Archived Poems of the Month (2001-2002)

Archived Poems for 2001-2002
Archived Poems for 2003-2004
Archived Poems for 2005-2006
Archived Poems for 2007-2008
Archived Poems for 2009-2010
March '01	The Puffin	April '01	Spring Comes to America
May '01	Loveliest of trees, the cherry now	June '01	The Sea and the Hills
July '01	The Tiger	August '01	"You wear her livery"
September '01	Kipling's Vermont	October '01	"under a grey sky"
November '01	Mirage	December '01	from "Ulysses"
January '02	Auld Lang Syne	February '02	Dust of Snow
March '02	The Daffodils	April '02	Spring
May '02	"Tonight I've watched"	June '02	Nothing Gold Can Stay
July '02	"clear moonlight"	August '02	"long night over"
September '02	Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802	October '02	Ocober
November '02	Another Way	December '02	Christmas in India

Poem of the Month: March 2001

	The Puffin by florence jacques There once was a puffin just the shape of a muffin, And he lived on an island in the deep blue sea, He ate little fishes, which were most delicious, And he ate them for breakfast and he ate them for tea. But this poor little puffin, he couldn't play nothin', 'Cause he didn't have no-one to play with at all. So he sat on his island and he cried for a while, and He felt very lonesome and he felt very small. Then along came the fishes and they said, "If you wishes, You can have us for playmates, instead of for tea." Now they all play together in all kinds of weather, And the puffin eats pancakes, like you and like me.

Poem of the Month: April 2001

Spring comes to America

Almost imperceptably the days
Have lengthened and the sky has grown more blue.
Unclipped forsythia tangles in a blaze
Of gold; bright jonquils shine, and crocus too,
Amidst the paler shades of blooming trees:
The pinks and whites of apple, cherry, pear,
And darker redbud in the pastel seas
Of tossing blossomed limbs so lately bare.
Grass reborn spreads its imperial jade
In carpets envied by a monarch's throne,
And birds from dawn to dusk sing out their hearts.
And in each town some space is found or made
For that sure sign that winter's truly flown:
With that first pitch, at last the summer starts.

-Karen Davis

Poem of the Month: May 2001

Lovliest of trees, the cherry now
	Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow. —A E Housman

Lovliest of trees, the cherry now

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
—A E Housman

Poem of the Month: June 2001

The Sea and The Hills
	Who hath desired the Sea?—the sight of salt water unbounded— The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber wind-hounded? The sleek-barrelled swell before storm, grey, foamless, enormous, and growing— Stark calm on the lap of the Line or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing— His Sea in no showing the same—his Sea and the same 'neath each showing: His Sea as she slackens or thrills? So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise—hillmen desire their Hills!

	Who hath desired the Sea?—the immense and contemptuous surges? The shudder, the stumble, the swerve, as the star-stabbing bow-sprit emerges? The orderly clouds of the Trades, the ridged, roaring sapphire thereunder — Unheralded cliff-haunting flaws and the headsail's low-volleying thunder— His Sea in no wonder the same—his Sea and the same through each wonder: His Sea as she rages or stills? So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise—hillmen desire their Hills.

	Who hath desired the Sea? Her menaces swift as her mercies? The in-rolling walls of the fog and the silver-winged breeze that disperses? The unstable mined berg going South and the calvings and groans that declare it— White water half-guessed overside and the moon breaking timely to bare it— His Sea as his fathers have dared—his Sea as his children shall dare it: His Sea as she serves him or kills? So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise—hillmen desire their Hills.

	Who hath desired the Sea? Her excellent loneliness rather Than forecourts of kings, and her outermost pits than the streets where men gather Inland, among dust, under trees—inland where the slayer may slay him— Inland, out of reach of her arms, and the bosom whereon he must lay him His Sea from the first that betrayed—at the last that shall never betray him: His Sea that his being fulfils? So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise—hillmen desire their Hills.
—Rudyard Kipling

Poem of the Month: July 2001

The Tiger
	Tiger, Tiger, burning bright In the forest of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dared frame thy fearful symmetry?
	In what distant deeps or skies Burned that fire within thine eyes? On what wings dared he aspire? What the hand dared sieze the fire?
	And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? When thy heart began to beat, What dread hand formed thy dread feet?
	What the hammer, what the chain, Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?
	When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee?
— William Blake

Poem of the Month: August 2001

You wear her livery
Shining with gold,
you, too, Hecate,
Queen of Night, hand-
maid to Aphrodite

Sappho (translation Mary Barnard)

Poem of the Month: September 2001

Kipling's Vermont

The summer like a rajah dies,
And every widowed tree
Kindles for Congregationalist eyes
An alien suttee.

—Ogden Nash

Poem of the Month: October 2001

under a grey sky
flocks of geese passing
no shadows at all
—Carlos Fleitas

Poem of the Month: November 2001

Mirage

The hope I dreamed of was a dream,
Was but a dream; and now I wake,
Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
For a dream's sake.

I hang my harp upon a tree,
A weeping willow in a lake;
I hang my silent harp there, wrung and snapped
For a dream's sake.

Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart;
My silent heart, lie still and break:
Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed
For a dream's sake.
—Cristina Rosetti

Poem of the Month: December 2001

from "Ulysses" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
	There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

from "Ulysses" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Poem of the Month: January 2002

"Auld Lang Syne"
	Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days of auld lang syne? And days of auld lang syne, my dear, And days of auld lang syne. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days of auld lang syne? We twa hae run aboot the braes And pu'd the gowans fine. We've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne. Sin' auld lang syne, my dear, Sin' auld lang syne, We've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne. We twa hae sported i' the burn, From morning sun till dine, But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne. Sin' auld lang syne, my dear, Sin' auld lang syne. But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne. And ther's a hand, my trusty friend, And gie's a hand o' thine; We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne.

collected and augmented by Robert Burns

Poem of the Month: February 2002

"Dust of Snow"
	The way a crow Shook down on me A dusting of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued. —Robert Frost

Poem of the Month: March 2002

"The Daffodils"
	I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
	Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
	The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company! I gazed - and gazed - but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
	For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. —William Wordsworth

Poem of the Month: April 2002

"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. —Edna St. Vincent Millay

"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.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

Poem of the Month: May 2002

Tonight I've watched
the moon and then
the Pleiades
go down

The night is now
half-gone; youth
goes; I am

in bed alone.

—Sappho

Poem of the Month: June 2002

Nothing Gold Can Stay
	Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her first leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf, So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
—Robert Frost

Poem of the Month: July 2002

Haiku
	clear moonlight drawing a ring around the pond - deep silence
—Jasminka Diordievic

Haiku

clear moonlight

drawing a ring around the pond -

deep silence

—Jasminka Diordievic

Poem of the Month: August 2002

Haiku
	long night over — the same morning stars in the locust tree
—Ann K. Schwader

Haiku

long night over —

the same morning stars

in the locust tree

—Ann K. Schwader

Poem of the Month: September 2002

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802
	Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!
—William Wordsworth

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

—William Wordsworth

Poem of the Month: October 2002

October
	Beauty has a tarnished dress, And a patchwork cloak of cloth Dipped deep in mournfulness, Striped like a moth. Wet grass where it trails Dyes it green along the hem; She has seven silver veils With cracked bells on them. She is tired of all these— Grey gauze, translucent lawn; The broad cloak of Herakles Is tangled flame and fawn. Water and light are wearing thin: She has drawn above her head The warm enormous lion skin Rough red and gold.
—Elinor Wylie

October

Beauty has a tarnished dress,
And a patchwork cloak of cloth
Dipped deep in mournfulness,
Striped like a moth.

Wet grass where it trails
Dyes it green along the hem;
She has seven silver veils
With cracked bells on them.

She is tired of all these—
Grey gauze, translucent lawn;
The broad cloak of Herakles
Is tangled flame and fawn.

Water and light are wearing thin:
She has drawn above her head
The warm enormous lion skin
Rough red and gold.

—Elinor Wylie

Poem of the Month: November 2002

Another Way
	I lay in silence, dead. A woman came And laid a rose upon my breast, and said, "May God be merciful." She spoke my name, And added, "It is strange to think him dead. "He loved me well enough, but 't was his way To speak it lightly." Then, beneath her breath: "Besides" —I knew what further she would say, But then a footfall broke my dream of death. To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose Upon her breast, and speak her name, and deem It strange indeed that she is dead. God knows I had more pleasure in the other dream.
—Ambrose Bierce

Another Way

I lay in silence, dead. A woman came
   And laid a rose upon my breast, and said,
"May God be merciful." She spoke my name,
   And added, "It is strange to think him dead.
"He loved me well enough, but 't was his way
   To speak it lightly." Then, beneath her breath:
"Besides" —I knew what further she would say,
   But then a footfall broke my dream of death.
To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose
   Upon her breast, and speak her name, and deem
It strange indeed that she is dead. God knows
   I had more pleasure in the other dream.

—Ambrose Bierce

Poem of the Month: December 2002

Christmas in India
	Dim dawn behind the tamarisks—the sky is saffron-yellow— As the women in the village grind the corn, And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow That the Day, the staring Eastern Day, is born. O the white dust on the highway! O the stenches in the byway! O the clammy fog that hovers over earth! And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry— What part have India's exiles in their mirth? Full day behind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring— As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring, To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke. Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly— Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice! With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars, And to-day we bid "good Christian men rejoice!" High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us— As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan. They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us, And forget us till another year be gone! Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching! Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain! Youth was cheap—wherefore we sold it. Gold was good—we hoped to hold it, And to-day we know the fulness of our gain! Grey dusk behind the tamarisks—the parrots fly together— As the sun is sinking slowly over Home; And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether. That drags us back howe'er so far we roam. Hard her service, poor her payment—she in ancient, tattered raiment— India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind. If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter, The door is shut—we may not look behind. Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus— As the conches from the temple scream and bray. With the fruitless years behind us and the hopeless years before us, Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day! Call a truce, then, to our labours—let us feast with friends and neighbours, And be merry as the custom of our caste; For, if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after, We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.
—Rudyard Kipling

Christmas in India

Dim dawn behind the tamarisks—the sky is saffron-yellow—
  As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
  That the Day, the staring Eastern Day, is born.
     O the white dust on the highway! O the stenches in the byway!
         O the clammy fog that hovers over earth!
     And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry—
         What part have India's exiles in their mirth?

Full day behind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring—
  As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
  To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
     Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly—
         Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
     With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
         And to-day we bid "good Christian men rejoice!"

High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us—
  As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us,
  And forget us till another year be gone!
     Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!
         Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
     Youth was cheap—wherefore we sold it. Gold was good—we hoped to hold it,
         And to-day we know the fulness of our gain!

Grey dusk behind the tamarisks—the parrots fly together—
  As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.
  That drags us back howe'er so far we roam.
     Hard her service, poor her payment—she in ancient, tattered raiment—
         India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
     If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter,
         The door is shut—we may not look behind.

Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus—
  As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us and the hopeless years before us,
  Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!
     Call a truce, then, to our labours—let us feast with friends and neighbours,
         And be merry as the custom of our caste;
     For, if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after,
         We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

—Rudyard Kipling

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