wave
Can He hear the keening
of those left behind
It is certainly loud
enough
A pitch no one celestial
or earthbound
Can ignore and stay sane
It keeps our minds
filled with prayer
Even if we don’t believe
So we ask that it never
happens again
We must speak to his
faced
That this moon be the
last
To demand the sea’s
sacrifice
And peace of mind sweep
down the shore
--Kendall Merriam
This
is an excerpt from Kate Barnes’ “Neighborliness.” Kate is from Appleton
In
Maine
we are glad to be part of a land
that remains so beautiful under its green skin
of woods and open fields, that is glitteringly
bordered by thousands of miles
of breaking waves, and that is lovely,
too, with an unbroken tradition
of concerns, with the kind, enduring grace
of its neighborliness.
we are glad to be part of a land
that remains so beautiful under its green skin
of woods and open fields, that is glitteringly
bordered by thousands of miles
of breaking waves, and that is lovely,
too, with an unbroken tradition
of concerns, with the kind, enduring grace
of its neighborliness.
---Kate Barnes
Excerpt
from “Echoes From the Land”
Echoes From
The Land
Echoes from the land,
hear the echoes from the land! -
the howling of wolves, and the touch of an Indian hand
on the bow string, where a big cow moose runs thrashing
through the marsh; or is that a black bear crashing
where blackberry rushes stretch out their thorns to sting
the reaching finger? But now the echoes ring
with the Song of the Stars: "For we are the stars which sing,"
they say, "and hunt the bear around the pole
of the northern sky, and redden the leaves each fall
with her blood, only to see her come from her den,
every year in the spring, alive once again! -
as the land is alive, our dark mother beneath our feet,
from who we are born, to whom we return complete
with our length of days ..." and then the chant drops low;
the shadowy people get up quickly and go
off under the pines as lightly as deer.
the howling of wolves, and the touch of an Indian hand
on the bow string, where a big cow moose runs thrashing
through the marsh; or is that a black bear crashing
where blackberry rushes stretch out their thorns to sting
the reaching finger? But now the echoes ring
with the Song of the Stars: "For we are the stars which sing,"
they say, "and hunt the bear around the pole
of the northern sky, and redden the leaves each fall
with her blood, only to see her come from her den,
every year in the spring, alive once again! -
as the land is alive, our dark mother beneath our feet,
from who we are born, to whom we return complete
with our length of days ..." and then the chant drops low;
the shadowy people get up quickly and go
off under the pines as lightly as deer.
---Kate Barnes
From Kristen Lindquist of Camden
Brimstone Island: One Day
Deep within the indigo gullet of Penobscot Bay
black rock was belched from earth's belly,
then battered and fractured by waves,
churned smooth over millions of years.
You sail to this island for the sole purpose
of running fingers over these silken stones,
though you have to work for it, have to
first tack for hours across the bay, then row
to shore, choose a path to follow
over the island's rough backbone,
fight off mosquitos, teeter on ledges, to find
the pocket beach tucked between bluffs
on the side where no boat can moor.
An eagle flies overhead, sparrows call
from thorny bushes. On the beach, sun
heats pebbles you stack along your legs,
and lion's mane jellyfish bloom offshore
amid swirling fans of seaweed and foam.
You allow yourself one stone, to ever touch
that perfect day, as geology's slow clock
continues to tick, and, one at a time,
waves sweep and stir the dark shores.
Deep within the indigo gullet of Penobscot Bay
black rock was belched from earth's belly,
then battered and fractured by waves,
churned smooth over millions of years.
You sail to this island for the sole purpose
of running fingers over these silken stones,
though you have to work for it, have to
first tack for hours across the bay, then row
to shore, choose a path to follow
over the island's rough backbone,
fight off mosquitos, teeter on ledges, to find
the pocket beach tucked between bluffs
on the side where no boat can moor.
An eagle flies overhead, sparrows call
from thorny bushes. On the beach, sun
heats pebbles you stack along your legs,
and lion's mane jellyfish bloom offshore
amid swirling fans of seaweed and foam.
You allow yourself one stone, to ever touch
that perfect day, as geology's slow clock
continues to tick, and, one at a time,
waves sweep and stir the dark shores.
---Kristen Lindquist
From Longfellow, born in Portland
A Day Of Sunshine. (Birds Of
Passage. Flight The Second)
O gift of God! O perfect day:
Whereon shall no man work, but play;
Whereon it is enough for me,
Not to be doing, but to be!
Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every vein,
I feel the electric thrill, the touch
Of life, that seems almost too much.
I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.
And over me unrolls on high
The splendid scenery of the sky,
Where though a sapphire sea the sun
Sails like a golden galleon,
Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
Whose steep sierra far uplifts
Its craggy summits white with drifts.
Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms
The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!
Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
The fiery blossoms of the peach!
O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?
Whereon shall no man work, but play;
Whereon it is enough for me,
Not to be doing, but to be!
Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every vein,
I feel the electric thrill, the touch
Of life, that seems almost too much.
I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.
And over me unrolls on high
The splendid scenery of the sky,
Where though a sapphire sea the sun
Sails like a golden galleon,
Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
Whose steep sierra far uplifts
Its craggy summits white with drifts.
Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms
The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!
Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
The fiery blossoms of the peach!
O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
From Edna St. Vincent Millay, born in Rockland, lived in Camden
Spring
From Edna St. Vincent Millay, born in Rockland, lived in Camden
Spring
To what purpose, April, do you return
again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the
redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains
of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing.
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down
this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and
strewing flowers.
My thoughts of Spring
Come Spring
The forsythia
The crocus
The daffodils
The lilacs
Will bloom come spring
The robin
The geese
Will return come spring
The sweet air
With a taste of salt
On your lips
Will be welcome come spring
Fishermen make new flys
And shop for new rods.
Barnacles get scraped off the boat.
Bicycles come out of the garage.
The smack of ball to glove…
All return come spring.
Spring…a time of renewal…
Mud turns to grass
Bare trees sprout new buds
And our spirits soar with the springtime sun.
---Sandra Sylvester, April 7, 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment