FILLING STATION

Elizabeth Bishop 1911-79

Oh, but it is dirty!

- this little filling station,

oil-soaked, oil-permeated

to a disturbing, over-all

black translucency.

Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,

oil-soaked monkey suit

that cuts him under the arms,

and several quick and saucy

and greasy sons assist him

(it's a family filling station),

all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?

It has a cement porch

behind the pumps, and on it

a set of crushed and grease-

impregnated wickerwork;

on the wicker sofa

a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide

the only note of colour -

of certain colour. They lie

upon a big dim doily

draping a taboret

(part of the set), beside

a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?

Why the taboret?

Why, oh why, the doily?

(Embroidered in daisy stitch

with marguerites, I think,

and heavy with grey crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.

Somebody waters the plant,

or oils it, maybe. Somebody

arranges the rows of cans

so that they softly say:

ESSO--SO--SO--SO

to high-strung automobiles.

Somebody loves us all.

-o0o-

ZUMMER AN' WINTER

William Barnes  1801-86

When I led by zummer streams

The pride o' Lea, as naighbours thought her,

While the zun, wi' evenen beams,

Did cast our sheades athirt the water;

Winds a-blowen,

Streams a-flowen,

Skies a-glowen,

Tokens ov my jay zoo fleeten,

Heightened it, that happy meeten.

Then, when maid an' man took pleaces,

Gay in winter's Chris'mas dances,

Showen in their merry feaces

Kindly smiles an' glisnen glances;

Stars a-winken,

Day a-shrinken,

Sheades a-zinken,

Brought anew the happy meeten,

That did meake the night too fleeten. 

This English writer, poet, Church of England priest, and philologist wrote over 800 poems, some in Dorset dialect. Other works, included a comprehensive English grammar quoting from more than 70 different languages.

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HAPPY THE MAN

John Dryden 1631-1700

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call today his own:

He who, secure within, can say,

Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Be fair or foul or rain or shine

The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,

But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. 

John Dryden was an English poet, literary critic, translator, and playwright who was made England's first Poet Laureate in 1668. He is seen as dominating the literary life of Restoration England to such an extent that the period became known as the Age of Dryden. Walter Scott called him "Glorious John".

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SHIPS?

Maya Angelou 1928-2014

Ships?

Sure I’ll sail them

Show me the boat,

If it’ll float,

I’ll sail it.

Men?

Yes, I’ll love them.

If they’ve got style,

to make me smile,

I’ll love them.

Life?

‘Course I’ll live it.

Just enough breath,

Until my death,

And I’ll live it.

Failure?

I’m not ashamed to tell it,

I’ve never learned to spell it,

Not Failure.

Maya Angelou had a remarkable career as a singer, dancer, actress, composer and she was Hollywood's first female black director. She branched out and became famous as a writer, poet, editor and playwright. The issue of civil rights was very important to her and she worked closely with Martin Luther King Jr.

-o0o-

To everything there is a season

A time for every purpose under Heaven

A time to be born 

and a time to die

A time to plant 

and a time to pluck what is planted

A time to kill

and a time to heal

A time to break down

and a time to build up

A time to cast away stones

and a time to gather stones

A time to embrace 

and a time to refrain from embracing

A time to gain 

and a time to lose 

A time to keep 

and a time to cast away

A time to tear 

and a time to sew

A time to keep silence 

and a time to speak

A time of love 

and a time of hate

A time of war 

and a time of peace 

Based upon a passage in The Book of Ecclesiastes, this poem was written by Ivy Schex. I didn't find any information about Ivy Schex.

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BALLADE OF AUTUMN

Andrew Lang 1844 - 1912

We built a castle in the air,

In summer weather, you and I,

The wind and sun were in your hair,

Gold hair against a sapphire sky:

When autumn came, with leaves that fly

Before the storm, across the plain,

You fled from me, with scarce a sigh,

My Love returns no more again!

The windy lights of autumn flare:

I watch the moonlit sails go by;

I marvel how men toil and fare,

The weary business that they ply!

Their voyaging is vanity,

And fairy gold is all their gain,

And all the winds of winter cry,

"My Love returns no more again!"

Here, in my Castle of Despair,

I sit alone with memory;

The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,

To keep the outcast company.

The brooding owl he hoots hard by,

The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,

The Rhymer's soothest prophecy,

My Love returns no more again!

