Poetry


National Poetry Month has come and gone but we are still enjoying poetry around here. Even my oldest, home for a month from the Navy, is known to quote poetry. He carries his Singer Prose and Poetry (stolen from home) with him wherever he goes. If you are a newcomer to poetry get on EBAY and buy a copy of this old text.

Benjamin, 11, is deperately trying to memorize Paul Revere’s Ride just like his older brother did so many years ago. Timothy and I can still quote Paul Revere unfortunately once it starts playing in your head IT will continue on to the bitter end.

And in the midst of all this today is June 1st. A day to enjoy one of my all-time favorite poems, The Vision of Sir Launfal by James Russell Lowell. Here is the June excerpt but by all means read the whole Vision today if you can find the time.

“Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;
The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,
We bargain for the graves we lie in;
At the Devil’s booth are all things sold
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we earn with a whole soul’s tasking:
‘Tis heaven alone that is given away,
‘Tis only God may be had for the asking;
There is no price set on the lavish summer,
And June may be had by the poorest comer.”

I have never once read these words without being stirred. Were ever truer words written by mortal man: “Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold?”

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I picked up the tiny antique-looking book beside my bed. I was not sure how it got there but I perused the title, The Continual Burnt Offering by H A Ironside. It appeared to be a daily devotional like Spurgeon’s Morning by Morning. I turned to June 9th and read. There at the bottom of the page was the hymn Beneath the Blood Stained Lintel. Funny, I had always thought someone at HSC had written that song. Now I see that I was wrong. I don’t remember reading Rick’s words before. It has even been recorded by Phil Keaggy.

And the little book by my bedside has the name and address of the Grandmother who died when I was a baby. So many times she reaches across time to lead me toward Christ. I never knew her but little things she left behind leave a testimony of the faith of a simple woman. She died at 43. I am 43. I hope some day that my grandchildren will find the things that I have left behind lead to Christ, even if today I take my last breath.

Beneath the blood-stained lintel I with my children stand;
A messenger of evil is passing through the land.
There is no other refuge from the destroyer’s face;
Beneath the blood-stained lintel shall be our hiding place.

The Lamb of God has suffered, our sins and griefs He bore;
By faith the blood is sprinkled above our dwelling’s door.
The foe who seeks to enter doth fear that sacred sign;
Tonight the blood-stained lintel shall shelter me and mine.

My Savior, for my dear ones I claim Thy promise true.
The Lamb is “for the household” - the children’s Savior too.
On earth the little children once felt Thy touch divine;
Beneath the blood-stained lintel Thy blessing give to mine.

O Thou who gave them, guard them, those wayward little feet,
The wilderness before them, the ills of life to meet.
My mother love is helpless, I trust them to Thy care!
Beneath the blood-stained lintel, oh, keep me ever there!

The faith I rest upon Thee Thou will not disappoint;
With wisdom, Lord, to train them, my shrinking heart anoint.
Without my children, Father, I cannot see Thy face;
I plead the blood-stained lintel, Thy covenant of grace.

Oh, wonderful Redeemer, Who suffered for our sake,
When o’er the guilty nations the judgment storm shall break,
With joy from that safe shelter may we then meet Thine eye,
Beneath the blood-stained lintel, my children, Lord, and I.

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Autumn Leaves

November

By Elizabeth Coatsworth

November comes
and November goes
with the last red berries
and the first white snows

With night coming early
and dawn coming late
and ice in the bucket
and frost on the gate

The fire burns
and the kettle sings
and Earth sinks to rest
until next spring

I posted this last year but it is too pretty a poem to miss.

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Have you heard the beautiful Josh Groban song Remember from the movie Troy ? I just love that song because it truly captures the ancient pagan’s pathos-filled quest to be remembered. Now the real word for pathos-filled would be pathetic but then you would have probably missed the point.

Remember
I will still be here
As long as you hold me
In your own memory
Remember me

I am that warm voice in the cold wind
That whispers
And if you listen
You’ll hear me call across the sky

As long as I still can reach out
And touch you
That I will never die

I have been suffering with a cold this week: sore throat, coughing, misery-at-night. The last few nights I awakened to Horatius at the Bridge running through my mind. I have been reading big portions of it out loud every morning to the children and now my brain has taken over the memory job.

Tall are the oaks whose acorns
Drop in dark Auser’s rill;
Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
Of the Ciminian hill;
Beyond all streams Clitumnus
Is to the herdsman dear;
Best of all pools the fowler loves
The great Volsinian mere.

And in the middle of the night I begin to wonder what a rill is. And I come up with a few ideas. Maybe a rill is like a ridge of hills. And in the morning I do a search and find that:

a rill is:
1. A small brook; a rivulet.
2. A long narrow straight valley on the moon’s surface.

Ah, that begins to make sense.

