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Showing posts from August, 2012

Night is a Time to Ponder

Night Pondering


Why do I wait till night to think about the day?
In the silent stillness,
my thoughts swirl like a storm
in my mind.
I think about what I did
and what I could have done better.
Crickets chirp outside my window.
I look outside at the stars,
connect to some mystery…



Why do I wait till night to ponder the day?
I try to predict my actions,
what tomorrow will bring
but I realize I cannot control the future
nor can I change the past.
I must be content with now,
with chirping crickets and starry heaven,
trying to connect to some mystery…



Why do I wait till night to ponder the spent day?
Saying my prayers, I close my eyes and know
I will repeat my ways tomorrow.
I will return to my bed,
hear the crickets chirp
and consider the stars,
trying to connect to some mystery…

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.


--Ethan Seevers (Grade 11)





An Ethan Seevers Poem

Ethan Seever is my newest private writing student. He shows great promise and this piece gives a glimpse of  some of his thought currents.


Is It Too Late?

Here is the time where we find out we're men when we can break a heart but not bend and when we come finally to understand that when your heart breaks its not the end though you feel the blow down real low and it feels like you should curl up and know it is time to go but take it slow. Don’t get caught up in the moment just like my Pops said “guard your heart” don’t give way to sin because in the end you never win. You lose. Why did I choose not to listen to him and because of my choice I did not bend. I broke. Guess I’m not a real man but I understand now from this end. Is it too late to go back to then before all this crap caused by my sin?  Can I go back and make sure I win avoid making the same mistake again but I’m prone to sin so how can I ever win?
--Ethan Seevers (Grade 11)

Ed Pacht Reading Poetry

Poet Ed Pacht performing his original poetry at the Exeter Town Hall, New Hampshire

Ed has an inviting manner and expresses himself in a transparent way.  He reads his own work and also Chandler Hamby's "Screaming Fire" which was published here.



Charles Williams' Taliessin

"Taliessin through Logres" is the title of a collection of poems by Charles Williams.  It tells the the Arthurian legend as seen through the eyes of the court poet Taliessin.

Here is an extract from that collection:


The seas were left behind;
in a harbour of Logres
lightly I came to land
under a roaring wind
Strained were the golden sails,
the masts of the galley creaked
as it rode for the Golden Horn
and I for the hills of Wales

In a train of golden cars
the Emperor went above,
for over me in my riding
shot seven golden stars,
as if while the great oaks stood,
straining, creaking around,
seven times the golden sickle
flashed in the Druid wood.

Covered on my back,
untouched, my harp had hung;
its notes sprang to sound
as I took the blindfold track,
the road that runs from tales,
through the darkness where Circe’s son
sings to the truants of towns
in a forest of nightingales.

The beast ran in the wood
that had lost the man’s mind;
on a path harder than death
spectral shapes stood

Cain's Murder of Abel

Cain

Abel looked at the wound
His brother had dealt him, and love him
For it. Cain saw that look
And struck him again. The blood cried
On the ground; God listened to it.
He questioned Cain. But Cain answered:
Who made the blood? I offered you
Clean things: the blond hair
Of the corn; the knuckled vegetables; the
Flowers; things that did not publish
Their hurst, that bled
Silently. You would not accept them.

And God said: It was part of myself
He gave me. The lamb was torn
From my own side. The limp head,
The slow fall of red tears—they
Were like a mirror to me in which I beheld
My reflection. I anointed myself
In readiness for the journey
To the doomed tree you were at work upon.


--R.S. Thomas
From R.S. Thomas, Poems of R.S. Thomas (Fayetteville, AR: U of Arkansas, 1984), pp. 74-5.


Related reading:  R.S. Thomas' poem Poetry for Supper


An Evelyn Underhill Poem

MISSA CANTATA

Once in an Abbey-church, the whiles we prayed
All silent at the lifting of the Host,
A little bird through some high window strayed ;
And to and fro
Like a wee angel lost
That on a sudden finds its heaven below,
It went the morning long.
And made our Eucharist more glad with song.

It sang, it sang ! and as the quiet priest
Far off about the lighted altar moved,
The awful substance of the mystic feast
All hushed before,
It, like a thing that loved
Yet loved in liberty, would plunge and soar
Beneath the vault in play
And thence toss down the oblation of its lay.

The walls that went our sanctuary around
Did, as of old, to that sweet summons yield.
New scents and sounds within our gates were found ;
The cry of kine.
The fragrance of the field,
All woodland whispers, hastened to the shrine :
The country side was come
Eager and joyful, to its spirit's home.

Far-stretched I saw the cornfield and the plough,
The scudding cloud, the cleanly-running brook,
The humble, kindly t…