 The Scottish poet Andrew Lang was a novelist and literary critic, and a contributor to the field of anthropology. He is best known for his collection of folk and fairy tales.

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ON A FLY DRINKING OUT OF HIS CUP

William Oldys 1687-1761

Busy, curious, thirsty Fly,

Gently drink, and drink as I;

Freely welcome to my Cup,

Could'st thou sip, and sip it up;

Make the most of Life you may,

Life is short and wears away.

Just alike, both mine and thine,

Hasten quick to their Decline;

Thine's a Summer, mine's no more,

Though repeated to threescore;

Threescore Summers when they're gone,

Will appear as short as one.

William Oldys was an English antiquarian and bibliographer. He spent two years in the Fleet Prison, being released when his friends paid his debts. It was said that Oldys was "a noted antiquary and bibliographer but wholly ignorant of heraldry and known for being 'rarely sober in the afternoon, never after supper and much addicted to low company.'

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WILD NIGHTS! WILD NIGHTS!

Emily Dickinson 1830-86 

Wild Nights! Wild Nights!

Were I with thee,

Wild Nights should be

Our luxury!

Futile the winds

To a heart in port, -

Done with the compass,

Done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden!

Ah! the sea!

Might I but moor

To-night in Thee!

For most of her life this American poet lived as a recluse. Although a prolific writer fewer than a dozen of her nearly 1,800 poems were published during her lifetime.

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I, TOO, SING AMERICA

Langston Hughes 1902-67

I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.

Tomorrow,

I’ll be at the table

When company comes.

Nobody’ll dare

Say to me,

“Eat in the kitchen,"

Then.

Besides, 

They’ll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed -

James Mercer Langston Hughes was an American poet, social activist, novelist, playwright, and columnist from Joplin, Missouri. He was one of the earliest innovators of the then-new literary art form called jazz poetry.

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SICK

Shel Silverstein 1930-99

“I cannot go to school today,"

Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

“I have the measles and the mumps,

A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,

I’m going blind in my right eye.

My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox

And there’s one more - that’s seventeen,

And don’t you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut - my eyes are blue -

It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,

I’m sure that my left leg is broke -

My hip hurts when I move my chin,

My belly button’s caving in,

My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,

My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.

My nose is cold, my toes are numb.

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,

I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,

My temperature is one-o-eight.

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There is a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is - what?

What’s that? What’s that you say?

You say today is. . .Saturday?

G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

-o0o-

UPHILL

Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830–1894

Does the road wind uphill all the way? 

Yes, to the very end. 

Will the day's journey take the whole long day? 

From morn to night, my friend. 

But is there for the night a resting-place? 

A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin. 

May not the darkness hide it from my face? 

You cannot miss that inn. 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? 

Those who have gone before. 

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? 

They will not keep you waiting at that door. 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? 

Of labour you shall find the sum. 

Will there be beds for me and all who seek? 

Yea, beds for all who come.

Christina Rossetti wrote a variety of romantic, devotional, and children's poems. She is famous for writing the poem which begins "Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land" She was the writer of the words of the Christmas carols "In the Bleak Midwinter," and "Love Came Down at Christmas."

JUST TREES

A new series which will be known by the full title of the blog

JUST TREES BUT LOVELY TO LOOK AT

begins today and will then be updated

EVERY DAYj

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WHEN I HAVE FEARS

John Keats 1795-1821

When I have fears that I may cease to be 

Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,

Before high-piled books, in charactery,

Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain; 

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; 

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love; - then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink. 

An English Romantic poet, Keats was one of the main figures of the second generation of Romantic poets, along with Byron and  Shelley.

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EVERYONE SANG

Siegfried Sassoon 1886-1967

Everyone suddenly burst out singing:

And I was filled with such delight

As prisoned birds must find in freedom,

Winging wildly across the white

Orchards and dark-green fields: on - on - and out of sight.

Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;

And beauty came like the setting sun;

My heart was shaken with tears: and horror

Drifted away . . . O, but everyone

Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

Siegfried Sassoon CBE MC was an English poet, writer, and soldier. Decorated for bravery on the Western Front, he became one of the leading poets of the First World War. His poetry both described the horrors of the trenches, and satirised the patriotic pretensions of those who, in Sassoon's view, were responsible for a jingoism-fuelled war. He became a focal point for dissent within the armed forces when he made a lone protest against the continuation of the war in his "Soldier's Declaration" of 1917. from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

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SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

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, oh,

The difference to me!

