ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees, So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze, Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom, But stretched away unto the edge of doom.
I should not be withheld but that some day 5 Into their vastness I should steal away, Fearless of ever finding open land, Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.
I do not see why I should e’er turn back, Or those should not set forth upon my track 10 To overtake me, who should miss me here And long to know if still I held them dear.
They would not find me changed from him they knew— Only more sure of all I thought was true.
Another field of April snow The sun begins to slice each knoll or tree that blocks it's view until it strikes a lake and falls from sight. I mourn its going as I mourn the now gone day.
The birch so straight and strong will not let the wildest storm bend it to its knees. One in every hundred hundred is uprooted and falls down and only then by accident or God's design.
Birds and beasts and man standing in a line waiting for the thaw. No sign as yet that April will be anything but echoes of December's past. This Winter's been the longest.
Let the snow make up new rivers not yet named or reinforce the old ones. Let the green come sneaking down the hills again and climb the pines. April, be not March or Monday. Be yourself.
During that summer When unicorns were still possible; When the purpose of knees Was to be skinned; When shiny horse chestnuts... ...Were puffed in green lizard silence While straddling thick branches Far above and away From the softening effects Of civilization;
During that summer-- Which may never have been at all; But which has become more real Than the one that was-- Watermelons ruled.
Thick pink imperial slices Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues Dribbling from chins; Leaving the best part, The black bullet seeds, To be spit out in rapid fire Against the wall Against the wind Against each other;
And when the ammunition was spent, There was always another bite: It was a summer of limitless bites, Of hungers quickly felt And quickly forgotten With the next careless gorging.
The bites are fewer now. Each one is savored lingeringly, swallowed reluctantly.
But in a jar put up by Felicity, The summer which maybe never was Has been captured and preserved. And when we unscrew the lid And slice off a piece And let it linger on our tongue: Unicorns become possible again.
From "Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend Called Felicity" by John Tobias.
Oh, I like this. Maybe we could do it again another month and pretend we had a good reason. Any reason will do. It's a chilly night in the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains and I'm wearing an ancient bathrobe softened by many, many washes, and snuggling in with these poems while the heat whispers through the house. It's late and I don't want to leave.
7 comments:
I am glad you made it safely!
Glad you two made it into town.
For poetry month, I'll have to grub around for a poem or two: Derek Walcott or Stephen Dunn come to mind.
Into My Own - Robert Frost
ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.
I should not be withheld but that some day 5
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.
I do not see why I should e’er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track 10
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.
They would not find me changed from him they knew—
Only more sure of all I thought was true.
I like the one about the guy from Nantucket.
APRIL IN THE EAST
by Rod McKuen
Another field of April snow
The sun begins to slice
each knoll or tree
that blocks it's view
until it strikes a lake
and falls from sight.
I mourn its going
as I mourn the now gone day.
The birch so straight and strong
will not let the wildest storm
bend it to its knees.
One in every hundred hundred
is uprooted and falls down
and only then by accident
or God's design.
Birds and beasts and man
standing in a line
waiting for the thaw.
No sign as yet that April
will be anything but echoes
of December's past.
This Winter's been the longest.
Let the snow make up
new rivers not yet named
or reinforce the old ones.
Let the green come sneaking
down the hills again
and climb the pines.
April, be not March or Monday.
Be yourself.
During that summer
When unicorns were still possible;
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned;
When shiny horse chestnuts...
...Were puffed in green lizard silence
While straddling thick branches
Far above and away
From the softening effects
Of civilization;
During that summer--
Which may never have been at all;
But which has become more real
Than the one that was--
Watermelons ruled.
Thick pink imperial slices
Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins;
Leaving the best part,
The black bullet seeds,
To be spit out in rapid fire
Against the wall
Against the wind
Against each other;
And when the ammunition was spent,
There was always another bite:
It was a summer of limitless bites,
Of hungers quickly felt
And quickly forgotten
With the next careless gorging.
The bites are fewer now.
Each one is savored lingeringly,
swallowed reluctantly.
But in a jar put up by Felicity,
The summer which maybe never was
Has been captured and preserved.
And when we unscrew the lid
And slice off a piece
And let it linger on our tongue:
Unicorns become possible again.
From "Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend Called Felicity" by John Tobias.
Oh, I like this. Maybe we could do it again another month and pretend we had a good reason. Any reason will do. It's a chilly night in the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains and I'm wearing an ancient bathrobe softened by many, many washes, and snuggling in with these poems while the heat whispers through the house. It's late and I don't want to leave.
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