In the night, as the verses unbidden repeat themselves, I begin to take joy in their language.
I begin to consider the words, to feel mesmerized by their beauty. I didn’t feel that way the first 15 times I read the poem. But now I begin to appreciate the difficult task before us to memorize Horatius. It is a lovely task which will bear fruit the entirety of my children’s lives.

And in the morning I awake to find my internet working again and an email with this link: In Defense of Memorization by
Michael Knox Beran
.

I can’t tell you how often someone has mistaken my older boys for genuises because they can recite poetry and do when appropriate.

Whether your children learn that Christopher Robin goes hoppity, hoppity, hoppity, hoppity hop or whether they learn what happened on the 18th of April in ‘75, the melodies will be forever in their minds.

Remember

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In these days of computer software it really isn’t hard to make a family poetry book. I keep all our memorized poems and speeches in a notebook but this summer I hope to turn that into a bound book.

In the meantime, I asked each member of our family to tell me their favorite poems.

And the Winners Are:

Timothy:
Crossing the Bar Tennyson (See below)
To a Mouse Burns
And his all time favorite:

The Donkey
G.K.Chesterton

When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil’s walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

Nicholas:
To Lucasta on Going to War Richard Lovelace

Crossing the Bar Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

James:
The Highwayman Noyes (link below)

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas….

That is a great line, isn’t it?

Nathaniel:
If Kipling
Keep a’ Goin’ Frank L Stanton

Christopher:
“We Shall Fight” Winston Churchill
St. Crispin’s Day Speech from Henry V William Shakespeare This is an audio link. Please don’t miss listening to it. I feel teary every single time I hear it.

Benjamin:
Paul Revere’s Ride Longfellow,
Redwall poems

Emily:
The Bee is Not Afraid of Me Emily Dickinson

THE BEE is not afraid of me,
I know the butterfly;
The pretty people in the woods
Receive me cordially.

The brooks laugh louder when I come,
The breezes madder play.
Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?
Wherefore, O summer’s day?

Andrew :
The Knight Whose Armour Didn’t Squeak AA Milne Scroll down or enjoy some other lovely poems along the way.

SONG FOR SNOWY WEATHER AA Milne

The more it
Snows-tiddley-pom
The more it
Goes-tiddley-pom
The more it
Goes-tiddley-pom
on
Snowing.

And Nobody
Knows-tiddley-pom,
How cold my
Toes-tiddley-pom
Are Growing.

Alex:
Alex can’t quite get his mind around what I am talking about. He has just narrated to me almost every Pooh story and told me each was his favorite. “You know the one where Pooh spills honey?” or “You know where Pooh goes hunting with Piglet?” “I like the one with Tigger and what’s his name…..Roo.”

Let’s just say his favorite poet is AA Milne.

Tim:
Song of the Chattahoochie Sidney Lanier which begins “Out of the hills of Habersham,” and Tim loves those hills.
November Elizabeth Coatsworth,
The Highwayman Alfred Noyes as recited by George Grant.

Cindy:
Thomas Gray Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,
The Cotter’s Saturday Night Burns,
Jenny Kissed Me Leigh Hunt,

Lucy II Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove;
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, O!
The difference to me!

So there they are: our family favorites.

What is your favorite poem?

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Years ago someone (Jennifer?) sent this poem through an email list and we memorized it. It is a great reminder and we quote it often around here. I wanted to do more for National Poetry Month but I think I will make June Dominion Family Blog Poetry Month instead.

Apparently this isn’t just a poem but a song written by Glenn Campbell. It feels a little weird to memorize a poem by Glenn Campbell but, hey, everyone can’t be Shakespeare :?

Let Me Be a Little Kinder

Let me be a little kinder
Let me be a little blinder
To the faults of those about me
Let me praise a little more
Let me be when I am weary
Just a little bit more cheery
Think a little more of others
And a little less of me

Let me be a little braver
When temptation bids me waver
Let me strive a little harder
To be all that I should be

Let me be a little meeker
With the brother that is weaker
Let me think more of my neighbor
And a little less of me

Let me be when I am weary
Just a little bit more cheery
Let me serve a little better
Those that I am strivin’ for

Let me be a little meeker
With the brother that is weaker
Think a little more of others
And a little less of me

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I promised June would be poetry month. Have you ever read a long, epic poem? It is much easier than you think. Once you find the proper rhythm it becomes a joy of discovery. I wouldn’t start with Milton though. He is way to0 sublime for someone trying to enjoy poetry for leisure. May I suggest (again?) one of my favorite epic poems?

The Vision of Sir Launfal is a treat from start to finish. You can read it online if you don’t have it around the house. If you do read it, let me know if you liked it.

And now for my annual June welcoming poem I present James Russell Lowell’s verses on June from the prelude to Sir Launfal:

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;
The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,
We bargain for the graves we lie in;
At the Devil’s booth are all things sold
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we earn with a whole soul’s tasking:
‘T is heaven alone that is given away,
‘T is only God may be had for the asking;
no price is set on the lavish summer,
June may be had by the poorest comer.