Wordsworth was a major English Romantic poet who, with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped to launch the Romantic Age in English literature with their joint publication Lyrical Ballads 

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THE THRUSH'S NEST

John Clare 1793-1864

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush

That overhung a mole-hill large and round,

I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush 

Sing hymns to sunrise, while I drank the sound

With joy; and, often an intruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day - 

How true she warped the moss to form a nest,

And modelled it from within with wood and clay;

And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,

There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,

Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue;

And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,

A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,

Glad as that sunshine and the laughing sky.

This English poet became known for his celebrations of the English countryside and sorrows at its disruption. His poetry underwent major re-evaluation in the late 20th century: he is now often seen as one of the major 19th century poets. His biographer claimed that Clare was "the greatest labouring-class poet that England has ever produced. No one has ever written more powerfully of nature, of a rural childhood, and of the alienated and unstable self."

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A RED, RED ROSE

Robert Burns 1759-96

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June;

O my Luve’s like the melodie

That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a’ the seas gang dry:

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,

And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

Burns the Scottish poet and lyricist, also known as The Ploughman Poet and The Bard of Ayrshire, is generally acknowledged as the national poet of Scotland.

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THE SKYLARK

James Hogg 1770-1835

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

This Scottish poet, novelist and essayist  when a young man worked as a shepherd and farmhand and became known as "The Ettrick Shepherd." He was a friend of many of the great writers including Sir Walter Scott

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BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!

Walt Whitman 1819-92

Beat! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! blow! 

Through the windows — through doors — burst like a ruthless force, 

Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, 

Into the school where the scholar is studying, 

Leave not the bridegroom quiet — no happiness must he have now with his bride, 

Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain, 

So fierce you whirr and pound you drums — so shrill you bugles blow. 

Beat! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! blow! 

Over the traffic of cities — over the rumble of wheels in the streets; 

Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, 

No bargainers’ bargains by day — no brokers or speculators — would they continue? 

Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? 

Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? 

Then rattle quicker, heavier drums — you bugles wilder blow. 

Beat! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! blow! 

Make no parley stop for no expostulation, 

Mind not the timid — mind not the weeper or prayer, 

Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, 

Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties, 

Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses, 

So strong you thump O terrible drums — so loud you bugles blow.

-o0o-

BARTER
Sara Teasdale 1884-1933

Life has loveliness to sell,

     All beautiful and splendid things,

Blue waves whitened on a cliff,

     Soaring fire that sways and sings,

And children's faces looking up

Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,

     Music like a curve of gold,

Scent of pine trees in the rain,

     Eyes that love you, arms that hold,

And for your spirit's still delight,

Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,

     Buy it and never count the cost;

For one white singing hour of peace

     Count many a year of strife well lost,

And for a breath of ecstasy

Give all you have been, or could be.

Sara Teasdale, American lyric poet

-o0o-

STILL I RISE

Maya Angelou 1928-2014

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may tread me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you? 

Why are you beset with gloom? 

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken? 

Bowed head and lowered eyes? 

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you? 

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you? 

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs? 

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise 

Angelou reciting her poem "On the Pulse of Morning" at President Clinton's inauguration in 1993. She published seven autobiographies, three books of essays, several books of poetry, and was credited with a list of plays, movies, and television shows spanning over 50 years. She received dozens of awards and more than 50 honorary degrees.

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WINTER POND

Jang Seoknam b.1965

(trans. Bro. Anthony of Taize)

I walk across a frozen pond.

Here is where the water-lilies were.

Under here was the black rock where the catfish would hide.

Occasionally a cracking sound as if it is splitting

as love grows deeper.

All the irises are bent over.

My shoulders, knees, feet, that all summer long I saw reflected, sitting on this rock, have frozen like the irises.

They too show no sign of having watched the reflection of something before this.

Although the fourteenth-day moon comes in its course, icily

all remain silent.

Suppose someone comes along,

loud steps treading on the pond,

and addresses me anxiously, saying:

“This is where I used to be.”

“This is where that star used to come.”

This South Korean poet earned an undergraduate degree in creative writing from the Seoul Institute of the Arts and a PhD from the Inha University Graduate School of Literature. Since 2003 he has worked as an Assistant Professor at Hanyang Women's University.

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THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER

William Blake 1757-1827

When my mother died I was very young, 

And my father sold me while yet my tongue 

Could scarcely cry "weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!" 

So your chimneys I sweep and in soot I sleep. 

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head 

That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved, so I said, 

"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare, 

You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair." 

And so he was quiet, and that very night, 

As Tom was a-sleeping he had such a sight! 

That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, 

Were all of them locked up in coffins of black; 

And by came an Angel who had a bright key, 

And he opened the coffins and set them all free; 

Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run, 

And wash in a river and shine in the Sun. 

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind, 

They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind. 

And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy, 

He'd have God for his father and never want joy. 

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark 

And got with our bags and our brushes to work. 

Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm; 

So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. 

 Blake was an English poet, painter, and printmaker. His fame didn't come to him in his lifetime but he is now considered to have been an important figure in the history of the poetry and paintings
 of the Romantic Age.

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POEMS OF SOLITARY DELIGHTS

Tachibana Akemi 1812 - 1868

What a delight it is

When on the bamboo matting

In my grass-thatched hut,

All on my own,

I make myself at ease.

What a delight it is

When, skimming through the pages

Of a book, I discover

A man written there

Who is just like me.

What a delight it is

When everyone admits

It’s a very difficult book,

And I understand it

With no trouble at all.

What a delight it is

When a guest you cannot stand

Arrives, then says to you

“I’m afraid I can’t stay long,”

And soon goes home.

Tachibana Akemi was Japanese poet and classical scholar.  He lived in voluntary poverty but that environment inspired "some of his most endearing poems, those describing the little pleasures of a poor scholar's life."

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THE SILENT ONES

 Robert William Service 1874-1958

I’m just an ordinary chap

Who comes home to his tea,

And mostly I don’t care a rap

What people think of me;

I do my job and take my pay,

And love of peace expound;

But as I go my patient way,

–Don’t push me round.

Though I respect authority

And order never flout,

When Law and Justice disagree

You can include me out.

The Welfare State I tolerate

If it is kept in bound,

But if you wish to rouse my hate

–Just push me round.

And that’s the way with lots of us:

We want to feel we’re free;

So labour governments we cuss

And mock at monarchy.

Yea, we are men of secret mirth,

And fury seldom sound;

But if you value peace on earth

–Don’t push us round.

Robert Service "The Bard of the Yukon" was the British-born Canadian poet famous for "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" and "The Cremation of Sam McGee."

-o0o-

DADDY FELL INTO THE POND

Alfred Noyes 1880-1958

Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey. 

We had nothing to do and nothing to say. 

We were nearing the end of a dismal day, 

And there seemed to be nothing beyond, 

Then

Daddy fell into the pond! 

And everyone's face grew merry and bright, 

And Timothy danced for sheer delight. 

"Give me the camera, quick, oh quick! 

He's crawling out of the duckweed." 

Click! 

Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee, 

And doubled up, shaking silently, 

And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft 

And is sounded as if the old drake laughed. 

O, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond 

When 

Daddy fell into the pond! 

Alfred Noyes was an English poet, short-story writer and playwright, best known for his ballads "The Highwayman" and "The Barrel Organ."

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POETRY TO READ ALOUD
is updated
EVERY DAY

IS MY TEAM PLOUGHING?

A.E. Housman 1859-1936

This poem is No.XXVII in the poet's A SHROPSHIRE LAD (1896)

The following 8 verses report a conversation between a dead man and his still living friend.

“Is my team ploughing, 

   That I was used to drive 

And hear the harness jingle 

   When I was man alive?” 

Ay, the horses trample, 

   The harness jingles now; 

No change though you lie under 

   The land you used to plough. 

“Is football playing 

   Along the river shore, 

With lads to chase the leather, 

   Now I stand up no more?” 

Ay the ball is flying, 

   The lads play heart and soul; 

The goal stands up, the keeper 

   Stands up to keep the goal. 

“Is my girl happy, 

   That I thought hard to leave, 

And has she tired of weeping 

   As she lies down at eve?” 

Ay, she lies down lightly, 

   She lies not down to weep: 

Your girl is well contented. 

   Be still, my lad, and sleep. 

“Is my friend hearty, 

   Now I am thin and pine, 

And has he found to sleep in 

   A better bed than mine?” 

Yes, lad, I lie easy, 

   I lie as lads would choose; 

I cheer a dead man’s sweetheart, 

   Never ask me whose.

Housman was an English scholar and poet whose poetry greatly appealed to late Victorian and Edwardian taste. Many of his poems have been set to music by early 20th century English composers.

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