So there you have it. You have been given a gift called June and you have 30 days to enjoy it.

Let the lavish summer begin!

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I don’t plan on posting about poetry everyday but I will try to do a couple of posts a week.

Since one of our favorite poems is Opportunity by Edward Roland Sill, I thought I would look up other poems with that theme. I still like Sills’ perfect picture best. This is not only a great poem to memorize but your boys must absolutely act it out.

I had to put an end to our Morning Time romps of acting out Horatius. It was such a long poem, the little boys were getting positively dangerous with their swords. Can you imagine the fun of acting out: “And Clove him to the teeth?”

Martial poetry is always popular in our home. I hope our celtic blood will produce warrior poets out of all my boys.

OPPORTUNITY

by: Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887)

THIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:–
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle’s edge,
And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel–
That blue blade that the king’s son bears, — but this
Blunt thing–!” he snapped and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.

Opportunity

__John James Ingalls

Master of human destinies am I;
Fame, love and fortune on my footsteps wait.
Cities and fields I walk. I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by
Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late,
I knock unbidden once at every gate.
If sleeping, wake; if feasting, rise, before
I turn away. It is the hour of fate,
And they who follow me reach every state
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death; but those who hesitate
Condemned to failure, penury and woe,
Seek me in vain, and uselessly implore.
I answer not, and I return no more.


The Opportunity

By Thomas Hardy

(FOR H. P.)

Forty springs back, I recall,
We met at this phase of the Maytime:
We might have clung close through all,
But we parted when died that daytime.

We parted with smallest regret;
Perhaps should have cared but slightly,
Just then, if we never had met:
Strange, strange that we lived so lightly!

Had we mused a little space
At that critical date in the Maytime,
One life had been ours, one place,
Perhaps, till our long cold daytime.

- This is a bitter thing
For thee, O man: what ails it?
The tide of chance may bring
Its offer; but nought avails it!

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This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly;
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at ‘The Traveller’s Rest,’
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.

(II)

This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.

– Thomas Hardy

Now don’t tell me you don’t like this poem! If you don’t like it, read it through 5 or 6 times searching for the rhythm. The 2nd, 4th and last lines should be read slower than the quick tempo-ed other lines.

I guess it’s not really fair for me to say you have to like the poem! But if you don’t like it let me know a poem you do like.

We have been having cuckoo weather. I am intimitely, abnormally attached to weather.

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For some reason poetry has come to symbolize something uniquely feminine. This is strange since a vast amount of poetry has been written by men, manly men, much of it centered on epic war themes. Perhaps some boys hear too many sonnets and love songs before they find out the masculine heart of poetry. Wordsworth and Emily Dickinson are not the places to start with boys. It is not hard at all, even amongst the most well-known poetry, to find poems that boys will love.

One of my sons was particularly fond of Poe, which surprised me. Most women are not fond of Poe. But Poe is the perfect masculine poet. His poems are easily read, tell a story, mysterious, lyrical and full of the themes boys respond to. Poe gives a boy a chance to feel brave or to face his own fears.

Kipling is another manly poet. Of course, Kipling is out of fashion for his imperialistic views but the man was a genius at writing masculine poetry. Here is one of my favorites. Read it through a few times because the English cockney accent is hard to grab but well worth the effort.

Some other easy to find poems that boys love:

Requiem by Robert Louis Stevenson

Requiem

UNDER the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.


The Village Blacksmith
by Longfellow
Henry V’s Speech to his cousin Westmorland William Shakespeare ( It doesn’t get any better than this.)
The Destruction of Sennacherib Byron
The Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson
Paul Revere’s Ride Longfellow
Sail on Joaquin Miller
Casey at the Bat by Thayer ( and several sequels by various authors)
The Illiad & The Odyssey by Homer
James Whitcomb Riley has many poems about a boy’s life.
You can never, never go wrong with the Scottish bards: Burns & Scott. If you have any celtic blood in you at all, you owe it to your sons to introduce them to the Scottish warrior poets.
Windy Nights by RLS
Robert Frost is a particularly manly poet.
Sir John Suckling’s Why So Pale and Wan? is the kind of love poem boys will like.
There is a whole vast body of poems on sinking ships and life at sea.

These are only the most obvious choices.

Don’t sit your boys down and expect them to like poems about the stars being God’s daisy chain.

‘”Every time a fairy sheds a tear, a wee star is born in the Milky Way.” Have you ever thought that, Mr Wooster?’

I never had. Most improbable, I considered, and it didn’t seem to me to check up with her statement that the stars were God’s daisy chain. I mean, you can’t have it both ways.

– Right Ho, Jeeves - P.G. Wodehouse

Blood and violence are far better things than fairy tears for the little men among us.

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